luck for the night - rl.

9. oh no, i nicknamed him after voldemort.

"Phoebe!" I exclaimed, making my way back inside.

Entering the main area of the studio, I had to blink a few times, because the bright afternoon sun hit the pink walls in a way that was slightly blinding.

My friend, still holding the little piece of paper with Remington's initial message, looked up.

"I found his phone number!" I waved the pack of cigarettes in front of her face, opening it, and exposing the numbers written on the inside.

"I thought you didn't start smoking again?" Phoebe raised a brow.

I felt my cheeks get warm, my mouth curling into a smile. I guess Remington made me start again... whoops. I shrugged, pushing the pack in her face once again. I did not want to talk about the impact of meeting this dark-haired man. It was bigger than I wanted to admit.

"Why would he go through all the effort to write it there, instead of just on here?" She held up the tea wrapper.

"I've got no clue." I tried to think of an explanation, but none of them seemed to make sense. Maybe he always had his phone number written on the inside of the small box, for moments like this? That seemed unlikely because I had not seen it yesterday night. "So what do I do with it?"

"Send him a message," Phoebe said, her focus on the counter in front of her, which she was tidying up."If you want to talk to him again, of course."

"I do, I think?" A sigh left my lips. "But I just don't see how it would work out."

For the first time, I started thinking about what would happen if I did message him. Today, it had felt more like a distant dream. He was in a band, after all, travelling the world...

Phoebe looked up from the counter, her eyes sparking with intrigue. "What do you mean?"

I dashed into the break room to grab my hot cup of coffee. "He is a singer," I said, through the pink door, before taking a sip and entering the room again. "I'm not sure, but I think he is pretty well-known. I just don't see how whatever this between me and him is, would work out."

Phoebe nodded. "Famous people are a whole different breed. A friend of mine, you know Isha right? Well, she had sex with some influencer, and before she knew it she had a lawyer following her every move, forcing her to sign an NDA. And remember that one time Drake put hot sauce in a condom?"

I slowly nodded. Maybe, it would be better if I didn't do it. Would I enjoy Remington hitting me up once every blue moon, just because he was in England and needed to get his edge off? That was why he had left his number, I realised. There was no other explanation, I had run out of luck for today as soon as the clock hit midnight.

I wasn't averted to the idea of seeing Remington again, and also not averted to the idea of having sex with him again. I just did not want him to see me as a pawn that he could move at will, a toy.

"Maybe you're right," I told Phoebe. "I should just let it go. It was fun for a night, but I don't want some famous dude toying with me."

My best friend touched my arm, "you're worth way more than that."

The corners of my mouth curled into a smile, but I could not push away the dark feeling blossoming in my chest. Why did this hurt?

The thought of never seeing Remington again, his messy hair, his sloppy smile. Never hearing his voice again, laughing, saying my name...

I blinked rapidly. What the fuck, Rylin. Why did I grow so attached to some dude I spent like twelve hours with?

"I'm going to prepare my room," I told my best friend, walking into one of the smaller rooms to the right of the entry. This was my domain, my part of the studio. Light pink walls, that I had filled with prints from my favourite artists. Of course, the big chair for clients and the tattoo machine were in the middle of the room, and off to the side were some small cabinets, containing my other necessities, a small desk, and my chair, which looked extra comfortable to my tired eyes.