17 Black

Golden Palace -- Chapter 1

It was always the lights that seemed to call Harry in.

It wasn't ever on purpose—being an international rockstar, there wasn't much time for relaxation, and, whenever there was, he didn't do much research trying to find the perfect place. He simply slipped in the first place that seemed to be calling his name, and called it a night.

Often times it meant he found himself at small, local bars, chatting it up with a bartender before he whisked himself away into the night, pressing only a small smile into the musty air as a memento for the souls he'd touched. Other times it meant he ended up at clubs, his memories quickly hazy as he took in whatever was handed to him in a futile chase for a good time. Rarely, it meant he found himself in a restaurant, a charming place with hole-in-the-wall appeal, a place that, for a few fleeting moments, always felt like home. He kept a small record of the places he'd been, keeping them close to his heart.

Of course, though, it didn't take long for this lackadaisical style of doing things to lead him to some rather unique places. The neon blinking in his watering eyes, he'd make it all the way inside before he'd realize where he was. The slick velvet crushed underneath his Chelsea boots, the dark walls almost dripping with sweat and stains of mysterious origins—it didn't take a detective to realize that he'd entered a strip club.

The first time Harry realized he'd entered that sort of establishment, he turned on his heel and walked right back out into the biting winter night, unable to stomach what he considered to be that level of human degradation. His mother raised him better than that; he couldn't stand to see the sorrow-faced women, with their misty, dead eyes scanning the thinning crowds, desperately searching for a way out of that place. When he got back to his hotel, he looked up the name of the club and sent an anonymous donation for all the girls who worked there before he laid up on his bed and cried.

And yet, he couldn't quite keep the image out of his mind.

As he danced on stage, crowds of women and men crawling his way, the idea of, for once, his face simply being one of them, appealed to him in a way he didn't initially understand. A strip club, of all things, epitomizing the height his desire simply didn't seem to fit in with the person he thought he was. Harry was a person who respected women, who cherished them, who supported them in whoever they were and encouraged them to reach their goals. He wasn't the kind of person to degrade them in that way, to allow his eyes to take them in in a way they didn't explicitly allow. In short, it felt dirty.

It wasn't until he allowed himself to understand that his desire was not to attain these women but to attain the anonymity that he was never truly granted that he allowed himself to return.

He did his research diligently, frantically searching for a high end club to attend—not for the money or the status, but in the naïve hope that somehow, it meant the performers were less exploited. It took him three shows before he found one that settled the voice in the back of his mind, a little place called the Golden Palace in Atlanta.

He stepped into the second club hesitantly, red tinted sunglasses donned low on his nose in a haphazard effort to hide his face. He nodded to the bartender, ordering a house drink who's name he couldn't remember now if he tried before settling in to a creaking yellow wooden chair in the back of the room.

His hand was shaking as the first performer stepped out onto the stage; her body, tanned and slim, was covered in a pink bra set, clear heels higher than heaven clicking on the black plywood floor.

Her hips swayed to the beat, hands sliding up and down the glinting metal pole, her eyes scanning the crowd, searching for clearly the highest earner. When her eyes landed on Harry, they almost seemed to glow.

She didn't tear her eyes from him once, stopping her dance only to carefully gather the bills that accumulated at her feet from the few men sitting closer to the front. She dipped and bowed gracefully, and yet, it was so clearly erotic that it pinched Harry's heart, encasing him in what could only feel like a greasy soul. He felt slimy just watching her, and yet, her eyes locked on his meant he couldn't pull away.

When she finally finished her dance, she wasted no time in slipping down from the stage, almost gliding across the floor, displacing the haze that hung in the air before sliding into the chair next to his.

"I saw you watching me," she crooned, her voice a whisper almost too low to ear, her hands propping her face up as she leaned her elbows into the table.

"Y-Yeah, I saw you watching me, too." The burning in Harry's soul got worse as he spoke to her, the nastiness climbing higher and higher up his throat.

"Did you like what you saw?"

Harry gulped, struggling not to stutter. "Of course, I mean, you're beautiful—it'd be hard not to."

"Thank you, handsome. My name's Bambi—what's yours?"

Too uncomfortable to lie, desperate to feel something real in this conversation that felt like nothing more than a sales pitch, he confessed. "Harry. Harry Styles."

Bambi's eyes widened, her dark eyebrows shooting up her face in surprise. "Really?"

Knowing the shit he'd gotten himself into, surprisingly, he couldn't seem to care less. He wanted to desperately connect with this woman on a real level, not on the superficial erotic one they'd been forced into, and it felt like the only way to do that was to gauge if she was a fan. He didn't know how else to tell her that he'd much rather they'd met when she had more clothes on, when the smile on her face wasn't a smirk, that he wanted to know her favorite color, not her favorite dance move, that he wanted to know the real her and appreciate who she was as a person, not the persona she'd concocted to become his favorite person for the night.

Unable to communicate himself better, he simply nodded.

Her mouth gaped, and, almost unconsciously, she leaned forward even more, allowing her hand to slide off the table and grip onto his thigh, her nails just slightly pressing onto his skin beneath his jeans.

"You know," she crooned, eyes hungry with desire, "I can show you a really good time, if you're interested. I don't mean to brag, but I'm one of the best girls here, and I'd be more than happy to prove it to you if you don't believe me."

Harry found himself stuttering. He realized that he hadn't taken more than a sip of his drink, and yet, half of it had somehow found itself all over his table from the shaking of his hand. The liquor glinted in the orange neon lights, scattering it, tossing it into his eyes and nearly blinding him with the sharpness. His eyes began to water, and, unsure if it was from the light or from the emotion building up inside him, he jumped to his feet.

Bambi looked startled, hands clawing on the table, looking almost terrified that he was leaving. "I'm so sorry," he gasped, feeling as though he couldn't breathe. "I—I can't be here. I have to go. I'm so sorry—I hope you understand." Digging in his pocket, he revealed his wallet, tossing a wad of bills onto the table before turning on his heel to leave.

Feet gliding on the floor, he gasped as he tried his best to maintain his composure. But, as he turned to leave, he felt his heart panged for the woman he'd met, wondering if she truly wanted to know him, if she was just a curious fan, if Bambi really was her real name.

When he turned around to glance at her once last time, hoping for just one glimpse of a human connection, her eyes were turned downcast, nearly gleeful as she counted the money he'd given her.

Harry didn't try to say goodbye after that—he left without another word, calling for a cab before returning to his hotel, one more night cut short once again.

When he laid on his bed, he called the Golden Palace, and made sure another donation found its way to the dancer named Bambi in his name, just to make sure she was well off, praying to God that somehow, she knew it was for the true her.

And yet, after all this, he still couldn't shake the draw the neon lights had on his soul.