Crimson Lips [Harry Styles POV]

Chapter 1

Harry strains to keep his eyes on his gin and tonic—a pine tree in a glass, as he likes to call it—while her hand creeps ever closer to the lump in his pants. Her lips caress the shell of his ear as she purrs, “I’m a really big fan of your music,” but her seduction is lost on Harry.

“What?” He shouts over the booming music quite literally rattling every big to tiny bone in his body. Her hand falters with the pinch on his inner thigh weakening because the romance is slightly dampened by having to repeat herself. Harry ducks his head closer. “I—I said I’m a big fan of your music—a fan of your music!” She shouts now and it is so different from her low whisper as smooth as a kiss moments ago. Most definitely, this is not going how she planned.

“Oh… thanks.” Harry nods and sips his drink with eyes flitting away. Truth be told, he still doesn’t know how to react when people tell him this. He hasn’t been at it long enough to garner that much attention, but those who have noticed, he appreciates nonetheless. So he allows her hand to slither up his leg, even though she is dangerously skimming the sweet spot. Hell, why not enjoy any and all attention while he can? Because it probably won’t last long.

“Do you have any new music coming out?” She says, loud and slow into his ear. He pulls the glass away from his lips and small grimace colors his features at the biting, sharp taste. The bartender musta had a heavy hand while pouring his gin. Though the grimace may be more pointed at her trying to carry on a conversation while Harry can’t even hear his own thoughts.

“Yea, I have a full album coming out in a couple a’ months!” He replies.

“What?” she directs her ear towards his mouth and squints, as if that would help her hear any better. Harry ignores the girl whose name he has already forgotten. He scans the place and watches the various revelers. Your basic nightclub with basic music, basic flashing lights and basic men and women, the majority of which came to LA to become rich and famous—the majority of the majority will probably never achieve this goal. And the majority, or rather all of them, don’t know that Harry is basically getting a handy under the table right now.

She pulls his face toward her and attacks his lips, tongue prodding into his mouth and he can’t really refuse that, now can he? She is a very pretty girl and nice enough and her hand is doing lovely things right now…but she is utterly boring. Sad even, as she talks about her modeling career which will probably go nowhere. The dancers a few feet away eye the spectacle going on as she knicks his earlobe and licks the mark left behind; her hand is God-knows-where to them. However, they don’t judge and really, neither can Harry. He doesn’t judge all of these poor damned souls because he is in the same boat as them, sailing towards the jagged rocks of botox, diet pills and DUIs. So Harry closes his eyes and accepts and embraces this fact as he accepts and embraces her tongue licking into his mouth—sweet but kind of sloppy… like ever-glamorous fame.

Harry stares down the people watching and dares them to say something even though he knows they won’t. She—Harry thinks her name might be Kristy—continues to kiss a line to his neck as his eyes dart around. He notices that people’s heads start to turn toward the entrance. Something or someone has caught their attention. Harry disconnects from her lips so that he may follow suit and crane to see exactly what has got everyone so alert. There is a subtle stirring in the crowd so it must be someone very famous. He sees a bunch of heads bobbing in the doorway, mostly men but a few women who are probably unknowns. Kristy, or something or other, stands with Harry as well to gawk at this new zoo animal entering their midst. Harry blinks away the blinding dance floor lights.

When he refocuses, he sees what all the bustle is about. Blond hair glides into the room as if on a cloud of prestige that is 20 feet higher than the rest of them. And Harry swears, even with the ear-splitting music thumping from the speakers, he would’ve been able to hear the collective melody of everyone’s soft murmur as if it were a song itself: Carina Crimson.