“Oh Love, Everyone Was Crying.”

After reading through the first chapter, her throat ached less than it did the first time, she only messed up one word, and, this time, no coughs or snores interrupted her. While she was taking a sip from her water bottle, soft applause from the sparse crowd began, waking up the homeless man who had fallen asleep in the back row. It was a little louder today, a tiny accomplishment she’d convinced herself was important.

“I think we’ll open it up to questions, now,” the book seller prompted, nodding toward the crowd, where a few eager hands leapt up into the air. “Yes, the gentleman in red.”

Standing up, the young man tugged nervously on the hem of his red sweatshirt, a college logo stitched across his chest, pushing up his glasses as he cleared his throat. “Yeah, um- I’m an aspiring author myself, and I was wondering, what was the hardest part about getting your book signed?”

Charlie offered a pinched smile at the stranger, recalling her agent’s advice. The crowd's going to be mostly stragglers, people looking for a seat or people who want to know how to get their own books published. They’re not going to ask about the book, they don’t care about your book, they care about their book. At the time, the advice felt harsh yet realistic, and that was exactly why she had chosen Janet as her representation, so she would give her the hard truth. But Charlie had underestimated her warnings, a hopeful flutter that she would be different, that her debut novel would be an instant success. The childhood dream of a best selling book, of ending up on the New York Times’ Best Seller’s List, of having captivated the entire world with her story was a difficult one to let go of, at first. Reality’s harsh slap was still hard to face.

Fifteen stops into her book tour and she still hadn’t been asked a single question about her book.

“Well, personally, I thought the hardest part was selling the story. Publishers aren’t going to want to publish your book, you have to convince them that they want to publish your book. I’d recommend taking a course in sales, just to be safe,” she joked. Charlie had workshopped that one on the road between trips six and seven, having been asked some variation of the same thing over and over. If she were going to be answering the same questions, she might as well have her fun with it.

No one laughed.

“I’m already in business school,” the stranger deadpanned, his face scrunching in confusion.

“Right,” she nodded. She'd have to keep workshopping that one.

Hands shot back up in the air, more questions people want answered about their stories, their writing process, their struggles in getting published. While she sympathized with them, familiar with how it felt to be on the other side, she wanted more. She wanted questions that dug deeper into her character’s motivations, she wanted fans that asked about her writing process or about her inspirations, she wanted people who cared about her story an inkling as much as she did.

Years of work, countless late nights spent over her typewriter, careful with each letter pressed, weaving together the story of Ruby Wright and Jonathan James, old schoolmates who revisit the haunted house that plagued their morning walks to school. Both of them get trapped inside, having to relive their worst childhood memories until they can work through them and escape.

After mailing in her first draft to her publisher, it then took another year of back and forth with their in-house editor, tearing her story to shreds, removing segments she had lovingly crafted, using multiple bottles of whiteout to erase her hard work, scrubbing the whole book until it was unrecognizable. They knew better, though, she told herself, while reading one of the final drafts of her story which only retained half of the original work. If she wanted to be successful, she had to follow their advice. The final project ended up feeling like a shell of the story she had originally made, a doppelganger of her work, familiar but with an undercurrent of something foul and wrong. Yet it was still her baby, her precious, little child, and in the end, she was proud of herself for publishing it.

“Hi, um, my name’s Felicity,” the next person said, waving as they introduced themselves. “Which authors would you recommend reading?”

Again, Janet’s voice rings in her head. They don’t care about your answers, they just want to be told they’re reading the right things.

“I recommend reading anything you can,” she encouraged, her fake smile wavering a bit at the answer, “from Kurt Vonnegut to Stephen King to Kathleen Woodiwiss, anything's good so long as it gets your brain flowing.”

The guest sat back down, satisfied with the sanitized answer.

While Charlie was laying in the uncomfortable motel bed the previous night, she ran through the list of questions she wished she were being asked, rehearsing the answers she wanted to give. What section of the book was the hardest to write? The scene where Ruby had to watch herself lash out at her father the night before he died. What was your inspiration for the story? The book’s an attempt to solve a childhood mystery. Growing up near a haunted house, she wanted to brag, she always wondered what was inside. If you could change one thing about the book, what would it be? The romance at the end, the one thing she regretted letting her editor talk her into. But they said a woman-written story was a harder sell without romance, that it was expected of her sex, so she complied, manipulating the two leads into some corny romcom knockoff version of themselves.

Pointing towards the back, the book seller leaned to the right to make eye contact with her intended target, her beige cardigan slipping off her shoulder. “And you, sir, in the blue jacket in the back?”

He doesn't even stand. “Yes, I had a question regarding Ruby’s decision in chapter 28.”

Instantly, Charlie perked up in recognition, her spine straightening as she twisted in her seat, trying to get a good look at the first person to talk about her book. He knew the character's name and that was enough to make her believe she had a fan. Plus, that deep accent lured her in like honey to flies. “Yes?”

“Up until that point, Ruby had been very honest, almost obnoxiously so, but when she sees an opportunity to escape without Jonathan, she chooses to leave him behind, and at no point does she show remorse for this choice, nor do we see her face any consequences. Are we supposed to read Ruby as an unreliable narrator or did you forget about her entire character halfway though?” As soon as he's done asking, he leaned to the side, his smug face appearing behind one of the other attendees.

Harry Styles, one of the literary reviewers for the New Yorker, was currently sitting in at her author meet-and-greet, interrogating her on her story.

Most authors hoped to avoid the wrath of Styles' strict star system, his thoroughly scathing reviews known to tank a career before it began. And published just that morning, it was her turn to face his judgement.

Waking up extra early to avoid the New York crowds, braving the chilly dawn, she had picked up the brand new edition, the glossy paper crinkling between her fingers as Charlie read what he thought about her book.

This debut novel is hopefully the last time we'll be subjected to Charlotte Hewitt’s boring ideas and trite endings. Hewitt jumps around from scene to scene, never allowing the audience to just sit with the characters and get to know them, thus making them resemble shallow husks of people. Instead of making the audience reflect on their past, it leaves the reader with the question of why should I care? Why should I care to follow a couple of whiny twenty-somethings who spend most of the novel navel-gazing at each other instead of working through their childhood trauma like the book promises? The true horror isn’t in the house, it’s the sloppy writing within this book. ★☆☆☆☆

One hundred words is all it took to kill her career. If she had known it would be so easy, Charlie would’ve written them herself.

She hadn’t yet paid the newsstand for the magazine, and she wasn’t about to pay $2 to own this thorough ass-beating in print. So when the newsstand owner was helping another patron, Charlie had turned around, ripping out the page when a bus passed by, using the loud engine to cover up the sound of her crime. Then she stuffed the magazine back on the rack, crumbling the torn page between her fist and hiding it in her pocket. She hung around the stand a while longer, hoping she came off as inconspicuous before heading back to the motel, where she read the review until she had it memorized.

The worst part was she didn’t disagree. When she had first finished writing her book, she had been so eager to get it published, to finally realize her dream, it was only now that Charlie realized just how much of her story she had given up. She recalled the plotlines she dropped in favor of a romance she didn’t want, little moments that she was told bloated the story too much despite the details she thought they provided. Ruby’s addiction, for example, a trait that had to be erased in order for the book to sell, so she’d been told.

She almost cancelled the event today, wanting to wrap herself up in the shame of her first review instead of facing another lackluster crowd of disinterested readers. Until her emotions shifted.

Who the hell was Harry Styles? Why did he hold so much weight over her book? Who even reads the New Yorker? So what if he didn’t like it? If he couldn’t see the layers of depth she weaved into the story, it was his loss. That frustration built into something sharper, stronger, a surge of undue confidence powering her to get out of bed, put on the businesswoman attire her agent insisted she buy (It'll make you seem more professional!), and attend her book signing with her head held high.

Sitting in that cherry red plastic chair, staring down at the man responsible for her career death, Charlie felt all that frustrated energy return.

She recognized him from the tiny headshot they printed next to his review, smiling as if he was proud of his work, proud of his rating, proud of the decimation of her book. He’s wearing that same smile now, framed by his thick mustache, goading at her with a raised brow. His hair was cropped short up top with more length at the back. For a pompous asshole, he wasn’t dressed like one. With a blue windbreaker zipped up all the way, a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses sitting atop his head, he looked like he’s prepared to go to the gym, like his decision to ruin her event happened on a whim. His jeans were distressed with wear, the color washed out and the ends frayed. It was his shoes that broke the casual illusion, though. Leather loafers donned his feet, and not the fake stuff Charlie bought from thrift stores, real leather.

Someone cleared their throat, the crowd growing wary as Charlie sat there silently. Janet’s words rang through her head. If someone gets angry, or bored, just respond neutrally and deflect. We cause problems, we don’t sell books.

Charlie blinked once, twice, buying herself some time, trying to come up with an answer, completely unprepared to defend her book in front of an audience. “I-um…” she stalled, tugging on the sleeves of her blazer before clearing her throat. “I think it shows how sometimes, our um,” she swallowed, starting over. “It shows how, in certain situations, people can be pushed to a point of breaking… parts of themselves th-that they thought were um… really important to them. We’ve all gone through… something like that, right?” She nodded, like it would add more levity to her answer.

“Sure, but,” he argued back, sitting up in his seat, “Ruby is rewarded for this behavior. Jonathan still loves her even after she almost abandoned him to die, no question?”

Sensing the brewing tensions, the bored crowd grew more interested, looking between the two of them.

“Maybe Jon um…” she paused, waving her hand around to try to make an answer appear. “Maybe Jon is more forgiving than you give him credit for. Let's move on to someone else,” Charlie nodded at the book seller, who had also become enrapt with their dispute.

“Oh!” she squeaked, running a hand through her brunette waves. “Yes, that's right, more questions.” She clapped her hands together, like a teacher getting her students' attention.

No hands raised. Harry's questions broke the illusion that Charlie knew what she was doing. They didn't want to take advice from a bad author. The longer the silence remained, the more awkward and embarrassed Charlie felt, shifting nervously in her seat.

Then an arm in the back, with a blue jacket sleeve, tentatively lifted into the air, his smirk barely restrained.

The book seller looked back to Charlie, wide-eyed before turning back to the audience. “Yes, sir?”

“I had another question regarding chapter 16. Unless, of course, Miss Hewitt isn't interested in answering my questions,” Harry said, placing a hand over his chest in a mockery of insult, offering her a foxlike smile.

Swallowing down the insults she wanted to yell at him, Charlie held back her eye roll as she nodded her head. “Go on.”

“You said Jon is more forgiving?”

“Yes. Next-”

“But chapter 16 is him dealing with the fact he hasn't forgiven his mother for walking out on him and his dad, and then Ruby abandons him, and that doesn't affect him?” Harry questioned. “Why not?”

The real answer was because the scene had been deleted, discarded to streamline the romance ending her publisher wanted. When the story was first written, it was a moment of testing their friendship, showing a relationship pushed to the very brink after a very tense fight. But when the romance had been added, the fight had been dropped in favor of a sex scene her publisher had insisted on. What had meant to be a commentary on the limits of friendship and loyalty, had become, as Harry pointed out, a completely out of character moment for an otherwise honest do-gooder like Ruby. She remembered the note her editor left in the margins, a red pen slashing through the pages. Don't need all this, it's going to bore them.

“Well, the point of him going through that was so he could learn how to forgive his mom, so that's how he can forgive Ruby.”

“That doesn't come through in the writing.” He shook his head. “The book feels too rushed, like it's racing toward this ending it hasn't earned.”

“According to you,” she mumbled too loudly, the words slipping out.

Surprised intrigue flashed across his face before a bite of laughter came out like a scoff. “Excuse me?”

Clenching her hands together tighter, Charlie stared down at him, her gaze blazing with simmering rage. “Did you ever consider that maybe you’re not the target audience of this book, and that’s why it didn’t connect with you. It’s not a story meant for those who are, y'know, devoid of human emotions.”

A susurrus of laughter bubbled among the crowd, covering their mouths in an attempt to mask the sound, to make sure they didn't miss anything. Their entertainment did nothing to soothe Charlie’s anger, though, fury radiating off her skin like steam.

“Oh, so you want people without brains to read your story?”

“No, I want people who have empathy to read it.”

“Yet, you don’t give empathy to your characters,” he challenged. “If you wanted people to empathize with Ruby, you should’ve made her a real character, not this infallible, selfish person who gets rewarded for her shitty behavior.”

“And what would you like me to do about that now,” she nearly shouted through her clenched teeth, scooping up the bits of her remaining professionalism to tack on a pointed, “…sir?”

Harry looked around the room, at the audience who was drawn into every syllable, enjoying the fight like it’s prime time. Lifting his shoulders in an arrogant shrug, he said, “Write a better book next time.” Then, he stood up, and walked away, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He couldn't even do her the courtesy of leaving. Instead, he lingered around the book shelves, perusing through the aisles like he was going to buy something, straggling close enough to overhear the silence he had left behind.

Charlie’s body vibrated with furious shame. The crowd, without their provided entertainment, lost their interest once again, their attention waned, looking for something new to preoccupy them. Harry had convinced them that she’s a fraud, their already low opinion of her had stooped even lower. That public beatdown was certainly not going to convince anyone to buy her book.

The kid in the red sweater got up and jogged after Harry, pulling a small notepad out of his pocket, nervously handing it over to him. Charlie watched as Harry nodded with a smile, looping the pen across the blank page before offering the young man a handshake.

She couldn't fucking believe it, he was giving an autograph at her book signing.

“Um… I think…” the book seller stammered, scrambling to think of what to do next, but Charlie was already standing up, walking off the platform, her kitten heels clicking on the wood. “Um… we’re going to take a ten minute break and then we’ll have a table ready for autographs with the author if anyone would like to snag a copy-”

Charlie made her way to the back of the book store, entering into the Employees Only room, where she had previously stashed her purse. It was no movie star green room, but applying her hot pink lipstick in the finger-streaked mirror, she had felt something akin to that level of stardom, deluding herself that this event would be different, this would be the one to change everything.

In a way, she wasn’t wrong.

Tearing through her faux leather handbag, her hands brushed over old gas station receipts, gum wrappers, and a bunch of other trash she always said she was gonna deal with but never did. When she still couldn’t find her cigarettes, she gripped the bottom of the bag, where a large crack ripped across the fabric, turning it over and shaking out all of its contents, letting her things spill onto the linoleum as she searched for the carton. Eventually, it tumbled out, landing on top of the pile of garbage, the cellophane wrap making it appear shiny in the fluorescent light. Grabbing the box, she opened it to reveal all that remained were the old, spent filters.

“Dammit,” she cursed, throwing the box across the room, clattering uselessly on the ground. Leaving the mess where it lay, she headed for the exit, leading into an alley between shops, hoping she could find a stranger who’d be willing to bum her a cigarette.

Charlie hated thinking about how many strangers she owed for their past generosity. The publisher wanted to spend as little money on this book tour as possible, so all the costs fell on Charlie's shoulders to pay. Still, she was determined to do whatever it took despite the hardships. Traveling on the road by yourself sounds fun until you're living it. It wasn’t living in motel rooms and surviving off of fast food that was killing her spirit, it was this constant feeling of waiting, of being stuck in the same loop, wondering when something was going to change.

Her days consisted of waking up on a lumpy mattress, letting the shitty free coffee brew while she showered, brushing her teeth at the same time. Then she’d be out on the road, her Aviators blocking out the harsh sun as she drove across America in her Ford Pinto. The windows would be down because the AC was broken, the state map would be laid out across the passenger seat, held down by cassette tapes and greasy fast food bags, and Charlie would belt out Heart’s new single every time it came on the radio, her voice discordant with Ann Wilson’s. Whenever she'd stop at gas stations, she’d have her fingers crossed that she’d have a dollar to spare so she could buy a pack of Pall Malls. More times than not, she wouldn’t. Thus began her ongoing streak of asking strangers, relying on sheer dumb luck that she’d find some kind soul generous enough to be willing to part with one.

Of course, she wouldn’t be so lucky today.

“Hey.” The accent that had lured her in earlier, now scratched along her back like nails on chalkboard. Leaning up against the wall, cigarette dangling between his lips, was Harry Styles, again.

“You fucking dickweed!” Charlie slammed the door shut, stomping over to him with an accusatory finger pointed at him. Without an audience, she felt free to truly rip into him. “What’s your fucking problem, dude?”

“Whoa, I don’t-” he tried to interject, but she didn’t let him get another word in.

“Who the fuck do you think are? Who died and made you the fucking king of literature? Do you get off on ridiculing people in public, is that it? How often are you doing this shit, huh? Stalking people whose careers you just ruined and then harassing them in front of an audience just to get your rocks off. You’re fucking sick dude, like mentally or something.” He raised a finger, but she continued. “No, and y’know what else, the idea that you're some fucking paradigm of reading, like if we don't please the Book Overlord, then-then our careers are fucking over? That's it, game over, man? Who gave you that authority?” Harry breathed smoke out through his nose, making her itch stronger, only frustrating her more. “And what do you know about writing a book, huh? You only write a paragraph- a hundred words a week, and you think that's an accomplishment? Middle schoolers do that for homework, okay? And just because you think my book is shit, it doesn't mean I do. It doesn't mean someone else won't like it, so who gives a shit what your opinion is? Because who the hell even are you?!”

His brows raised, Harry’s face was otherwise unchanged as he looked down at her, not swayed a bit by her rant. Plucking the cigarette from his lips and releasing a thick plume of smoke, he asked, “Are you done?”

“Blow me!”

“Anything else?”

Releasing a forceful breath, Charlie crossed her arms across her chest. “No.”

“Okay. Can I say something?”

Eyeing the cigarette between his fingers, she bit her lip then sighed. “Only if you give me a cig.”

Harry shook his head, taking another pull. “It's my last one, unless you feel like sharing.” With a smirk, he breathed out the smoke slowly, teasing her with the slow exhale of swirling, grey clouds, extending the half spent drag to her.

Charlie took it without thinking, her need outweighing her pride. The smoke bloomed in her lungs, extending throughout her body in an instant relief of bliss, closing her eyes as she savored the burn. She took her time releasing the smoke from inside, making it linger, unsure of when she'd next feel its gentle embrace. “Go ahead,” she said in a wispy voice, smoke weaving around her teeth as she spoke.

He watched her for a moment, transfixed as her lips curled around the cigarette again, wrapping around the same spot where her lipstick had imprinted into the paper.

“Did you actually forget about Jon’s abandonment issues-” Charlie rolled her eyes, already dreading giving him this much allowance. “-or did your editor tell you to get rid of it?”

Her head quirked to the side, looking him up and down, considering whether to answer truthfully or not. “Why?”

“Because if you forgot about it, then you’re a bad writer. That’s fixable, at least, you could take a class or something,” he said, taking his cigarette back. When he stretched out his arms, Charlie caught the curve of a tattoo jutting out past his watch, concealed by his sleeve. “But if you let your editors convince you to remove a crucial plot point, then that’s worse.”

“Worse how?”

His brow twitched knowingly, catching onto what she wasn't saying. Staring her down, his eyes hardened as he said, “It means you’re spineless.”

Charlie's jaw dropped, taking a step back from him. “Excuse you?!”

Nodding his head, Harry said, “Yeah, you let someone else tell you how your story should be told, published it in that sloppy state, and expected to be praised for compromising like a good, little girl.” He sneered at the last bit, his face scrunched up in mockery. “Well, news flash, you don't have the talent to hide your mistakes and you apparently don't have the backbone to fight for your ideas either, so getting out now, before you make a real fool of yourself, is for the best, really.”

“H-how dare you?!” Mouth agape, Charlie scrambled to come up with a rebuttal, some defense of her book, but he had her dead to rights. Back then, she justified it, telling herself that once she was published, then afterwards, she could write books the way she wanted. Once she was established, she could argue back, fight for the story she wanted to write. But that was all assuming she’d even get that far. “You don't… you don't know me.”

“No, but I know a million people like you,” he pushed back, “who settle, who let others tell them what to do, and they expect that by following all the rules, they'll be handed everything they ever wanted just like that.” He snapped his fingers to emphasize his point. “Without going through any suffering, or struggles at all.”

“You have no idea what I've been through-”

“No, but I can tell you what your book says about you. You think we should forgive everyone and hold hands singing Kumba-fucking-ya, like it's an episode of ‘The Brady Bunch’ or something. And if I'm not the right demographic, then you might wanna drop that scene with Jonathan's rippling abdominals, that's not exactly kid appropriate.”

With a groan, she snatched the cigarette back. “God, don't remind me of that scene.”

“See, that's what I mean!” he exclaimed, laughing when she glared up at him through her lashes. “You shouldn't be upset that a scene exists in your book.”

“Oh, and you're such an expert?” she said sarcastically, speaking around the drag.

“That's what my paychecks say.”

“Then why haven't you written your own book? If you think it's so easy, why stick to writing reviews?” Lifting her hand to her mouth and faking a gasp, Charlie took on a mocking tone. “Is it because all you're good at is criticizing others and you don't have any original ideas of your own?”

Harry scoffed, though something unpleasant twinged across his face. “For your information, I am writing my own book. I just don't want to rush it.”

Charlie let out a harsh clap of laughter that echoed off the brick walls. “So you're paid to criticize people who are doing the very thing you're too scared to do yourself. How ironic. No wonder no one can live up to your standards, you can't even meet them yourself.”

“Now hang on,” he growled, but Charlie didn't give him the space to argue.

“No, y’know what, thank you,” she said, grabbing his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. “Truly, I mean that, thank you, it means so much to know that I've accomplished something you won't. You've really turned my day around, so thank you for that.” Pulling one last hit from the cigarette, she flicked the remainder into a nearby puddle, letting the rest of it degrade in the water. “If you’d like a book signed by a published author, feel free to stop by, I'll be here until 6.” Smug and self-satisfied, she turned to go back into the store, her head held high.

“You're still just a spineless bitch!” Harry called after her, scowling as his last cigarette disintegrated in the water.

Grabbing onto the doorway, she gave him an arrogant smirk. Resorting to name calling meant he had no rebuttal, it meant she won. Victorious, Charlie parted from him with, “And so are you.”

The pointed tip of Charlie's kitten heels pinched her toes together with each step, making the walk back to the motel agonizing. Charlie would have to hope she could find the time to stop by a thrift store before her next stop, hope she'd have enough money to buy some shoes that actually fit, to make her walk of shame from the book store less excruciating. She'd hate to have to call her mom again and ask for another loan, no matter how often her mom reassured her it was fine.

After leaving Harry in that alleyway, Charlie had felt like she was walking on air heading back into the bookstore. For the first five minutes, that elation carried her through the empty signing, eventually sliding back into that sour emotion she was used to, and wallowing in it for the remaining hour. Usually, she'd use the free hour to imagine a different outcome, one where her headshot wasn't from the JCPenney's photo studio, one where her publisher believed in her story enough to finance the book tour, one where she didn't have the time to think of what-could've-beens.

Once again, no one stopped to ask for an autograph, no one bought her book. At this point, it seemed the only people who owned a copy of her book were herself, her mother, and Harry Styles. She wondered if Harry should even count, since he didn't buy the book, it was sent to him for free from her publisher, a special copy delivered to him. Knowing how strongly he felt about the story, she wouldn't be surprised if he had already burned it, banishing her work to hell.

Now that her uninterrupted hour was up, Charlie was headed back for the motel, for another restless night on an uncomfortable bed, the drone of the television rocking her to sleep.

Except she couldn't get Harry's words out of her head.

Write a better book next time.

You're spineless.

His harsh commentary clung to the crevices of her brain, rooting themselves in the grooves, sowing more seeds of doubt. Charlie had always figured that getting published first would be the hard part, that if she could surpass this one roadblock, that it would be smooth sailing from then on. She believed getting her name out there was most important, that she could focus on the quality later, once she had established herself. Harry's perspective made her question her beliefs.

Would it have been better to fight for the version of the story she wanted to be told? Had she blinded herself with the gilded allure of fame and fortune only to sacrifice her vision?

Maybe her plan was flawed, not as thought out as she had once believed, but it was too late to be worrying about the mistakes she might've made. The book was published, it was already out there, there was nothing she could do about it now. What she needed to focus on was getting Harry's obnoxious accent out of her head.

So when she turned onto the street where her motel loomed, instead of turning in and locking herself away for the night, keeping the cockroaches on the ceiling company, she detoured over to the even seedier looking pub across the street, the flickering neon sign calling to her like a moth to a flame. Stained glass windows adorned the top of the building, high enough to not risk breaking during a bar fight, dark mold crowding around the edges. Years of vomit stains littered the ground, long since baked into the concrete, their crude smell revived under the hot sun. Smoke wafted out from the door as someone slipped out, fisting some change from their pocket as they stumbled over to the payphones on the corner of the street.

Charlie knew the only way she would be able to afford a drink or two was if someone took pity and bought them for her. Sneaking off to the side of the building, she fished out her compact mirror, assessing her makeup with a critical eye underneath the overhead light. Her foundation had started to melt in some places but the low lights of the bar would help to cover that up. Reapplying another layer of lipstick, she made sure none of it spread to her teeth before flipping her head back and forth, causing her curly hair to poof out more. Tugging off her blazer jacket, she pulled out the additional shoulder pads she had added on with velcro, stuffing the puffy fabric down the front of her dress, adjusting her breast to make the enlarged curve appear more natural. Satisfied with her enhancements, Charlie patted her bolstered breasts for good luck and headed inside.

The pub carried the exact level of grime Charlie was looking for. Dusty fingerprints collected on top of the jukebox, something sticky on the floor clung to the bottom of her heels, and the man at the bar looked as if he’d been working there all his life. There was a permanent haze of smoke, the smell thick as she walked through it. Most of the patrons were older men with graying beards and burgeoning beer bellies. They were nursing their second or third drink, inebriated enough to become pliable in Charlie's hands. Here is where she would find someone who would make her forget all about non-existent book sales and asshole British reviewers.

Casting a glance around the room, she looked for her target, the man she could temporarily woo long enough to get a couple of free drinks when she spotted an all too familiar face, and his stupid blue jacket draped across the table.

In the back of the pub, hiding away in a booth, Harry leaned in to whisper to the older woman sitting next to him, her manicured hand covering her mouth as she giggled. His fingers were already weaving into her dyed red hair, twirling the wispy strands to pull her closer into him. They were sitting so close together, they were passing breaths between them. Her leopard print dress was so tight on her body, her large boobs squished up against her chest in a ridiculously obscene way, and Harry kept unsubtly peeking at them.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Charlie muttered to herself before storming over to his booth, raising her voice so she could be heard over the Billy Joel song booming from the speakers. “So what, you're actually stalking me now?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“No, this is some serial killer shit, like what the hell is wrong with you?” Turning to the red head beside him, Charlie gave the older woman a warning. “You need to watch out for him.”

“Don't talk to her,” he snarled but Charlie ignored him. Stuck physically in between them, the woman's head swiveled back and forth, trying to keep up with both conversations.

“He's been following me around all day, harassing me-”

“No, I haven't!”

“He's seriously disturbed!”

“Shut up!”

“Don’t tell me to shut up, you dick!”

“You’re the one who followed me, creep! I was here first!”

“Yeah, probably waiting for your prey to show up!”

“Is there a problem here?”

Spinning around, Charlie found herself face to face with the bartender. His long white hair was tied back in a ponytail, his shirt was completely clean of any stains, and his glare was as sharp as the knife on his belt, his thumb grazing along the handle in a quiet threat.

“We’re fine, Cliff,” Harry said with a tight voice, his finger tapping impatiently against the table, suddenly aware of the crowd that was watching the whole altercation.

Cliff crossed his arms across his chest, giving them all a disapproving glance. “Well, I suggest we all decide if we wanna shut the fuck up and buy a drink or if we wanna get the fuck out of here.”

"Yeah, I think I'm going to leave,” the red head said, grabbing onto her purse straps as she stood up. With a pointed look, she knocked her shoulders in Charlie's, leaving behind a trail of her powerful perfume.

“Penny, wait.” Harry called after her, but she was already making a beeline for the door, not bothering to look back. Releasing a sigh, he hung his head dejectedly.

“And what about you, miss?” Cliff asked, turning all his attention onto Charlie. “Are you staying or going?”

“Um…” Licking her lips, Charlie looked around the bar, avoiding the gaze of everyone watching. She could pull out her wallet, dramatically count up all her spare change, make a larger spectacle than she already had, but she had been embarrassed enough for one day. “I'll um…” From the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry shift in his seat, only making her embarrassment sharpen. She sighed in defeat, looking down at her feet. “I'll be goi-”

“Get her something cheap and put it on my tab.”

Charlie didn't dare look at him, pursing her lips to hold back the curse on the tip of her tongue. Did he believe swooping in to save her like a knight in shining armor was supposed to win her over, that it was going to make her forgive him for earlier?

Cliff uncrossed his arms, raising a bushy brow at Harry. “You mean you're actually gonna pay your tab?”

“I mean, eventually,” Harry shrugged, a friendly smile pulling on his lips. “C'mon, Cliff, I owe her.”

“Now that I believe,” Cliff said with a deep chuckle. With the bartender put at ease, the regulars returned to their own conversations, complaining about the humdrum of their lives or repeating jokes from last night’s episode of Cheers. Cliff patted her shoulder as he passed by, “Anyone who keeps him in line is welcome here.”

Shuffling in her spot, Charlie remained standing, pretending to play with her purse strap, pretending to be interested in the music transitioning from Billy Joel to Roy Orbison, pretending Harry's stare wasn't burning into the side of her head.

“You could say thank you.”

That made her turn around, scowling at him. “And you could be less of an asshole.”

“And I could change my mind about the beer,” he threatened. When Charlie offered him no rebuttal, he indicated to the seat across from him in offering, moving his jacket off the table, and into the empty space beside him.

Not willing to put her drink at risk, Charlie repented, sliding across the vinyl seat. “… Thank you.” Her feet knocked into his as she slid across the bench, but he said nothing about it, taking a sip from his own beer.

Cliff returned, only remaining long enough to twist off the top of the chilled Budweiser bottle, before returning to the bar. Charlie had an easier time thanking Cliff than she did Harry, sounding much more sincere in her gratitude. Lifting the bottle to her lips, the alcohol doesn’t even burn her throat on the way down.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Harry pulled out a new box of cigarettes, tearing the cellophane tab off. Charlie couldn’t stop her gaze from following his hands as they plucked out a fresh drag, bringing it up to his lips, making her skin feel itchy with need. Trying to curb her desire, Charlie took a long swig of her drink, waiting for the buzz to kick in, to muddle her desires. His thumb flicked across the lighter, sparking to life as he lit the cigarette. The smoke unfurled from the burning tip, floating up towards the light above. Charlie tracked its movement as it stretched, swirling in the lampshade before dissipating.

Still, Harry says nothing, occasionally swiveling his head between the cigarette in one hand and the beer in the other. Charlie tapped the table with her nail, antsy for him to say something, anything! He didn’t even offer her a pull from the cigarette, hoarding the cancer stick all to himself.

While waiting for him to do something, she watched him through the cigarette haze. In the soft yellow light, his harsh features had softened. The pale green eyes that had accosted her from across a room with a burning passion had simmered, dragging over her with mild interest. When his rosy pink lips wrapped around the filter and he breathed in the nicotine, his face slimmed marginally, making his jawline appear more defined. Then he brought the bottle up, his facial hair shaping around the lip of the drink. He wore a black knit sweater, the collar of a button down sticking out the top, a much more refined look than his jacket advertised.

Charlie wasn’t sure how long she sat there, how long she entertained his ignorance, how long she remained his silent company before she started to feel like a fool. She found herself asking what she was doing here? Why was she giving in to him? Was he just wasting more of her time, and if so, why?

Eventually, she sighed, reaching for her belongings laid out beside her. “Well, thank you for the drink, but I think I’m gonna go-”

“That scene when Ruby sees her mom in the hospital, and for a moment, her mom becomes her grandma? Was that just to show the repeated cycle of death or did your editor cut something there?”

Charlie’s eyes shot back up to him, a feeling reminiscent of that hopeful flutter in her chest from the signing beating in her chest again. It was indescribable, the instant connection she felt with him when he mentioned details from her book, her story tethering them together, like a secret amongst friends. His knowledge of something that existed only in her head for so long, something he and only a handful of other people knew about, made her feel like he knew an intimate part of herself. “You… noticed that?”

“Of course I did. I read the bloody awful thing, didn’t I?”

The back and forth was going to give her whiplash. He played with her feelings like a cat, baiting her with questions about her story to keep her around for long enough to ambush her with his criticism. “Is it impossible for you to keep your thoughts to yourself?”

Bringing the cigarette to his lips, he flicked his eyes up to her as he inhaled, his cheeks sucked in, elongating his face. Releasing the smoke with a barely contained smirk, he raised a brow as his heated gaze ran over her body before locking back onto hers, his shoulders lifting casually. “Sometimes.” He let the word hang in the space between them, let it marinate in the tension, before shifting his gaze. “But, seriously, the hospital…”

She didn’t want to answer him. There had to be some trap he was laying, ready to snap and make her doubt her writing skills but then she asked herself When will there be another opportunity to talk about my book? So, Charlie conceded. “Yeah, that was meant to show that Ruby's repeating the same patterns as her mom. She doesn't want to be like her mom, but her mom didn't want to be like her mom. There was going to be this throughline about addiction running through her family and I wanted to have Ruby see herself in the hospital bed, but uh…” Charlie paused, before begrudgingly admitting, “…my editor said to drop it.”

“Really?” Harry asked incredulously, a laugh tacked on at the end. “Who the fuck is this editor and why the hell did you go with him?”

“I didn’t choose her, she’s my publisher’s editor.”

“And who's your publisher?”

“Pony Club Publishing.”

He huffed out a breath of smoke. “Never heard of them.”

She was long used to that answer, along with giving her usual response. “They're a small publisher from Iowa focusing on uplifting new voices-”

“No, I'm saying, I haven't heard of them, which means you’re wasting your time being signed with them,” Harry said. “You’re better off getting signed to one of the big publishers before My Little Pony Publishing goes out of business.”

Charlie scoffed. “Yeah, that sounds nice, in theory. But it’s not so simple,” she explained. “They have to want to sign you.” Talking about it brought up those hurt feelings, the months of rejection letter after rejection letter. As the rejections piled higher, she wondered if she should quit, her dreams unachievable, her writing subpar. When the letter from Pony Club Publishing came in, eager to publish her work, Charlie thought she was finally about to make her dream a reality.

Harry shrugged, unmoved by her explanation. “Doesn’t sound that hard.”

Lifting her beer, Charlie pressed the chilled bottom to her forehead, hoping it would help cool the angry heat rising in her body. “Sure, yeah, y’know what, you’re right, I wasted months of my life trying to get my book published when I should’ve just gotten signed the very first time. Thank you for the advice.”

“I’m pretty sure if you had dropped that shitty romance, it would’ve been picked up sooner,” he said confidently.

She laughed mirthfully, cocking her head to the side. “Shows what you know. The publisher insisted on the romance ending.”

“Are you serious? Is your publisher allergic to good ideas?”

“Careful, you almost said I have good ideas,” Charlie pointed out, finishing off her drink.

Again, he shrugged. “Never said you didn’t.”

Charlie barked a laugh so loud, it rang out throughout the whole bar, making Harry blush furiously as people turned to stare at them. “You made an absolute fool of me, ridiculing me in front of an audience, telling everyone I’m a shitty writer-”

“I never said that.” He took a deep sip of his drink nonchalantly.

“You said I should write a better book.”

Swallowing down his beer, he hummed, nodding his head. “Yeah, better than whatever the hell it was you published, but the idea itself was sound.”

That made Charlie pause. The first compliment her book received and it was wrapped in utter contempt.

Harry took her silence as permission to continue. “When I read your synopsis, I was hooked,” he said. “I wanted to like it, but then it sucked, like really, it blew chunks.” Charlie's face drooped, annoyed with his constant need to attack. “And yet, I still keep thinking about it, like there’s something just beneath the surface that I’m missing. Turns out, there is, but you let yourself be talked out of those interesting ideas and cowered to your publisher, even though I can't think of a single other book they've published.”

His argument made too much sense. Charlie had been so excited to be signed, she ignored a lot of warning signs and she had complied all too willingly. Never once had she considered they had no idea what they were doing. Because Harry was right, what other books had they published? Charlie remembered the promotional material they sent once she agreed to work with them, with a list of names touted as their other clients, proof of their success. But as she racked her brain, none of the names were familiar, not a single title recognizable.

“And that's why I'm waiting to publish my own book, so I don't make rookie mistakes like that.”

Just like that, all her self-pitying vanished. Harry wasn't being helpful, he wasn't earnestly offering her advice, he was just being a dick!

Charlie scoffed. “Yeah, is that the excuse you tell yourself? Y’know, it's really fucking pathetic to act all high and mighty about people making mistakes while they do the very thing you're too scared to do yourself.” His smug smile disappeared, his dimples melting back into his cheeks while he glared at her. “You're such a fucking hypocrite, criticizing the people who put themselves out there, who actually share their stories, all while you pretend like you're holding onto this bullshit literary ‘masterpiece' that no one is going to read, because you don't want to face the re-fucking-ality that your book might ‘blow chunks’ too.”

“It’s not going to blow, because-”

“You don’t know that! And you never will if you never publish it! But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Charlie propped her arms up on the table, leaning closer to him, her voice dropping low into something threatening. “It’s safer to not get it published, because in your mind, it’s a fucking hit, it’s an instant best-seller. And even though you try to talk yourself down, and say that you’d be satisfied with a couple of sales, so long as people really enjoyed the book, there’s the possibility it doesn’t. There’s the possibility that your book doesn’t sell a single copy, that no one gives a shit about it. But, so long as you don’t publish it, you can remain in the fantasy that you’re a better writer than you actually are.”

Harry’s eyes blazed with fury, his nostrils flared with each deep, fiery breath that forced itself out. He sat in his booth glaring at her from across the table, frozen in his rage.

A sense of pride bolstered Charlie’s mood, feeling a smidge better having put Harry in his place. Satisfied with herself, Charlie grabbed her purse, lifting the straps onto her shoulder, before shuffling across the bench seat.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?”

“To the bathroom,” Charlie answered. “And I don't trust you to not go through my shit.” Seeing the cigarette between his fingers, she let her impulsivity win and she snatched the drag from his fingers, taking a long deep inhale before shoving the remainder into his beer.

He rolled his eyes as she walked past him, into the darkened hallway behind him, dirty signs pointing towards the restrooms. Charlie didn’t have to go, she just needed to steal a moment away for herself, to indulge in the vanquishing of her foe. There were two doors at the end of the hall, the right one closed shut with a sickly wet sloshing sound coming from behind it, and the left one slightly ajar and blessedly silent. Shutting the door, Charlie went to lock it only to discover the lock was broken, perpetually spinning the knob to no avail. Giving up, Charlie threw her purse to the ground, throwing her head back as her lips trilled in exasperation.

The bathroom smelt horrifically bad. A couple bugs fluttered around the light, attracted to the bulbs. Years of pee stained the urinal until the porcelain was no longer white and the toilet looked just as filthy. Fingerprints crowded the mirror’s edge, creating a halo.

Walking up to the sink, Charlie turned on the faucet, wetting her fingertips. Looking at her reflection, she pressed her dripping fingers to her forehead, releasing a little groan at the chilled relief. Droplets fell from the top of her head, cascading down her face, tracing around the curves of her cheeks before falling into the basin below.

What was his fucking problem? And what were the odds that Harry just so happened to come to the same bar that was across from her motel? He seemed to be close with the bartender, implying some kind of friendship. Honestly, she was surprised he was capable of making friends. And why did he keep pretending to be interested in her book? Did he really think she had good ideas or was that just a lie? Her mind ran through a million thoughts per minute, trying to puzzle the enigma that was Harry Styles.

Running her hand under the running water again, she repeated the motion, closing her eyes, sighing with a moan, when the door slammed open, startling her.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” Harry bellowed, storming up to her with a stern finger.

“What the fuck?!”

“Just because you’re book is a failure-”

“Get out of here!”

“-doesn’t mean mine will be!”

Charlie snorted as she spun to face him, meeting his fierce gaze with her own. “Oh, did I hit a nerve?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her.

“No!” he argued, his voice pitching defensively before he cleared his throat. “No, you’re just upset that your book-”

“Jesus, you’re obsessed!”

“-was a fucking disaster-”

“You are such a-”

“-and you’re hoping that I-”

“-fucking coward, dude!”

“-end up just- did you call me a coward?”

“Yes, I did!”

Harry huffed out an annoyed laugh. “If I'm a fucking coward, then so are you!”

“Okay,” she shrugged, unbothered by his insult. “Guess we’re both fucking cowards.”

“You're a coward who doesn’t stand for anything.”

“And you're a coward who doesn't go for what he wants.”

“Really?” he seethed, his teeth clenched tightly, stepping closer, encroaching onto her personal space.

Nodding her head, Charlie smirked up at him, repeating herself. “Yup, you're a fucking coward who doesn't go for what he wants and-”

She doesn't get the chance to finish her sentence because Harry's lips smashed into hers, his lips colliding against her teeth before connecting with her lips. The force of the kiss pushed her, taking a step back which Harry matched, intruding into her space. Charlie took another step and so did Harry, repeating the pattern until the sink basin hit the base of her spine, gasping into Harry’s mouth in surprise.

Charlie was acting on pure instinct, naturally responding to the kiss. He tasted so strongly of cigarette smoke, her addiction felt satiated just from his breath. It made her pull him in closer, trying to inhale every bit she could. Her hands dragged through his cropped hair, twisting the short strands in her grip, keeping him there. She could feel his hands move over her body, curving around her hips, cupping her ass and squeezing at the flesh, making her moan.

Harry went to pull back but Charlie followed after him, dipping her tongue out to run across his bottom lip. It’s not until Harry grabbed her chin, his fingers pinching into her cheeks so hard that she had to let him go, whimpering at the loss.

Blinking her eyes open, she’s confronted with something terrifyingly attractive. His lips were shiny with her spit, his hair disheveled from her hand, and his pupils were blown out, making his heady gaze more intense. Then a smirk pulled on his lips. “Still think I’m a coward?”

She didn't want to answer him, her prideful ego not wanting to kowtow to his smug question. A part of her wanted to slug him, and leave. But when his grip tightened, pressing harder on her jaw, testing her limits, she couldn't stop the whine, couldn't stop the clenching of her thighs, couldn't stop the word slipping out pathetically. “Yes.”

“Oh, yeah?” he taunted, tilting her head to the side. Charlie let him, pliant under his touch. Leaning in, Harry's nose trailed up her jawline until his lips were at her ear, whispering, “What makes you say that?” Then, with a low growl, he nipped at her lobe, teething at the skin before releasing with a hot breath.

Charlie shivered when his teeth made contact, swallowing down the moan that dared to escape her. Her brain fought for her to think rationally, reminding her of who he was, the insults he had thrown at her, but her pussy didn't care about any of that. “Is-is that… is that all you wanted?” she panted, trying to sound like she still had a semblance of control over the situation. “Just a-a shitty little kiss? Or are you still holding yourself back?”

His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, his smoky breath fanning across her collar bone before he clicked his tongue. “Oh I'd love to do more to you, kitten.” Thrusting his hips forward, Charlie gasped at the bulge in his pants that pressed into her pelvis. “Got me all riled up over here. I swear, I've spent half of the day imagining my cock down your throat, just to get you to shut up.” Harry rolled his hips into hers, humping her leg like a dog.

She was salivating at the thought, her own hips starting to move against his, desperately seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between her thighs. When she couldn't find any, she petulantly stomped her foot, a weak mewl eking out.

“What is it, kitten?” Harry hiked her leg around his hip, causing her dress to ride up her body, spreading her open more. “You have to use your big girl words and tell me what you want.” Lifting his leg, he pressed his thigh into the open space, forcing her still but the pressure did offer her a modicum of pleasure.

“Y-you can’t-” Charlie swallowed, starting over. “You can’t tell what I want?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Charlie could feel tears prickling at the back of her eyes. She needed some solace from the arousal twisting in her belly. Her hips wriggled, trying to maneuver themselves in a way to rub against Harry’s thigh but she couldn’t find the right angle, just missing where her clit throbbed. There was only one way to get what she wanted, but her cheeks burned at the idea of giving in to him, of surrendering herself to his whims, of rewarding his behavior.

“I… I want…”

“There you go,” he encouraged with a smirk, roving his lips down her neck.

“I want… to come.” She thought she found a loophole, a work around to get what she wanted while maintaining some integrity.

But it didn’t work out how she planned.

“Well if that’s all you want, I’m sure a big, strong, independent woman like you can figure that out for herself.” Harry started to move his leg, he ever so slightly released his grip on her jaw, gradually backing away from her.

“Wait, no, I-” Charlie grabbed his arms, using her leg to yank him back. She felt a flash of fear at him leaving her in the middle of this lust-fueled frenzy. Her breath shortened, her mind ran through a bunch of different arguments as to why she should let him leave, but all she wanted… “I want you to make me come…” She hated how quickly she bent to him, how demanding she sounded, but she couldn’t risk him walking away, so she added, “…please.”

His dimples dipped into his cheeks as he smirked at her begging. “Since you asked so nicely…” he teased, dragging her crotch over his thigh, finally satiating her desires.

Charlie threw her head back as her body surrendered to his touch, sighing contentedly while her pussy leaked arousal. She let him have control of the rocking of her hips over his jeans, letting him set the pace, the pressure. Her clit mashed into the meat of his leg, rubbing against the denim.

“That's it, kitty.” Harry dipped his head to kiss down her neck. “Does that feel good?” Charlie hummed, making his lips vibrate against her throat, the sound echoing off the tiles until Harry stopped, forcing her hips to a halt. “C'mon, kitten, use your words and tell me how good it feels,” he demanded with a growl, nipping at her jaw.

Most of the men Charlie had been with didn't care for her opinion, they'd just manhandle her into their preferred position and have their way. She wasn't used to her sexual partners asking for her input. “Y-yeah, it feels good, feels really good,” Charlie rushed out, willing to agree to anything, so long as he'd go back to ruining her.

“Really good, huh?” Harry hitched his knee, making Charlie bounce on the muscle, her whines coming out in time with each hit. “Now do you want it like this…” Then he adjusted, pressing his thick shaft along her pelvis, causing her to grind on his cock. “… or do you want this?”

The head of his dick brushed over her pulsating clit, her nerves going wild over the contact. Even through her cotton panties and her bright colored tights, the weight of him pressed on her sensitive bud. She could feel herself slipping, her hold on reality loosening, relinquishing to the pleasure as it spread throughout her body. Closing her eyes, her brain started to shut down, succumbing to Harry’s thrusts.

Until Harry pinched at her chin again, redirecting her gaze to his own. “C’mon pet, don’t get dumb on me now. Tell me how you want it.”

She blinked up at him, her mouth flapping uselessly as she tried to come up with an answer. Charlie never had to tell a man how to pleasure her, they usually made their best guess, pumped themselves a few times and then finished, leaving Charlie to sort herself out once they had left. Yet, here Harry was, insisting she be an active participant in her orgasm. Maybe foreplay did exist outside of Penelope Neri’s books.

“Um… I-I-I like it um… when you um…” She couldn’t say it. Her tongue got all twisted up as she tried to speak, unable to say the words aloud. It was one thing in writing, putting down the dirty thoughts in her head onto the page, the keys typing out each filthy word, imprinting them onto the paper, but to speak it aloud, to ask for it, to beg for it, that was a humiliation Charlie hadn’t expected to face, especially after all the embarrassment she’d already been through today. She swallowed thickly, casting her gaze down in shame.

“You’ve got it,” Harry encouraged her, nudging his nose against hers. “You like it when I… do this?” Rolling his hips, he rutted into her, the head of his cock playing with her clit.

Moaning at the movement, Charlie nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I like that.”

“Tell me why.”

With an irritable whine, Charlie shook her head. She didn’t want to narrate her pleasure, she wanted to get lost in it.

“Tell me or I stop.”

It was an effective threat, the mere suggestion made her knees weak. Reaching back, Charlie braced herself on the sink basin, gripping onto the porcelain for support. “I-it feels good when-when you um-” Clearing her throat, she powered through her discomfort and made herself continue. “When you hump me and-and-and you rub up a-against me.”

“Like this?” He gave her a deep, slow thrust, languishing himself over her clothed crotch. Her body shivered as his shaft prodded at her clit, her hips shook with their own desire. The tease was nice but she needed more if she wanted to come. As if sensing her needs, Harry said, “If you need something, kitten, you gotta ask for it.”

“More,” she pleaded.

“More what?” He wasn’t going to make this easy on her.

“All of it!”

Tutting at her tantrum, Harry shook his head. “You can do better than that. Do you want it slower…” Pulling his hips back, he demonstrated as he pressed back into her, taking his time as he ran his cock over her. “Or do you want it faster?” Now, his hips snapped quicker, grinding into her swiftly, his pace gradually speeding up before he came to a complete stop. “How do you want it?”

“Faster!” She didn’t even think about it, already addicted to the quick, repeated brushes along her nerves. “And harder.”

Harry cooed at her sudden boldness, his eyebrow quirking. “Oh, does my pretty kitty think she can take it?” Charlie opened her mouth to argue, but Harry gave a few testing thrusts, causing her to interrupt herself with a gasping groan. “Wants it fast and rough, huh?”

Charlie babbled in agreement, trembling with need, eager for his weight, his heat to press back into her. Before Harry gave in to her pleas, he rushed his lips to capture hers, silencing her rambles. When his hips knocked into hers, Charlie couldn’t stop the bucking of her own hips, matching his rhythm until they were grinding into each other. Her moan vibrated against his lips, making him reciprocate, swallowing each other’s sounds.

Dry humping was something Charlie figured was better left to pre-pubescent kids who were too scared to go all the way, for the timid teens who were having their first make out session on their parent’s couch. Turns out, she had been wrong. When Harry drove his hips into her, it wasn’t with the trepidation of a first-timer, it was with expert precision, with the knowledge of how to give, how to please.

Harry pulled back from the kiss and dived in her neck, sucking feverishly on her pulse point.

“Ooo, baby, ri-right there, ah!” Charlie purred into his ear, yelping when his teeth bit down, one hand coming up to caress his hair, tugging on the longer strands at the base of his neck. As she grinded down onto his cock, she imagined how it’d feel without their clothes in the way, how deeply he’d penetrate, how much her lips would have to stretch around his girth. Her pussy slicked up even more at the mental image, seeping through the mesh of her pantyhose.

Harry’s throat rumbled with a growl, releasing her neck with a wet pop. “Jesus, kitten, you’re absolutely soaked. Staining my jeans like a whore.” Charlie went to pull back, abashed by her leaking arousal, but Harry only reveled in it, looking at the growing wet spot on his crotch with pride. “Someone might think you’re into this. That you like being fucked, even in a filthy bathroom.”

The answer was obvious, no matter how much Charlie wished she could deny it. Even if her cunt wasn’t leaving a mark on his jeans, he’d be able to tell from the way her nails dug into his scalp, the way her breathing hitched, the way her hips chased after his, magnetized to him. But how could she expect her body to respond normally when it was experiencing abnormal levels of passion and desire?

So, instead of giving him a response, she smeared herself on him, leaving a bigger trace of herself, making his smile grow.

“Should’ve known you’d be a dirty girl.” Then he was kissing her again, tonguing at her bottom lip.

She opened up to him, dropping her jaw, widening her legs, pulling him in so tightly, she couldn’t feel any space between them. The tongue in her mouth that tasted of beer and smoke, the hands that massaged her ass, the heat of his bulge, everything was building up towards her release. A brief wave of panic washed over her, not used to this intense pressure mounting with someone else around. Should she warn him, tell him about her upcoming orgasm, or would that only make him run? He never said anything about getting her off, or getting himself off, for that matter. He never said what he wanted out of this little bathroom tryst. There was a chance he’d leave her high and dry, that his plan all along was to wind her up and then dip before finishing what he started.

With too much at stake, Charlie kept quiet, rutting against Harry, focusing on her impending climax.

Her hips slowed as she neared her release, but Harry wouldn’t let her slack off, guiding her hips to the rhythm he set, making her keep up with him. He mumbled into her lips, “C’mon kitten, keep up,” before reconnecting their mouths. “Almost there kitty, c’mon.”

She would deny it, but hearing him admit to his own orgasm, admitting to being close, really stirred something deep in her belly. The idea that she was turning him on, that she was making him weak, was exhilarating, thrilling, even.

That was all it took, her body collapsing into a shuddering release as she came, her hips stuttering against his in tingling aftershocks. She grasped onto Harry, his body becoming her lifeline to reality as she crested through her climax. Her chest puffed out with a big inhale that she released with relieved whines, each one timed with the pulse of her cunt. Charlie was used to only experiencing those eye-rolling, toe-curling orgasms with her imported sex toy, but Harry had done so without even getting her naked.

Still in the comedown of her orgasmic high, Charlie chuckled to herself. At the absurdity of it all, of being humped in a bar bathroom by a man who couldn’t stand her. She hadn’t noticed when Harry had stepped away, when he’d started to wash his hands, but she noticed the spot she had left on his pants and the bulge of his hard cock straining against his jeans. “I thought-” Her voice felt unusually loud, breaking through this temporary lull that hung in the air. Clearing her throat, she tried again, softer. “I thought you um…” she indicated towards his pants. “I thought you said you were close.”

Shrugging, Harry said, “I was.” Something in his tone lingered, an awkwardness Charlie couldn’t quite place.

“Um… well, if you need a little help, I wouldn’t mind offering to um-” But she was interrupted by Harry’s laugh, the sound ruthlessly echoing off the tiles.

“Please, I would never debase myself by having sex in a disgusting bathroom like this. You,” he said, indicating towards her, “knock yourself out. But, I have some class.”

Charlie stared at him agape while he dried his hands off, scoffing in disdain. “Are you- are you fucking kidding me? What was the fucking point of all this then?”

“The point is that you scared away my date for the night, and I figured you owed me.” He looked at her like she was crazy. “Are you really complaining that I got you off?”

It was so confusing, it almost made her laugh again. He was right, she had no argument. Was she really going to beg, get down on her hands and knees, and pray until he felt bad enough and let her suck his dick? She’d be admitting to wanting it, wanting to see it, to touch it, to lick it. As he had put it, she had already acted like a depraved slut by letting him have his way with her, she wasn’t about to stoop lower.

“Well, enjoy the rest of your night,” Harry said, heading for the door. “I’m going to get plastered on cheap whiskey since you just saved me about $100.”

“Hey, while you do that, why don’t you go fuck yourself?!” It was cheap, the kind of insult one threw when they had nothing else.

And Harry knew it, scratching at his nose to hide his smug smile. As the door shut behind him, he said, “It’s more fun with an audience.”

Then, he was gone, leaving Charlie alone in the bathroom, the sound of the running sink filling in the silence. Turning around, Charlie looked at her reflection and was horrified with what she saw. Her lips were plumped by Harry’s kisses, her dress raised far above appropriate levels with her whole wet crotch exposed and, moving her hair aside, there was a large red mark on her jugular, a bite that would mark her as taken, like how animals claim their mates. Charlie’s makeup had spread, her mascara bled around her eyes, her lipstick smeared all over her mouth, including onto her chin. Wetting a couple of paper towels, she wiped off the offensive mess and tugged her dress hem down, cleaning herself back into looking publicly acceptable.

The reality of what just happened started to sink in like the stench of the restroom. She had let herself be so consumed by her lust, she gave herself over, practically gift wrapped herself, for Harry Styles, the man who seemed put out to ruin her career. All it took was a stupid kiss and a couple of words, and she had become putty in his soft hands. It must’ve been hidden within the accent, some magic spell he casted to make her ignore every warning going off in her head and succumb to his slimy touch.

But, fuck, that orgasm… When she closed her eyes, Charlie could still feel the ripples of it lingering, coursing through her body. She shivered, whether from the bathroom chill or from the remnants of her climax, she couldn’t tell.

Adjusting her purse strap as she left the bathroom, she planned on just strolling out of the bar, of ignoring the man currently sipping on his drink, already comfortable back in his seat, but her footfalls hesitated as she passed his table.

He was already eyeing her when she turned, a brow raised at her pause.

“If you um…” She didn’t have the luxury of blaming this on any alcohol, her judgement was unimpaired, yet she couldn’t justify what left her mouth. “If you want an audience for tonight for… y’know… I’m in room 1024 across the way.” Charlie lingered for just a moment, waiting for him to outright dismiss her or for her sense of logic to kick in and retract the invitation, but neither happened.

A beat passed, the radio changed to a Pink Floyd song, and Harry just stared at her. Figuring that was his answer, Charlie spun on her heel and headed for the door. If there was a chance for round two, she wanted to be prepared this time.

All her preparation was for naught, it turned out.

As soon as she returned to her room, Charlie ran through the gauntlet of quick beauty routines. She washed her body in the shower, wiping away the sweat and grime, making sure not a drop of water touched her chemically treated hair. Double checking that her pubes were trimmed, she debated cropping the little strip of hair shorter, but decided not to risk turning her landing strip into a parking spot. In the mirror, she played with different hairstyles: up, down, half up half down, in a side pony, she eventually settled with leaving it down, shaking her head side to side to revive the curls. Tugging on the collar of the robe provided by the motel, Charlie pulled it down until it hung off her shoulders, proudly showing off Harry's mark. Then she worried that putting it out on display was too much, too slutty, covering up the bruise shamefully. She stayed in the robe though, not bothering to put on anything underneath. In her mind, she planned this sultry dance where she slowly disrobed herself, ending with a sexy flourish.

Okay, maybe the flourish was a bit much.

She was giddy as she pampered herself, feeling like she was getting ready for a first date. In a way, she was, just the more mature version of it, she thought as she spritzed some perfume between her breasts. Charlie even turned on MTV, singing to her reflection along with Whitney Houston, both of them pining over someone to dance with.

The longer she waited, the more time she spent getting ready, now just having fun with it. More blush, hair fluffed higher, wiping off one color of lipstick and trying on another, puckering her lips and blowing kisses at her double in the mirror. After the fifth song ended, the Genesis music video transitioning into Starship’s newest single, Charlie began to worry. It’d been, what, forty minutes since she propositioned Harry, maybe closer to an hour. Where the hell was he?

After that first beat of doubt, she couldn’t drop the sinking feeling in her stomach. As her giddiness morphed into bitter dejection, her exaggerated makeup now looked clownish, her hair looked like it was defying gravity, and she couldn’t stop asking herself why she was going to all this effort for a man who couldn’t even do her the courtesy of telling her he wasn’t going to show.

Charlie washed everything off, removing all her hard work. She changed into her old high school exercise tee and the last clean pair of high waisted underwear, and changed the channel to QVC. Rummaging through her luggage, she pulled out her secret stash of Cheez Balls, popping open the can as she flopped onto the bed. Later, she could convince herself to pull out her vibrator, let the rabbit ears diddle with her clit, pretend like she wasn’t spending another night alone, but her feelings were still too raw, too demanding. She’d rather work through them now than give herself an unsatisfactory orgasm.

And so she remained for the next hour, passing the night away snacking on puff balls drenched in powdered cheese flavoring, the drone of the shopping channel replacing the silence. It’s when the blonde saleslady is touting off the benefits of some brand new pair of jeans, wriggling her butt for the camera to show off their glute retention, whatever the hell that meant, that Charlie rolled over to her bags. She was too lazy to stand, even as she flung her belongings around her room as she hunted for her toy. Her fingers brushed over a familiar shape, wrapped inside a large plastic bag.

That’s when someone knocked on her door, the wood rattling in the frame.

With her heart beating in her chest, Charlie got up slowly, licking the cheese dust off her fingers, hoping whoever stood outside her door couldn’t hear the creaking of her mattress. She didn’t want to be bothered, especially right now, and she knew better than to open the door at night for a stranger. Opening the plastic bag quietly, she pulled out the jelly toy, her pussy clenching at just the touch.

Three more raps against her door startled her, a small yelp escaping her.

Continuing to ignore them, Charlie flicked the switch, making sure the batteries were still good. Once or twice, she might’ve switched out the dead batteries with the ones in the TV remote, but luckily, she didn’t have to this time, the rabbit vibrating to life. Placing the toy over her clothed crotch, she let the rabbit’s ears prod at her clit, the two prongs coaxing the more sensitive button to appear from within the hood. She liked to tease herself, treat herself to a little foreplay before fucking herself silly on the device.

Again, and with much more urgency, someone pounded on her door. With an annoyed groan, Charlie turned off the TV, stood up, and marched over to her door, lifting up onto her tiptoes to peek out the peephole. The man outside was turned around, so she couldn’t make out any specific features in the dim lighting, but she would recognize that stupid fucking blue windbreaker anywhere.

Opening the door marginally, she stuck her head out. “What do you want?” Charlie demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Harry spun around, a slow, easy smile blooming across his face. “Hey-” he stopped himself short, pointing at her chest. “Is that… one of those vaginal pleasure toys?”

Sure enough, in her grasp, the purple jelly rabbit was still buzzing. Flicking the switch, Charlie paused the vibrations, still glaring at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“I came to take the place of that,” he said, indicating her toy. He took a step closer, but Charlie blocked the door, barring him entry. “Oh, c’mon, I brought a peace offering.” Raising his arm, he showed off the tips of two beer bottles sticking out of two paper bags. She couldn’t help but notice how tight his grip looked, the vein on the back of his hand jutting out, imagining that grip elsewhere…

“Well, it’s too late.”

“I didn't know it was a limited time offer.”

“Yeah, the deal expired when you didn’t show up.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“No, too late, I don’t even want to suck your dick anymore.”

“Is that what you were going to do?” Harry’s face lit up like a boy’s. Charlie rolled her eyes, going to shut the door, but he leaned against it, bracing it with an outstretched hand. “Whoa- hold on, hold on, hear me out!” he insisted with a laugh.

Huffing out a breath, Charlie raised her brows expectantly. She hoped his excuse would be worth letting the cool night air into her room, she could feel goosebumps already prickling across her bare legs.

“I’ve been sitting at that shitty little bar all night-” He ran a sluggish hand over his face, his words muffled behind his palm. His gaze shifted, looking everywhere but at her. “-trying to convince myself that I’ve had enough of you for one day.” Charlie’s glare tightened. “But it’s-it’s… I don’t know, I was over there, telling myself ‘Just one more drink and then I’ll go home’, but when I finished my drink…” Throwing his hands out wildly, he shrugged. “I don’t- I don’t know, I didn’t want to go home so then I ordered another drink and I said the same thing but… I’m still not home, am I?”

“Is there a point to all of this?” Her mother would tell her she was being rude for being so callous to him, but Charlie had to remind herself of all the makeup wipes currently sitting in her trash can.

“The point is…” Harry sighed, then looked up at her with a flicker of hope, “I wanna get you off again.”

Charlie's knees nearly gave out, having to grab onto the doorframe to stabilize herself. Blinking rapidly, she couldn't stop staring at him, her mouth creating a litany of shapes without a single sound coming out. She raked her brain for an argument, one single fucking argument to push back against him, a reason to tell him to leave, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Her brain’s logic was being overruled by her pussy, the muscles constricting in titillating anticipation. A shiver ran through her, easily explained away by the cold, but, in truth, she was remembering the dizzying orgasm he gave her earlier. Most of the men she had been intimate barely cared about whether she got off or not, meanwhile Harry had made her a quivering mess while they were both clothed. Charlie couldn’t dismiss the curiosity that plagued her brain. She was the one who took risks, she was the one who went for what she wanted, she was the one who was pushing the door open, shrugging as she conceded. “Okay.”

At first, he didn’t move, frozen with shock at her answer. She thought he probably expected her to put up more of a fight, to perform the usual back and forth that went hand-in-hand with these kinds of encounters. Then, Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Thank God,” he muttered in a husky voice. In a blink, he was in her space, walking into her room and kicking the door shut behind him. Stealing her vibrator, he tossed the device across the room, mumbling something about not needing it tonight, before he grabbed her waist and yanked her into him. “I’m not done playing with you, kitten.”

The kiss in the bathroom was full of clashing teeth and prideful passion. As he leaned down, claiming her mouth with his, this one was no less full of heat, but there was a tenderness that was missing last time. There was nothing to prove now, no argument to win, it was pure emotion, raw intimacy.

She reached out for him, her fingers brushing over the nylon in search of the zipper, desperate to remove the godawful jacket. As Charlie tugged it over his shoulders, she rolled her body into his, groaning when she felt the bulge straining in his pants. Eagerly, she dragged her hands down his chest, tracing over the knit pattern until her fingers grazed his belt. Just as she brushed the leather, Harry grabbed both of her wrists, restraining her single-handedly.

“Uh-uh,” Harry teased, nipping at her lower lip. “Not yet.” Using his hold on her, he pulled her along as he walked back towards the bed. Plopping down onto the mattress, he jerked on her wrists, yanking her in between his spread legs, then nuzzling his face into her belly. He panted hot breaths that penetrated through the thin cotton as his hands slipped beneath her shirt. His nails scraped over her flesh, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. “I was thinking…” Lifting up the hem of her shirt, he pressed a kiss above the band of her underwear. “…since you have such a hard time asking for what you want, maybe you could let me be in charge, yeah?” Hooking a finger beneath the elastic, he snapped it against her belly, smirking when she flinched, a naughty glint in his eye. “You think you can pay attention and be a good little kitten for me? I promise I’ll be better than your little toy.”

A whine squeezed at Charlie’s throat as she looked down at Harry. She brought her hand up to the back of his head, scratching at the little curls that lifted away from his neck. “Y-you sound so sure… that you can do better.”

“Money back guarantee.”

Charlie laughed nervously, then nodded. “O-okay, I can- I can… yeah.”

“Good, now take your shirt off,” he ordered, a growl rumbling deep in his chest, taking to his role quickly.

She didn’t put on a show as she disrobed herself, deciding he had forfeited any kind of special performance by being late. Plus, he didn’t tell her to, she justified. As Charlie lifted her shirt, Harry’s hands chased after the rising hemline, exploring over the newly exposed skin. When they cupped under the curve of her breasts, he marveled at their weight, massaging at the fatty flesh. His thumb brushed over her nipple carelessly, the featherlight touch making her stiffen. Leaning forward, his breathing deepened, taking long inhales and releasing them in stutters, the warm air blowing across Charlie’s body, tickling at her sensitive skin.

“And now you’re soaked panties.”

Her thighs clenched at the accusation, the wet fabric squelching between them. “I-I-I don’t-I’m not-” she stuttered, embarrassed to be called out.

“Kitten, I can smell it,” he said through gritted teeth, making heat crawl over Charlie’s cheeks. Pressing his nose above her crotch, he took in a deep inhale, then groaned. “God, it’s so thick, I can practically taste it. Now, get these off, I need to see the mess you’ve made.”

Charlie had never seen a man act so feral before. Never before had a man smelled her crotch and reveled in its stench, never before had a man growled into her pelvis, and it made her even wetter.

Pulling down her underwear, she was now completely bare in front of him, releasing a shaky exhale as she stood on display for him. Harry leaned back across the bed, propped up by his elbows, biting his lip as he fully took her in. His gaze lingered over her tits before traveling down to the strip of pubes, directing his sight to her glistening pussy. The laidback stance gave Charlie a chance to look him over, too. How his sweater stretched across his shoulders, how his hands kept balling into tight, white-knuckled fists, and how his jeans stretched over his crotch, his zipper straining.

Harry sat back up, drawing in a breath. “How would you like to earn a drink?” Charlie hadn’t seen when he had stashed the bottles to the side of the bed, probably distracted as he nuzzled into her stomach, but now as he reached over, she remembered his little peace offering.

With a hum, Charlie nodded. Now that he was in charge, she didn’t know if she was allowed to speak, and she wanted to be good, she wanted to earn her prize.

In a deep, breathy voice, he said, “Then get on your knees, kitty.”

Sinking down onto her knees, Charlie’s mouth began to water, preparing to lather his cock with her saliva. Since feeling his cock grinding into her, she wanted to see it, needed to confirm it was real.

But as she lowered herself, Harry didn’t reach for his belt, he reached out and grabbed her arms, suddenly halting her movements. “Hold on,” he instructed, sliding his left foot along the carpet until his shoe nudged between her knees. “Scoot forward, just like that, okay, and sit.” Pushing down on her shoulders, Harry forced her down until her cunt slotted along his loafer. “Now, I wanna see you get yourself off.”

Instead of doing as she was told, Charlie looked up at him with a confused stare. She had to wrap a hand around his calf to keep herself from falling over, her other hand grasping onto his knee. Just as she went to ask him to explain what exactly he wanted her to do, her pussy slipped across the smooth leather, her clit catching on the ridge. Releasing a surprised moan, her nails bit into Harry’s jeans, as she tried to understand what just happened. She hadn’t expected a shoe to feel… good. Charlie glanced up at him nervously, waiting for him to scold her, as if she did something wrong.

“That’s it, kitten. Keep going.”

Her chest tightened as she realized she wasn’t in trouble, that she was allowed, encouraged even, to continue. Sliding along his shoe, the raised edge dragged over her clit, her eyes fluttering at the sensation. Her pussy glided along the previous trail of arousal, smearing her slick over herself. Rocking her hips back and forth, Charlie grinded her clit into the shoe tip again and again. Little groans of pleasure freely flowed out of her open mouth.

"Tip your head back." Harry's whispered instruction cut through her low moans.

Charlie tilted her head, letting her tongue loll out. Harry's finger dipped under her chin, holding her steady as he raised the bottle, hovering it over her lips. Tipping it forward, the liquid flowed into her mouth, cascading over her tongue with the prickly tang of cheap beer. As Harry lifted the bottle away, a couple drops slipped out the corner of her mouth, dribbling down her neck as she swallowed the rest. Charlie went to wipe away the excess, but Harry slapped her hand away, focused entirely on the trajectory of the stray droplets. When the bead ran over the curve of her breast, that's when Harry reached out, massaging it into her tit, painting her nipple with the beer. The ministrations of his thumb over her nipple made Charlie's hips quake, stuttering over Harry's shoe in quick, rapid motions.

"Such a disgusting little thing you are." Even though his words were disapproving, he couldn't have sounded more proud. When Charlie dared to look up at him, he was smiling down at her, his pupils blown out with hungry desire. "Do you like making a mess all over my shoes?"

Rubbing her face along the denim, she nodded, whining in affirmation.

"Words, kitten," he reminded her, "use your words."

"Oh-h yeah, ye-ah I like it." She could hardly remember the question, but she answered as best she could. Her speech came out choppy, interrupted by her pleasured groans as she kept grinding into his foot.

Brushing some of her hair aside, Harry let out a chiding tsk. "In a bar bathroom, on a filthy shoe, hell, I'm pretty sure you would've let me take you in that alleyway. Would’ve let me bend you over a dumpster and fuck you silly like a worthless little slut, wouldn't you?"

"Ye-yeah, I wo-uld!" At this point, it didn't matter what he asked, Charlie would've agreed to it, so long as he kept his foot pinned under her.

"Do you like being played with, being treated like a little toy?"

"Y-yeah, play with-with your toy.” This, Charlie could do, playing into his ego, mindlessly repeating his words back to him so that would keep him going.

“You're not my toy, you're my little sex kitten.”

The sound Charlie let out was an unattractive mix of a mewl and a moan, a primal grunting that made her slap a hand over her mouth, to cover up the egregious noise.

Harry's hand, which had been softly petting her head, grew tight in her hair, giving it a tug in warning. “Oh no you don't. I want to hear all your pathetic little sounds.” Ever so slightly, he raised his foot, shifting it underneath her, making her rock to his rhythm.

Charlie felt like she was losing control of herself. She was used to restraining herself during sex, performing the same girlish routine and pitching her voice like how all the porn stars did. It was lousy but it got the job done, that's what Charlie figured sex was. Now, she could feel sweat pebbling on her lower back as she continued to chase after her own orgasm, groaning with animalistic abandon. With other guys, she would constantly worry about the details, pulling the right faces, arching her back at just the perfect moment. But Harry encouraged her feral behavior, rewarding her for it with sloppy sips of Budweiser.

Pouring her another drink, he said, “There you go, kitten, drink up. Wouldn't want you to make another mess. You didn't even clean up the first one.” To demonstrate, he pinched at her nipple, the old sticky beer stain melding them together. Charlie squeaked when he peeled his finger off, that tingle of pain dissolving into pleasurable ripples that surged throughout her body.

“Oh, I'm close, oh fu-uck.” Her orgasm crept up without warning, brewing low and heavy, the pressure becoming unbearable.

“Aw, is my pretty kitty going to ruin herself on my shoe?”

“Yeah, yeah, oh fuck yeah!” As she rubbed her face into his leg, Charlie couldn't stop herself from biting down on the denim, teething at his pants while whimpering like a dog. It was like she was possessed.

With a violent shudder, Charlie's scream was absorbed into Harry's jeans as she came undone. Her hips jerked back and forth, rubbing her clit over the seam, coaxing the full orgasm out. Panting through her nose, her groans softened into soft, mewling whines. Her senses gradually returned, the first being the dull taste of denim. When she pulled away, there was a wet spot where she had drooled on his pants. Underneath her, Harry's shoe was now slippery with her arousal, and when he moved it beneath her, Charlie slid off, slumping into a breathless heap on the floor.

Harry tucked a finger under her chin, murmuring, “Here, take another sip.” This time he brought the bottle to her lips, the glass rim cool compared to her burning skin. The sweat from her upper lip mixed with the beer, adding a salty twist to the drink. “Careful, not too fast. That's good, kitty.”

After he removed the bottle, Charlie blinked her eyes open, finally returning back to some version of herself. She was still panting, the effects of the orgasm lingering in the very edges of her body. At the slightest movement, her whole body seized up with residual aftershocks, everything felt connected, every motion rigged to set off another. When she went to glance up at Harry, Charlie had to stop when she saw it. The left shoe was saturated in her juices, creamy streaks of her arousal painted across the leather. It didn't look like the same shoe anymore, no longer matching with its twin.

Clicking his tongue, Harry shook his head disapprovingly despite the smirk widening across his face. “Look at the mess you made, kitten. Such a naughty, little thing, ruining my expensive shoes.” He sounded almost joyous, delighting in the ravaged shoe. Lifting his gaze to meet Charlie’s, he cocked his head to the side. “Did you tucker yourself out humping my shoe?” he cooed, his thumb petting along her cheek.

Charlie nuzzled into his touch, sighing as she nodded.

“Does kitty need a break before she lets me fuck her?”

Her eyes shot open, revitalized with a sudden burst of energy. “No, no, I’m ready but um… but I don’t…” Charlie didn’t bring any condoms on her trip, regretting not grabbing one of those safe sex pamphlets that were given out for free at the bookstore. She was on the pill, but it wasn’t just a baby she was trying to avoid. ”Do you have a um…”

“Yeah, don’t worry, kitty. I’ll keep you safe.” Harry pressed his lips to hers, reassuring her with soft pecks. Pulling back, his voice was low and husky, dipping back into his domineering role, as he ordered, “Now get on the bed, and spread your legs.”

The way he could shift from soft and caring into demanding and sexy was disorientating but Charlie followed his instructions dutifully, wanting to be good for him. After scrambling across the mattress, she leaned back against the headboard, pulling her knees up so she laid completely exposed to him.

Harry stood up as Charlie got comfortable in her spot, adjusting the pillows behind her. Reaching up, he pulled his sweater over his head, carelessly tossing the shirt across the room, leaving him in just his white button up. Whereas Charlie refused to put on a show, Harry savored the performance, taking his time to undo each individual button. As the shirt opened, Charlie could make out dark etchings on his body, a hidden collection of tattoos that had both her jaw and her legs falling open. Halfway through, he stopped, the wings of a large butterfly inked into his belly just peeking out, and he lowered his hands to unbuckling his belt. Watching his large hands delicately yet deftly work the buckle made Charlie’s pussy flutter, biting her lip as she imagined him touching her that intricately. Harry unzipped his pants, releasing a quiet yet relieved sigh. Undoing the rest of his shirt, he revealed even more artwork on his arms, practically covered in black ink.

Charlie wasn’t sure where to look, overwhelmed with his beauty. Rounded pecs that she wanted to rest her head upon, defined arms that didn’t bulge with too many muscles, he somehow looked like the perfect balance between soft and firm, toned yet plush. There was no thought going on in her head as her fingers drifted down her body, barely registering when she started to rub at her clit.

“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself a little too much, huh kitten?” Delirious with desire, all Charlie could do was nod her head. With an endeared scoff, Harry pulled out his wallet, plucking out a foil packet and flinging the silver square at her. “Here, if you need something to keep you occupied, play with that.”

Picking up the condom from where it landed on her chest, she played with the crimped edges, not wanting to take her eyes off of him, especially when his hands dipped into his pants, pushing both his jeans and his underwear down in one quick motion.

When Harry stood back up to his full height, toeing off his shoes as he stepped out of his clothes, Charlie’s eyesight was immediately drawn to his cock. It wavered in the air, fighting with gravity as it raised up, stretching towards the two laurel branches tattooed at his hips. Her head toppled to the side as she stared at it. The tip was burned red, aching and leaking a little. Harry stroked himself, gathering the come to spread over himself, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he squeezed. Glancing up at her through his eyelashes, Harry smirked at the dumb look on Charlie’s face, mesmerized by his large member. “Are you gonna stare at it all night, kitten?”

His mocking tone broke through her dick-induced haze, dragging her eyes up to meet his. With a surge of confidence, Charlie bit down on the foil wrapper, crawling across the bed until she was up close with his crotch. Tearing the condom open with her teeth, she rolled the rubber down his shaft. She was surprised at how warm his cock was in her grasp, her grip fluctuating between light and rough, touching him experimentally. Even as she held it, she couldn’t believe it was real, couldn’t fathom the idea that he was going to fit it inside of her. In some twisted part of her brain, Charlie thought the best way to test that would be to see if it would fit in her mouth. Experimentally, she stuck out her tongue and lapped at the tip, the rubber sliding across. Harry didn’t stop her, which gave Charlie all the permission she needed to wrap her lips around him, suckling on his head.

Harry groaned above her, his stomach tightening as her head bobbed. He indulged her, let her lather him in her saliva. “Greedy little thing, just needed to have my cock in your mouth, huh?”

Moaning around him, Charlie took him in deeper. She could feel his hand resting on top of her, the little pressure he applied pushing her down further, taking more of him in, until his dick tickled at the back of her throat.

“Okay, okay,” Harry said, twisting his hand in her hair to pull her off of him. “You had your fun, now it’s my turn.” Bending down, he went in like he was going to kiss her, but at the last second, he flattened his tongue, dragging the wet muscle up her face. “Just wanted a taste,” he whispered before kissing her for real. “On your knees, kitten.”

Rolling over onto her knees, Charlie propped herself up, arching her back like she’s used to. In her experience, most one night stands preferred this position. The lack of intimacy was the point, staring off into space as someone pounded into her from behind, her partner staring at her jiggling ass the whole time. It was also easier to fake it this way, maintaining a bored expression on her face while she moaned obscenely. And then as soon as he left, she’d flop back onto the bed and let her rabbit finish the job.

She’s looking for it now, trying to find where Harry had thrown the purple toy when she felt wet pressure applied to her clit. The touch was so surprising to her, she hadn’t noticed when Harry had wrapped his arm around her hip, his middle finger rubbing circles over her sore bud. Her body reacted instinctively, pushing back, rocking her pussy towards him, and her elbows shook underneath her, threatening to give out. Then two of his fingers shoved into her pussy, scissoring them through her muscles. That’s when her face slumped into the bed, her back curving even more.

“Jesus, you’re practically presenting yourself, kitten. Like the good little slut I knew you were.”

Charlie’s moans were muffled by the bed spread. This attention on her was unusual. She wasn’t used to her clit aching from exertion, nor was she used to being called degrading names in bed, yet it only made her more aroused. Another orgasm was already twisting inside of her, his fingers running over this one spot again and again that made her pussy quiver.

Extracting his fingers, she heard him moan as he loudly suckled on them, her cunt clenching at the sound. Then Harry grabbed himself, running his tip through her lips. “Ready?”

Knowing that he expected a verbal response, Charlie lifted her head, nodding wildly. “Yes, yes, please fuck me,” she pleaded, her voice pitchy and whiny.

Pressing into her, his cock split her open. Charlie could feel her body tense up at the intrusion, closing her eyes and whimpering at the stretch.

Harry hissed as her cunt clamped around him. “Easy, kitten,” he soothed, his fingers rubbing circles over her clit, making her loosen up. “That’s it,” he said as his cock dipped further in, his sigh twinged with a growl.

The stretch of her pussy sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure, the two commingling into a spine-tingling lust hysteria. Charlie started to push herself back, taking him in deeper. The hurt fed into her desire, chasing after both. “Ooo, Harry, oh fuck,” she whined. “It-it-you just mhm- oh it feels…” Charlie wanted to tell him how good it felt, but she couldn't find the words, couldn't concentrate long enough to form a complete sentence. It's not until he bottomed out, slipping in fully, his hips bouncing off her ass, his balls slapping against her clit, that she blurted out, “You're so big.”

His laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “Yeah? So big and so deep inside you.” To prove his point, he gave a few shallow thrusts, barely moving his hips, just punctuating the same spot over and over. “Taking it so well, just like I knew you would. Fuck, your cunt feels good.” Harry leaned back enough to watch his dick disappear inside of her, the yellow condom coated in Charlie’s arousal. “Look at the mess you’re making, kitty. Such a messy little thing you are.” Harry’s dick glided through her easily as her pussy slicked over him, his thrusts becoming faster and rougher.

The bed creaked with their movement, the headboard banged against the wall, matching their rhythm, but all Charlie could hear was the pants and grunts Harry made as he pounded into her. His balls clapped against her pussy, the wet slapping punctuating each thrust. One of his hands groped her ass, his nails puncturing into the flesh. Charlie’s senses had dulled themselves until all they could focus on was Harry. His cock pulsing through her cunt, his musky vanilla cologne, his sweat dripping onto her back, his cigarette-tinted breath, his degrading name calling, it consumed every bit of her. As her climax mounted, she felt she couldn’t claim it as hers. Her orgasm belonged to Harry, he was in control of it.

“Oh, Harry, I’m-I’m close, oh fuck I’m c-close.”

“I know, kitten, can feel you squeezing me,” Harry groaned, leaning over her to grab at her tits, rolling her sticky nipple in his pinched fingers. “C’mon dirty girl, do what you do best, and make a fucking mess already.”

Charlie cried out as she came, her pussy pulsing while Harry kept pumping into her. Her toes curled, her nails dug into the bedding, and her body tensed up before it all came crumbling down, flowing through her in one great release. She felt her pussy drool, leaking out excess juices, something she had never experienced before.

“Fuck, kitten, fuck, turn over,” Harry ordered her, pulling out of her and slapping her ass to get her to move quickly. It was more of an awkward tumble, collapsing onto the bed and forcing herself over onto her back, and then Charlie was greeted with a glorious sight. Harry had ripped the condom off, wetting his hand with his tongue before he began furiously stroking himself. “Come closer,” he begged through clenched teeth. Scooting closer, she watched as he worked himself over. Sweat beaded at his forehead, his teeth bit into his lower lip, and his stomach seized up with each breath, making the butterfly flutter. Tossing his head back, his breathing stuttered before he groaned, his cock spurting out ropes of come over Charlie’s chest. Harry kept stroking, forcing out all that he could, letting it drip over Charlie’s body. “Fuck… fuck, okay.” Running a hand through his hair, Harry tried to get his breath to settle. Shaking his head, his lips trilling in exhaustion, Harry finally looked down at Charlie, her body painted with his jizz. “I’ll uh… I’ll get you something for that.” Clearing his throat, he walked over to the bathroom vanity, turning on the faucet.

Reality started to set in, now that the sexual fog dissipated. Had that all just really happened? Any doubt in her mind was assuaged by the semen on her breasts, the air conditioning turning it chilly against her skin. Charlie tried to run through everything that had just occurred, piecing back everything that had happened. Grinding on his shoe, admiring his little strip tease, and squirting? She didn’t even know she could do that!

A wet thump next to her head broke her out of her thoughts. Harry had thrown a damp wash cloth at her, just missing hitting her in the face. Still naked, he walked across her room like he had paid for it, bending over to pick up his jacket, not giving a care that he was exposing his asshole to Charlie, who looked away a moment too late. He fished out his cigarettes and lighter, grabbing the ashtray as well, bringing everything back over to the bed.

Charlie wiped away Harry’s come, rubbing away the sticky beer residue as well, before tossing the dirty cloth back over towards the bathroom. Harry sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, placing the ashtray between them, acting as a barrier between them. Lighting up one of his cigs, he passed it to her. She mumbled a thank you, and he only grunted in return, preparing another for himself.

Silence fell over the room. Neither of them knew what to say, too afraid to interrupt this temporary peace between them. Compliments would’ve felt patronizing, and insults wouldn’t have landed as harshly. So, they sat there, naked, side-by-side, breathing in the same smoky air. For a few moments, it was almost nice.

Until Charlie asked the question that had been nagging at the back of her head. “What made you show up?” Harry raised a brow at her, the tip of the cigarette burning red as he inhaled. Charlie rambled on to fill the empty space. “I mean, it took you two hours to figure out whether you wanted to come over or not, what made you decide?”

Blowing out the smoke, he shrugged, his eyes drifting away from her. “I figured I’d never see you again…”

She didn’t know what kind of answer she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t an honest confession like tha-

“And you were a guarantee lay, I couldn’t pass that up.”

Yeah, that made more sense.

“Gee, thanks,” she deadpanned. Charlie stood up then, putting some distance between them. Crossing an arm across her chest, she pressed him as she breathed out her puff of smoke, “What does that mean though, you figured you wouldn’t see me?”

Harry looked at her like it was the most obvious answer. “It’s not like you’re going to publish another book.”

“What?!” Charlie shrieked, accidentally inhaling too much smoke and choking on it, coughing roughly. Pounding a fist against her chest, she hacked up the rest of the smoke, scowling at him with red rimmed eyes, repeating herself in a husky voice. “What?”

“Look, you tried and you failed. Might as well quit while you’re ahead.” He said it so casually, so dismissively, as if he wasn’t telling her to just give up on her dreams.

“Jesus Christ,” she scoffed, running a hand over her face. “Y’know, your opinion is not the only one that fucking matters.”

“No, but at least people actually read the things I write.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Oh, please like people actually pay two fucking dollars just to read your shitty reviews.”

“Most people can afford the two fucking dollars.” He glared at her, wagging his finger in her direction as he added on, “And it’s not just my opinion, okay, none of the major publishers liked your work either. You had to go to some tiny little publishing house in bumfuck Idaho that’s probably gonna close down in a year.”

Ignoring his ranting, Charlie stormed over to the bathroom, grabbing the robe that she had hung back up on the wall, covering up her body. If he was going to be an insulting prick, then he didn’t get to see her naked anymore.

“Look, no one can fault you for trying,” Harry said, attempting to soothe his harsh words, trying to make her see his point of view. “But you can’t always make your dreams come tr-” He stopped when his stupid jacket whacked him in the face. Ripping it away, he shouted at her, “What the hell?!”

“Get out!”

Raising his brows, Harry stared agape. “Are you serious?”

Charlie bent over to grab his sweater, throwing it as well. “Yes, I’m serious! I want you to fucking leave!”

Harry scrambled to get his pants on while trying to avoid being hit with any more clothing items, his flaccid penis flopping around as he hopped into his jeans sans underwear. “Alright, alright, bugger, chill out!”

“Don’t tell me to chill out, just get the fuck out of here!” Stomping around the room, she started tossing all his things into a pile, trying to expedite his departure.

Her neighbor started beating against their shared wall, clearly annoyed.

“You’re fucking mental!” he grumbled as he looped his belt around his jeans.

“Y’know, it makes sense why you’ve got such a big dick, it learned from watching you!”

“Thank you. You do realize you just gave me a compliment, right? Or have all those chemicals melted your brain cells!” They were standing so closely, they kept accidentally touching, his hand whacking into her arm, her chest brushing up against his.

The knocking grew louder and more insistent as their voices raised.

“You’re just a pig-headed, ass-clown elitist who pretends like he’s so fucking smart!”

“Oh that’s rich coming from a backwater, trailer trash bitch like you!”

“I bet you don’t have a single original idea floating in that fat head of yours!”

“And your ideas are just the same hackneyed bullshit as everyone else!”

“Shut up!” came a muffled shout from beyond the wall.

“You shut up!” they shouted at the offending wall in unison.

Still shirtless, Harry gathered up the rest of his clothes in his arms. “I’m out of here.”

“Good!” she smiled at him, throwing her arms out to the side. “Run away, like the coward you are!”

As he opened up the door, he accosted her with a hard glare. “You’re never going to be a successful author,” he vowed, slamming the door behind him.

Charlie raced over to the door, tearing it open and yelling after his retreating figure, “And you’ll never be an author, period!” Then she slammed the door shut again, collapsing to the ground in a frustrated, tearful heap.

She sat there seething, willing herself not to cry. That narcissistic asshole was not worth crying over. As much as his words stung, what hurt the most was that awful nagging thought that she allowed this to happen. Charlie had invited him over, had let him into her room, had let him fuck her. She had opened up to him, exposed some of her vulnerabilities, then acted shocked when he turned around and stabbed her in the back. Even before they had been intimate, he had been nothing but cruel to her and she rewarded him for it. How fucked was that?

Standing up on wobbly legs, she trudged over to her bag, rummaging through her shit until she found her notebook. Flipping through, she found her pen, tucked next to a brand new page. Biting off the cap, she sniffled as she sat down on the floor started writing.

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In the summer of 1987, Charlie is promoting her debut novel, traveling across America in her beat up car, trying to make a single sale. Notorious book critic, Harry Styles, has just published his negative review of her book and Charlie is starting to feel disillusioned with her dreams. Emotions run high when Harry shows up at her signing, grilling her about the plot holes in her story, and Charlie refuses to let him have the last word.

Exposition - coming soon...