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Chapter 1

The sudden loud blaring of Lady Gaga's Paparazzi coming from her nightstand made Lauren shoot up in bed. She tried to shake the sleep out of her brain before opening her eyes to glance at the clock. 1:57 stood out in bold red against the darkness. If she just let it ring, he would probably give up. It can wait. She wiggled herself back into the mattress. Gaga quieted and she shut her eyes again. Right before she drifted off, the Lady struck again. I'll follow you until you love me. Papa-paparazzi. This could only mean one thing and it wasn't good. She hefted herself up and swept the dark hair out of her face. With a quick check, her suspicions were confirmed. She answered her phone with a quick slide of her thumb. "What the fuck do you want, Malik?"

"Hey there, Jauregui," came the tell tale sing song of the biggest thorn in her side since Machine Gun Kelly stole her first girlfriend in third grade. This was the bigger, swarmier version of that asshole. "I got the goods on your gold star girl."

Lauren set her jaw and tried to block out the sirens echoing off the buildings right outside the window. "Why can't you just be a normal scumbag and call me in the morning?"

"You know I treat you right," the man retorted. "We have history, so I feel obligated to give you the heads up."

"Yeah, yeah," Lauren rolled her eyes before realizing he couldn't see her. "We have history, Zayn. That's the only reason I don't send my goons to mangle you."

"Ariana Grande doesn't have any goons."

"I never said they were Ariana's goons, I said they were my goons."

"I'm calling bullshit on your bullshit."

"Malik, just tell me what you have. I was asleep and you're pissing me off," Lauren grabbed her laptop from the other side of her bed, popped it open, and refreshed the tab already displaying the TMZ webpage. Nothing there. She did a quick check of the rest of the gossip sites...not a thing. Yet. "I don't see anything. This better not be like the time you snapped her on toilet, you sicko."

"It's an exclusive," Malik informed her. "Ariana Grande flipping her shit on some chick at that new club on 92nd. I have her. I have Petey boy. I have the girl screaming 'psycho' at Grande while she threatens her with a shoe. I have the Golden Ticket crying on the street. And I have video of all of it."

"Oh please, Malik. She has a breakdown over that good for nothing douchebag husband of hers at least once a month. And she always flips her shit in public. Everybody and their mom has a shaky cell phone video of her ugly crying, singing the Cell Block Tango accapella, and wielding a spiked stiletto. If I went around paying off everybody, I'd be in national debt territory. Call me when you have something better. Or, you know, get a job that doesn't require being nastier than scabies."

"I'm sending it to Lovato then."

"Good, she needs the business," Lauren closed her laptop, shoved it under her pillow, and settled back under her sheets. "Let Demi know we don't give a shit and she can run that crap all day. I'll even write up a little press release to go along with the photos. It'll make her job a hell of a lot easier."

"I'm not kidding around, Jauregui. Demi's offering a nice chunk of change."

"Spend it wisely, dumbass," she answered before cutting off the call.

It was times like these, she really did wish she had some goons. Zayn Malik would be the first on her list. The two of them used to be pals, sure. When it was all good and fun. That was before Ariana landed that big audition, when Lauren was still just a communications major and Zayn was referring to himself as a photo journalist who took shots mostly of pigeons. It sure felt like a long time ago. Hell, it was a long time ago.