"This is absolute bullshit." Mike throws his glass beer bottle to the ground. Foaming alcohol spills across the concrete of the green room backstage. His attempt to assert himself as the alpha male fails, the evidence of which is shown in his inability to break the bottle.

Harry slightly shows his teeth behind his reddened lips. He thinks of nothing more than his upcoming performance. Mike's temper tantrum is a mood Harry's already very familiar with, especially considering he's the fourth drummer they've been through in a year.

Goldie, feeling awkward and out of place, dives to her knees and quietly tries to mop up the beer with paper towels. All the while Mike watches, smirking at the journalist's feeble attempt to clean his mess.

"Get up, love. That's not your job. I'll handle this." Harry picks her up off the floor and moves her behind him as he steps closer to his delinquent bandmate. He puffs his chest out, broad, confident and ready to win the war. "What have you written, Mikey boy? You're nothing but a drummer for hire. You like to think that if your name was on the marquee that people would come, don't you? No one knows who you are though."

"I've toured with Crosby, Stills & Nash. Mott the Hoople." Mike grabs another beer from the cooler, completely unaware of what he's up against, and sits on a fold-out chair at the side of the room.

"For what? One show? You were nothing more than a figure in the shadows at the back of the stage. A backup." Harry crouches in front of Mike, the neck of his beer between his index and middle fingers, and takes an arrogant sip. "He's out after this show, Grimmy. And I know because of his contract he has to play. We'll find another on the road." Harry orders, maintaining eye contact with Mike a few seconds before he stands to look at their manager. Mike falls silent in response and gulps down his beer, bringing a smirk to Harry's face.

She watches as Harry walks back toward the rest of the band. They all try and ignore the events that just took place. Harry, Grimshaw, Mitch, Jonesy and Matt all grew up together. Their missing piece had always been the drummer. Their history and deep-rooted friendship always gave them the gift of looking past Harry's cocky behavior. They knew the real him and how deep down he was an artist, looking to accomplish nothing but success for himself and his best friends. Every selection they made for a replacement drummer never quite fit. Mike lay as testimony to that known fact.

"Are you ready, boys?" Harry stretches his long arms, bringing in Grimshaw, Mitch, Jonesy and Matt for their pre-show ritual. A quick acapella version of the intro to "Paperback Writer" by The Beatles. "Paperback writer!" His smooth voice slowly moves across the ears of everyone in the room like fog on a winter morning. The concert hasn't even begun and Goldie's already entranced by his innate musical talents.

Each member follows suit, chiming in with perfect harmony and melody to complement Harry's bass. Missing her dad and Andrew, her face can't help but shed a smile. The boys fill the small space with a sense of family and comfort. A sense she misses dearly, yet already feels apart of among this group of strangers. Harry looks at her deeply. It's like he can practically see her soul intertwine with his and his best mates' amid the song that holds such a deep history to the original members of The Orphans.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen of San Francisco, we are so pleased that you are all here to join us on this journey tonight." Harry takes his place, front and center of the stage. The room is dark, save one spotlight on Harry's body. Matt's simple bass chord loops over and over, mocking Goldie's heavy heartbeat. Harry puts his arms out on either side of his body as though it's his own musical crucifixion, and continues. "It is our job to entertain you beautiful people. Enjoy."

The show plays on and the crowd goes wild. Beads of sweat cascade down Harry's face and chest as he uses every ounce of his energy to give the audience the performance they've come to see. Traces of black ink and peach skin soak through his thin, unbuttoned, white collared shirt, which is handsomely tucked into his black embroidered bell bottoms.

She loses herself in the strobe lights, his movements erratic and fast like a flip book she never wants to end. The band's seamless and immediate transitions from song to song make her and the rest of the viewers feel lost in the beautifully orchestrated notes. The Orphans give no opportunity for anyone to catch their breath or emotions.

A flash of water strikes her face and she looks up to find Harry, an icy water bottle in hand. He giggles at her surprised expression. He takes a sip and gives his infamous eyebrow wiggle as if to signal to her "Watch this."

She narrows her gaze at Harry's every move. He slyly turns to Mike, who's given no more than 50 percent of his effort for this show. Not that it mattered anyways. The rest of the group's high energy made up for his lack of gumption.

Without hesitation, Harry unleashes all the liquid in his mouth and onto Mike's face, temporarily disrupting the percussion of the song.

"Give it up for Mikey boy!" Harry points to his disgruntled drummer and the crowd laughs. Mike abruptly stands, throws his sticks in Harry's direction and walks off the stage. His symbol crashes to the ground, yet the band continues to play as true performers do. "Don't laugh, don't laugh! He's going through a bad break up! We all know those are hard! Everyone on the count of three, say 'BYE, MIKE!' One, two, three-"

Every audience member, even Goldie, follows Harry's instruction blindly. "BYE, MIKE!!!"

* * *

Mitch passes her a luke-warm beer in a red solo cup that may or may not have already been used. "Your libations, Miss Goldie."

"Thank you, good sir!" Dehydrated from the hours she spent watching the concert, she chugs the beer with minimal reaction from her gag reflexes. She's surprised by how easily she's able to drink down the beer but given the amount of adrenaline flowing through her veins, it makes perfect sense. "Who's room is this?"

"Grimmy's. He usually does some sort of after party for everyone. He's the cleanest of the group and any mess he doesn't get around to picking up, Pig and Stinky Blob will handle." Mitch points to one small black pug and one medium-sized white bull terrier scrounging the ground for dropped treats. She makes a mental note to befriend both the creatures as soon as they aren't busy devouring scraps of nachos and chicken wings.

"How long has Grimmy been your manager?" She attempts an interview in a semi-drunken stupor.

"Aw you aren't trying to do this now are you? Relax!" Matt tosses a yellow ping pong ball in front of his face and attempts to catch it, but immediately drops it. "It's the first show you've joined us for!" He exclaims, chasing down the ball. "Come. Be my beer pong partner. It can be me and you versus Mitch and Grimmy."

She's never really played the game but has seen her dad play before at guys' nights he hosted at their place. She nods her head hesitantly and stands at the long table in the center of the room, the red cups in pyramid form in front of her, each one filled with a few drinks of beer.

Harry observes from the other side of the room. She laughs. She smiles. She grabs Matt's arm. Matt attempts to "coach" her, showing her the perfect throwing form by standing behind her and grasping her wrist and subtly places his other hand upon her hip.

With the toe of his chelsea boot, Harry kicks over the nearby trash can and leans down to call Grimshaw's dogs. This is his automatic reaction. All he can think about is figuring out a method to interrupt the moment between Matt and Goldie taking place across the room.

"I think I got it! Let's play!" Goldie says, finally relaxed.

"Ah, Grimmy, my guy. Pig and Blob got into some shit. You better go handle that." Harry joins from the sidelines.

"Those little turds!" Grimshaw rolls his eyes and runs to the kitchen to handle the situation.

"I can take his place." Harry stands beside Mitch, a picture perfect grin across his face, the sight of which causes Goldie's body to tense up again.

15 or so minutes pass and the game is neck and neck. One cup to one cup. Only three beers in and Goldie is the most drunk her 18-year-old self has ever been. The room starts to spin and the cups that lie only a couple feet in front of her start to blur. She won't let that stop her from winning the game.

"Today, Goldie Locks!" Harry yells, miming an over-exaggerated yawn.

"You can't rush perfection, Mr. Styles." She smirks, lining up her aim and sinking a perfect shot.

"Finally, I win a game against Harry!" Matt cheers.

"Big whoop. She finally made a decent shot." Harry grabs the ball out of the final cup and quickly drinks every last drop. "Besides, I get a chance to top it." He closes his left eye and sticks his tongue out of the side of his closed mouth.

"Don't concentrate too hard there, Harry. You might hurt yourself." Goldie stuns herself with her comeback. Harry's eyes widen from the peculiar blonde's ability to break his concentration. Going back to aiming, Harry swiftly throws his ball into the final cup. It spins around the rim and Goldie gracefully bows down and blows the ping pong ball out and onto the damp table.

"That's my girl!" Matt wraps his arms around her from behind, spinning her around in circles.

Harry places his knuckles down on the beer pong table, a serious look on his face as he realizes he may have met his match. In beer pong that is. "I like the way you blow, Goldie Locks."

Her face reddens. The undertones of his comment are quite obvious, draining her of her quick wit. She watches as Harry takes a spare cup from the table and walks to the keg in the kitchenette area of Grimshaw's suite. Every time she feels she can roll with Harry's punches, he catches her off guard and leaves her to fight against her inner monologue.

"I'll go get you another." Matt brushes the underside of her chin with the crook of his index finger and joins Harry.

"Hey, what's up. I'm Jonesy." The long haired band member re-introduces himself. Insanely long dark brown hair spills out of his backwards newspaper boy hat.

"Um... I know. We met, remember?" She laughs.

Jonesy's eyes squint to thin lines as he studies her face. "You sure?" he asks, his burnt out voice barely audible.

"Jonesy... we had a full conversation about Led Zeppelin earlier today before the show."

"That's cool, man. Led Zeppelin is the best." Jonesy brings a tightly rolled joint out from behind his ear and holds it in front of her face. Even with his response, she's fairly certain he doesn't actually remember her. "We're about to do a smoke circle over there. Come on."

She's unsure what a "smoke circle" is but uses context clues to figure it out. Most of the party has cleared out by now. The circle is made up of Matt, Jonesy, Mitch, Grimshaw and his two passed out dogs. She could tell by the way they sit cross-legged, knee-to-knee, that this is another ritual to them. She situates herself between Matt and Mitch, a small space between her and her former beer pong partner.

A small flame sparks in front of Jonesy's face as he delicately lights the joint sitting between his pursed lips. He inhales deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs a few seconds before letting it out and passing to Matt. Her eardrums thump, much like they did earlier at the concert, but for a different reason. This was caused by nerves.

She looks over to the kitchen. Harry's still there, a slender female, donning a crocheted halter top and high-waisted jeans, talks to him. She spits drivel about how The Orphans have been life changing to her and she wants nothing more than to be Harry's muse. He doesn't listen though. Instead, he eyes the strange journalist.

Disregarding the blabbering groupie, his lanky, bell-bottom clad legs swing over the kitchenette bar. His motions are effortless. Deliberate. Knocking over empty bottles and cups without care.

"Don't mind if I do," Harry says, sitting between Matt and Goldie. He spreads his long legs in a casual position to separate his bandmate and "biggest fan" to the best of his capabilities. "Don't hog it, Matt."

Matt reluctantly passes the joint to the band's frontman, aware of what is happening. All the other members of the circle watch as a plan forms in Harry's mind.

"I'd like to share this hit with Ophelia here." He shifts his body to face Goldie head on and isolates Matt and the rest of the circle from this moment. "I'm going to take a hit and then exhale it into your mouth."

"Wait, what?" She inquires. His directions are explicit and obvious but she feels it's necessary to ask. It doesn't feel real.

"It's called a shotgun kiss. You've never smoked before, right?" Harry leans in closer to her face, the familiar smell of beer and cigarette smoke on his breath.

"N- n- no... I haven't."

"Well, this will be easier for you to handle. Less intense. Trust me?" Harry's perfect teeth creep their way out from behind his pink pout. In slow motion, he places the joint in his mouth.

He cradles the back of her head with his hand, his fingers softly scratch her scalp. Slowly closing her eyes, she can feel the cool metal of his rings as she instinctively parts her lips and allows the puff of white smoke to make its way down her throat and into her lungs. In this moment, she feels as though she's breathing him in.

She thinks to herself as the hot smoke enters her mouth - "Is he going to kiss me?"

Almost as if he can read her mind, the left corner of his mouth perks up to form a smirk, forming a deep dimple. He reaches over her relaxed body and hands the joint to Mitch. He glances at her lips and back to her eyes before using his now empty hand to cup her cheek and rub soothing circles with his calloused thumb.

"Exhale," he softly whispers into her mouth. He's surprised by her poise. No cough. No heavy breathing. Just a drawn out, smooth release of smoke. "How was that?"

"Can we do that again?"