Ghost Writer [Harry Styles][H.S. Fanfic]

2 - DON'T COME DOWN

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(HARRY'S POV)

We arrive at the club, and I pull the hair tie from my bun, ruffling my hair to let the curls loose and run my fingers through the top to swoop it over to the side. Then I place my sunglasses back where they were to keep my hair out of my face.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're kinda fucking rude for flaunting your perfect curls around like you own the place?" She peeks at me from the corner of her eye.

My eyebrows shoot up, and I look at her with a small smirk. That was one hell of a backhanded compliment if I've ever heard one. But for some reason, this one doesn't make me feel uncomfortable like the others. She complimented me but then knocked my ego right back down a peg by calling me rude. And I kind of like it.

"I can't say I've been insulted for having nice hair, no. You would be the first." I flip my hair over my shoulder, and she giggles, smacking my arm playfully.

She sucks an awkward breath through her teeth. "Yeah... I'm shit at saying nice things to people. But give me a second to change again, and then we'll go in. Unzip me," she demands like she doesn't know how this affects me.

Sunny turns her back to me, and I nearly pass out from having to do this again, but I somehow manage, unzipping the fabric quickly to get it over with. She leans over my legs, reaching between them to grab a short, body-hugging, high-waisted, white skirt from the floorboard. I hold my breath with my arms in the air, refusing to look at her bare back. 

Or else this night is going to get awkward really fast.

She wiggles it up her legs and over her waist, bunching the dress up to fasten the button before pulling the dress over her head in one fluid motion; showcasing the white lace bralette from earlier that covers a few inches of her ribs at the bottom. She applies a coat of red lipstick whilst I look around my feet, searching for her shirt... but then I hear her door open.

"Oh. You-You're getting out now. Okay then... No shirt," I ramble as I watch her smirk at me, shutting the door and walking around to the front. I follow behind, meeting her there.

"You're not in England anymore, Curly. You're on an island that's hot, and humid, and people like to get as naked as they're legally allowed to around here." She snickers at me, linking her pinky with mine. 

I smile at the simple gesture as she pulls me past the impossibly long line of people, and side hugs the bouncer before leading me inside the club. It's like all of Kauai knows who she is, and she can get in anywhere without an invitation.

She weaves us through the darkness, squeezing past a sea of drunk—yep... they're half-naked—bodies. Releasing my finger once we're behind the DJ booth, Sunny runs towards a very, very large man who looks like he works out eight hours a day. He has every inch of his skin littered with intricate, black, tribal tattoos, and he sports a spikey black hairstyle. He's, without a doubt, the most intimidating man I've ever seen in my life. If he's not a local, then I'm not Harry Styles.