Breaking news: Hard partying rock star Harry Styles continues his downward spiral. Can new tour manager Niall Horan help him save his career? My sources inside Harry's camp think he's beyond help. Follow me for all the latest news on this tragic...
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"Har-ry! Har-ry! Har-ry!" The fans are growing impatient. Catcalls and boos intermingle with the chants of the star's name.
"Do you hear that Reece? Where the fuck is the little bastard?" Beads of sweat roll off Michael Willoughby's forehead as he yells through his mobile at his business partner.
Harry's lead guitarist, Gray, eases off stage, standing close to speak over the crowd noise. "If he's not out in the next five minutes we're walking. We're tired of his shit." Michael looks over the stage and the band members nod, agreeing with their unofficial leader.
Reece Cavanaugh pounds on the locked dressing room door. "Harry Styles if you don't open up, I'm knocking this door down." He leans against the door, knowing full well that his threats are useless. At five foot seven inches and two hundred pounds, he's overweight and soft from a life sitting behind a desk. Fucking musicians, he thinks as he pushes against the door and vows to get to the gym when he's back in LA. These thoughts distract him which is why he's surprised when the lock clicks and the door opens, causing him to fall inside on his well-padded ass.
"M'ready, m'ready, calm yer bloody tists," a very drunk Harry Styles slurs as he stumbles over his manager and into the hallway. His stylist, Nozomi, who's been standing in the hallway takes him by the hand and pulls him down the corridor, pushing him past Michael and onto the stage. Not wanting to take a chance on him running, the band immediately launches into the opening number on the setlist as the production manager raises the curtain to start the show.
The fans' cries fill the venue as Harry looks around, squinting at the lights in his face, trying to remember where he is.
"Dallas," Gray hisses and Harry waves a hand at him, nodding his head.
"Hellooo, Dallasss," he yells, grinning drunkenly at the crowd.
Harry's managers watch from side of stage as he stumbles through the show, his band covering the worst of his slurred lyrics and miscues except for one break when he runs toward them, puking in a bucket kept there especially for that purpose. It's happened too many times lately and his tour manager finally got smart and made it part of his rider.
When the curtain drops on the encore, there's a sigh of relief from his management team. It's clear that his band is not happy with the performance as they file off in front of them. Harry staggers back to his dressing room to change, oblivious to the unrest, and moments later walks out the back door with his security guard as fans continue to chant his name in the venue.
"Thank God his fans adore him or we'd have been in real trouble tonight." The two managers are finally back at their hotel, sitting in the bar, having a much-needed drink.
"If we don't change things soon that little bastard is going to sink this bloody ship," Reece agrees, taking a gulp of his whiskey. He means to get blissfully drunk before bed. It's the only way he can calm his mind enough to allow sleep.
