Money is an ordinary thing for Harry Styles. He was born into it, was taught how to easily make it, and how to spend it wisely. His life has been given to him on a silver platter and he loves it. He started Songbird Studios because of it. It did so...
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I limp around my house, wincing at the pain that radiates in my feet. Apparently, the boots I was wearing last night were not meant for walking...and I did way more walking than I planned. After Harry had sped off, leaving me alone on some random LA street, I angrily stormed away, believing I could find my own way home. Only after passing the same restaurant twice did I finally decide to call Zayn.
I profusely apologized for ruining his birthday as I got into his car. I explained how I took a few too many shots and ended up taking a drunk Uber which is how I ended up lost at 2 A.M., conveniently leaving out everything involving Harry.
Zayn didn't need to know about that.
Being the gentleman he was, Zayn wrapped me in his suit jacket and drove me home. He gently took my makeup off and helped me change into pajamas before leading me to my bed. He asked me if he could stay, but he knew it would be the same answer it always was. I wouldn't sleep if you stayed. A lie since I rarely slept anyways, but he wished me goodnight and I wished him happy birthday before I drifted off to sleep.
My mind couldn't stop spinning over everything that had happened. Harry yelled at me and left me by myself. I lied to Zayn in order to protect him. I slept with my boss after finally getting the job I had always wanted.
"Fuck!" I yell as I flip the burnt pancakes that I had decided to make for myself this morning.
After waking up far earlier than I had to, I thought that cooking a balanced breakfast would make my day a bit better. It really didn't though. I hated cooking and I couldn't do it to save my life. The few times I attempted always ended in the same way; the fire alarm ringing and takeout being delivered.
Tossing the charred food in the garbage with an aggravated huff, I grab a banana off the counter and head out the door toward Benny parked at the far end of the parking lot. Turning the key, the old car sputters to life, an array of vehicle warning lights popping up. I'll have to pay to get her fixed eventually, but recently my paycheck has been going directly to rent leaving little for food and other expenses.
The LA traffic is somewhat light and I'm able to make it work in record time. It's probably the first time I've been early. Determined to have a productive day of songwriting, I head straight for my office. I always found that even when my brain is infiltrated with thoughts, I can still write just as well. It's my escape from the endless spinning and the only way for me to make sense of some of the things roaming around up there.
Zayn and I had finally gotten some good studio sessions in with Rumer, but we still wanted to record a couple more songs for the album. We would decide after they were all recorded what ones we'd keep and what ones we'd scratch. Most of the songs we wrote for her were about the same things, boys and getting your heart broken. I hated writing them because I couldn't really relate. It seemed I was always the one doing the heartbreaking.
"Hey, Violet." I look up to see Jay standing in the doorway, a pile of papers in one hand and two coffees in the other. He has a weird look on his face but I try to shake away any nervous thoughts. "Management wants to meet with you downstairs at ten."
