Behind The Lense (Harry Styles love story)

"No way," I simply stated. My arms were firmly planted across my chest and my legs were crossed strongly. I hope this new gesture indicates to these nut cases that I am not giving in, I am sticking up for myself. I have some pride left in me.

"Ms. Harris it will only be for a few months, plus we will double your payment. How does that sound?" The general manager of One Direction informed me. His name is Mr. Staftway, but I prefer to call him Mr. Baldway, because he contains thinning hair sprouted on his big head. I swear, everyday he looses more and more.

Besides his bald spot, the rest of his looks don't do him justice. His stomach is protruded and flabby, it's so big that his shirts can barely manage to stay tucked into his pants. He doesn't necessarily walk, he wobbles more, like a penguin to be exact. I know I shouldn't be so hard on the man, but his lack of respect for people (except One Direction of course) and sarcastic tone rubs me wrong. I simply don't like him, well I simply don't like a lot of people in this organization but what can you do? That's just the life I live in.

"Double it?" I asked, my mouth suddenly dry. It hung like a teenage boy's would when an attractive girl strolled by.

"Indeed," He answered, a smug look was plastered on his annoying face. He knew he's trapped me, cause I needed that money.

An Hour Earlier

I opened the slick double doors of one of the many stadiums we were playing at, and entered the building. My workout bag hit the bottom of my back with each step I took. It was a friendly reminder that today would be a busy day, full of screaming girls and blasted eardrums.

I worked with One Direction, no I wasn't technically in "the band" but I was onstage with them when they performed. I'm a background dancer, and some may argue and say I am a part of the band and some may argue and say I am not. Some may say us dancers are needed and others will say we are not wanted, but I don't care. I'm just there to get money so I can pay my rent and get food and other stuff. I love the boys in the band I honestly do, except Harry I loathe him, but I just don't see why there is a reason to cry and faint over them? They are just people. That's why I'm not thrilled and excited when I tell people I basically work for One Direction.

In my defense, I think dancers should get paid more. We work our butts off every night, listening to the same songs over and over again, and sweating buckets onstage. We even get hate sometimes on Twitter, but I choose to ignore it, I don't need that crap in my life right now. One little teenager calling me 'worthless' or a 'slut' no thank you, it's called deleting and blocking. And that's why we should get paid more, for dealing with all that crap.

"Hey Paul," I waved to one of One Direction's tour manager. Paul is a very meaty man, with big muscles and a stalky figure. He has short cut brown hair, and a stubbled beard. Even though he may seem mean whenever he pushes screaming fans out of the way or yells at them to "back off," he is only trying to protect the boys. Fans can get very aggressive, so Paul is just looking out for 1D. He is actually like a big teddy bear, very sweet and caring. I really like him, he is like everyone's daddy on the tour.

"Hey love, how are you?" He smiled warmly at me, and travelled next to my side. He gave me a brief side hug, and stood directly in front of me.

"I'm ok, tired of course." I laughed lightly, and adjusted the loose strap of my bag onto my shoulder.

"Well aren't we all-"

"Hey Paul! The boys need you!" One of the many bodyguards that roamed around the place, called.

"Of course they do! Thanks."

The bodyguard nodded his head strictly and proceeded on down the hall. Paul turned his head back to mine and gave me an apologetic smile.