VICE [h.s.]

Chapter 3

      I spent the rest of the day in my office, refusing to offer up any information on my trip to Westerly's to the many people that asked me for it. How was I supposed to write an article when I couldn't even get their leader to talk to me?

The next morning I, half asleep, decided that maybe the man with the mustache that directed me to Hawk would have some information. Before I could re- evaluate this decision, I was in my car and on my way back to Westerly's. When I arrived at the tavern,  I walked through the door with a sense of confidence that I hadn't had the day before. I had tried to dress more appropriately, wearing a pair of jeans, a sweater, sneakers and a tote bag. I felt more comfortable knowing that I was at least a little closer to not looking like a complete outsider. Hawk seemed to be the only person that really cared, though, and I wouldn't be talking to him today. Thank God.

When I got inside, I saw that there were somehow more people than the day before, every seat taken by someone in a leather jacket. I quickly scanned the room to find the man from yesterday, finally spotting him across the room after a few moments.

He noticed me at the same time, offering me a still-handed wave from where he sat.

I slowly walked towards him, noticing that the peanut shells must have been cleaned.

"Back again?" He asked as I approached him, gesturing for me to take the seat across from him.

"Yup." I said quietly, wishing I could add an "unfortunately." This place still made me extremely uncomfortable.

"What for?" He asked, chewing on a peanut from a bowl in front of us.

"Well." I started, unsure of how to word what I was about to say. "I'm a journalist with The Emerson Times." The man nodded like he already knew what I was going to say. "I came here yesterday to talk to...Hawk, but he wasn't very friendly. To put it lightly."

"He told you to fuck off, didn't he?" The man asked like this had happened a million times before. I guess it had. I nodded.

He laughed a little to himself before saying,
"Harry's just like that. With everyone. This morning I asked him to lend me a phone charger, and he told me that if I didn't learn to shut the fuck up i'd never find a girlfriend."

I bit my lip to stifle a laugh. "God. Why's he so bitter?"

"He's got a lot of trauma." The man said. "Shit I wouldn't really feel right talking about. But I swear he's got a heart somewhere in there. He's like a brother to me."

I nodded. "So um... you called him Harry? Before?" I took out my notepad. "Is that his name?"

The man glanced down at my notepad, speaking slowly and hesitantly.

"Yeah, it's uh. Harry Styles. But the media already knows that."

"Oh." I said, writing it down anyway. "Okay. Well, what's your name? If you don't mind me asking."

"I'm Pete." He replied, shaking my hand from across the table. "But the guys call me Robin."

"So you all have bird nicknames.. got it." I laughed a little, and he smiled in response.

"Yeah, but only some of us got the cool ones. Obviously." I smiled, writing his name down on the paper in front of me.

"So... Pete." I started. "What do you guys d-"

"What the fuck?!" A voice cut through my sentence, and I looked up to see Harry standing above me, a cigarette dangling on the edge of  his mouth. "I thought I told you we're not doing your fucking interview?"

I clutched my bag closer.

"You said you weren't doing it." I corrected him, finding my voice. "You never said I couldn't ask Pete."