Exposure • h.s.

CHAPTER3.

Almost 313 days before the deal.

It's been weeks since I last went out at night. Whenever I do socialize, I always stick with a group of friends, big or small, as it helps me feel less alone and less vulnerable. Being out in complete solitude, surrounded by the darkness of New York streets, has always weighed heavily on me as a woman. 

Tonight, I feel no different - if anything, I feel worse, because on top of the usual sense of unease, I'm filled with anxiety about the night ahead of me. The success of my career and a large part of my happiness depend on it.

I step out of the Uber, gripping a set of keys tightly in my hand, ready to use them as a makeshift weapon if necessary.

I shiver beneath the heavy coat that drapes over me, hoping it will keep me warm, as unpleasant drafts climb up my legs and reach the ruffled silver skirt I've squeezed into while caught in a nervous breakdown trying to figure out what to wear. I just hope I don't look ridiculous in my leather cowboy boots and plain white tank top.

I find my place and blend into the dense shadows of the narrow alley where I stand.

 
Tony instructed me to wait for him at the service entrance of the club.
"Don't worry, I'll be there before you arrive," he said, but it looks like he took his sweet time. I can't help it but curse him in every language for dragging me into this insane situation, even though I accepted it to some degree, especially knowing how anxious I can get. 

I take a slow breath, trying to calm myself down, and check that I have everything I need - phone for photos and videos, pepper spray, a metal straw, cigarettes and a lighter, a lipstick (just in case), and the recorder in the front pocket of my tight skirt. I'll need it to get on tape the conversation I hope I'll be having  with Harry Styles. 

I have to get the right amount of words out of his mouth, so that I'll be able to write something about him.

It's 10:43 PM.

"Mabel?", Tony calls me, and I'm relieved he's finally there. There's a guy standing next to him, and I don't recall ever meeting him. He tells me the guy works for the owner of the club, and that he kindly offered to be our pass to get in.
"Security checks have doubled, there's an entire team of bodyguards for tonight's special guest."

"Phones and other devices are strictly forbidden. It's the guest's request."

I nod, puzzled by this rule. I suppose it's fair for celebrities to enjoy their moments of alcoholic fun, but it shouldn't stop me from using my phone in case of an emergency or – worse - boredom.

Descending a flight of stairs that feels longer than the never-ending escalators leading to the subway, the guy stops to talk to two towering security guards, impeccably dressed and quite intimidating.

"As soon as you can, you take photos," Tony instructs through clenched teeth, maybe afraid of being overheard despite the music already thumping loudly from inside the venue, the bass reverberating through my already overheated body.

"But..."

"No 'buts,' just do it. Want the promotion?"

I nod.

"Then go get it. Take photos, videos, anything you need to write something...believable. Tonight you'll have a unique opportunity, so pretend to be a regular at the club, and do what you need to do. At any cost."

"At any cost," I repeat, trying to find comfort in words that were once a promise but now feel like a threat.

"Good. I'm rooting for you. Go find out more about that black cat dude."