Vibrant reds. Dark greens. Muddied browns. Striking blues. Having never been high or drunk before, the dramatic combination of the two makes her surroundings a lot to take in. The colors are beautiful and overwhelming.

She rubs her lips. They're numb. Why are they numb? She runs her fingers across the top of her face. Her eyelids are heavy. They must be closed. Everyone is looking at her. Judging her for being unable to keep her eyes open and alert. Coldness has taken over her body, yet she's sweating what feels like profusely. It's a strange feeling to be relaxed and tense all at once.

"You okay, Goldie?" A muffled voice says from beside her. But she doesn't answer.

"Ground yourself. Be at peace," she unwillingly says aloud while unlacing her black Converse. The intimate moment brings the rest of the room on the edge of worry. All the while her skin is crawling. The only sensation she wants to feel is coarseness of the Venice Beach sand against the arch of her feet and between her toes. That's the ticket. That's what will save her from this discomfort.

"I don't think Goldie is feelin' too hot," Matt notes, running a towel under the faucet. He walks over to the damsel in distress and places the cold cloth on her. First on her forehead. And then on her clavicle. She fights it at first, swatting his caring hands. Then she accepts it. She lets him cool her brow. Let's the cool water drip down her chest.

"Queen of Light.... Took her bow... And then she turned to go..." she mumbles like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.

"What the fuck is she saying?" Mitch hunches on the other side of her, cupping his ear and turned to her mouth to hopefully translate her words.

"The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom.. And walked the night alone," she continues.

"FUCK YEAH! Zeppelin, man. She's radical. Fuckin' Zeppelin, man. This chick's singing 'The Battle of fuckin' Evermore.'" Jonesy, with his burnt out voice and bloodshot eyes, squats down in front of her. All three guys huddle around. They look like three young boys who've just discovered the corpse of a small animal while on a camping trip. Exploring. Learning. They might as well have poked her with a found stick to see if she'll move. "This broad is trippin', dude. He shouldn't have shotgunned Birdie. She's a nice girl. This isn't good, guys."

"Jonesy, her name is Goldie. And you know Harry's hard to convince. Alright, cutie pie. On three we're gonna lift you. One, two, THREE!" Mitch locks his right arm around her left while Matt locks his left around her right. They help her to her feet, intent on getting her to her room.

"Don't hit her head, man. You might give her a concussion. I read about that in biology class. That shit's no joke," Jonesy commentates while needlessly carrying her feet.

Her limp limbs make it near impossible for them to lift her, let alone escort her hundred-plus-pound body to her room down the hallway. The boys joke the entire journey. How could someone so petite be so hard to manage?

Blonde hair scatters across the scratchy hotel pillow as they finally lay her down for the night.

"Where's Harry?" she begs, unaware that Matt and Jonesy have already retired to their rooms. Mitch lays lifeless and tired in his full-sized bed beside her. "Where are my shoes? Where am I?"

"Everyone's sleeping, Goldie," Mitch grins through the dark room. "Your shoes are at the door. And you're going to wake up tomorrow and you'll know where you're at. Don't worry, okay? Just close your eyes. I'll be right here if you need anything. I put a glass of water on the nightstand."

"You're so nice," she drunkenly slurs. "You're just like Andrew and my dad. Can I braid your hair?"

Mitch rolls his eyes and giggles at her incoherent request. "If you go to sleep, you can braid my hair in the morning."

"You-" she hiccups and burps, interrupting her phrase, "Sorry. You promise?"

"Promise. Now go to sleep, killer."

Water. Water is everywhere. Engulfing her body. She grasps her arms, hugging herself below sea level, as though that will help her get to the free oxygen above. Frantically moving her legs in a leap-frog motion, she makes her way to the surface. No matter how hard she tries, the current pushes her down, lower and lower. She accepts it. And for a moment, she's at peace.

Allowing her body to break its way through the waves, she finally breathes in a gasp of open air. The success is short lived though. Coming straight towards her is a large ship, with towering masts and pirate sails. A tall, familiar-looking man, stands at the front.

She wails and waves her arms for assistance, but he looks straight ahead, unaware of the floundering victim below.

"Help!" she musters enough energy to say right before being taken back under. A flash of salt water hits her face, infiltrating her nostrils, and she suddenly awakes.

Coughing and chest heaving, desperate for life, she realizes it was all just a terrible nightmare. Mitch remains stationary and snoring loudly. It's the middle of the night now. She has no recollection of the evening leading up to this moment. All she knows is she is warm and exasperated by her subconscious mind. Much like how she felt while in slumber, all she wants is fresh air.

"Thank GOD," she says to herself, grabbing the glass of water on the nightstand and chugging its contents. She's desperate. A stranded drifter in the middle of the desert who's finally made their way to an oasis.

She presses her feet against the cold shag carpet. Face red with with heat and anxiety, she glances to the glass balcony door at the side of their room. Tall birch trees blow in the wind, soaking in the cold moonlight. Oh, how she wants to be one of those birch trees. Natural and graceful. The opposite of how she is in reality, especially in this moment.

Pounding her stems against the ground, she crawls her way to the sliding glass doorway. Her hair, like long thin branches, sway back and forth, longing to be outside with the environment outside.

"Come on. You got this." She gives herself a pep talk while on hands and knees, trying to open the door. She maneuvers her body exaggeratingly, both hands on the latch, right to left, using her body weight to shift the door open. "Sweet victory," she whispers as a breeze hits her face through the small crack.

The exposed wood of the balcony poses an obstacle but she pays that no matter. She drags her knees and naked palms of her hands across the ground. Though the rough material damages her delicate skin, she soldiers through. Birch tree. All she can think about is being like a birch tree.

Rustling leaves and hardy branches blowing in the summer night breeze overtake her senses. Pacific Ocean waves crash in the distance.

"Mmm, Harry," a female voice moans nearby. The sound pauses Goldie in her tracks like a deer in headlights.

"You like that?" a familiar deep British voice responds.

"Am I your muse?" the girl asks. Moaning takes over the silence.

Goldie knows what's happening. She slowly lifts her head and turns it to the right. If she moves too suddenly, she'll be seen.

Her blue eyes lock on his green irises. The girl earlier from the party is straddling Harry's lap in a cheap white plastic chair. He's already looking at Goldie.

"Mmhmm," he whines, looking directly into Goldie's frightened stare. "You're my muse, Goldie."

"Brittany! I'm Brittany!" the girl responds.

Goldie's heart stops. What does he mean? Can he see her through the bushes separating the shared balcony? Sparing no chance of being caught, she comically lays flat on the ground. She remembers researching dinosaurs. Become one with your surroundings and don't make a sound. A predator's vision is based off movement. This is the kind of solution you come up with when you're still high.

Harry scoffs at the sight of the journalist, her palms and left cheek flat against the balcony floor.

"You're so fucking adorable," he laughs, grabbing the side of Brittany's hair. He pulls the groupie's head to the right, eliminating any chance of her finding the audience next door. Harry licks up her neck, hooking his arms around her shoulders, slamming her into him even harder than before. He can't seem to break eye contact with Goldie though, which is indefinitely the most surprising factor to both parties involved in the exchange.

The short-lived experience reminds Goldie of when Harry first suggested giving her a shotgun kiss. She can feel a burn on her lips. Smoke in her throat. All exchanged from his body. The moment is quick, but feels like an eternity.

"You got this, girl," Goldie whispers to herself, shivering in fear from what she's witnessing and how she feels. "You are a birch tree. You are one with nature. Exit stage left." She crawls backwards and into her hotel room. Laying her back flat on the ground, she takes in a deep breath. "I need a cigarette."

* * *

"B... five," she says, punching in the combination to the vending machine, an unlit cigarette hanging out of her dry lips. The Snickers starts to drop but halts 99% of the way through.

"I think I can help with that." A fist pounds on the plexiglass of the appliance. Goldie watches as the candybar drops to the bottom in slow motion. "I can help you with that cigarette too."

He flips open his Zippo lighter, a four-leaf clover engraved on the slide, and holds it towards her face. The motion is dramatic, like a scene from a movie. The clink of the lighter's cap against the metal of the body pulls her back to reality. She struggles with her own feelings. Her senses.

"I'm fine." She dodges his advances and bends down to grab her much awaited snack from the machine. She never wanted to light the cigarette. She wanted nothing more than feeling the dry fibers cling to the inner moisture of her mouth. "I'm saving this for when I get back in the room. Y'know... trying to cut back." It was all a lie. She's never even started smoking. She just doesn't know how to explain that to the bad boy in front of her.

"Playing coy, I see." Harry places his arms on either side of her, pressing her back against the vending machine. His eyes blaze into hers. "You like coming to all my shows, huh? Did you enjoy the VIP performance tonight?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm nothing but a birch tree." Her dilated black pupils stare off into the distance. Although there's a handsome rockstar in front of her, truth be told, all she can think about is the taste of the chocolate she just ordered.

"Don't know what I'm talking about, huh?" He takes a step closer, their bodies smushed against one another now.

"No. Idea. Like I said... birch tree. I don't care about what I saw... or didn't see... I guess..." She tries to hide how incredibly stoned she still is. She tries to hide what she just witnessed on the balcony. Think like a dinosaur, Goldie.

"Can I get a chance to redeem myself?" The left corner of Harry's mouth turns up in a small smirk.

"The concert was great tonight. Can't wait for the next. Not much to redeem."

"I don't want an underwhelming performance making its way into my article. We both know what I'm talking about, Goldie Locks." Harry pins her hand, which holds the Snickers bar, against the plexiglass while his other hand caresses back and forth at the small piece of skin exposed at the top of her high-waisted jeans and under her cropped t-shirt. He hesitates for a moment at her belly button and slowly moves his hand upward.

"Still don't know what you're talking about." Her breath hitches as Harry continues to inch his fingers up her belly. Her breathing becomes more shallow. Her chest heaves at a quicker pace. "I don't care what you do."

She surprises herself with her confidence, but still recognizes her lack thereof. Her skin has never been touched in such a way before. All the nerves in her body stand on end as his guitar-plucking nails strum up her ribcage. His tanned fingertips show a beautiful contrast against her milky complexion. She wants to stop it but also wants him to continue.

"You need an interview, right?" He teases, working his way up her right arm. "Let's talk on the tour bus tomorrow. In the back."

"Okay." Goldie barely musters the word. His hand grasps her wrist, which aches slightly from being pressed roughly against the hard surface. His touch flows through the sensitive palm of her hand and up to her fingertips, stealing the treasure she's been so desperately waiting to eat all night.

Slipping the Snickers bar through her fingers, he grasps the treat and brings it to his face. He hesitates for a second before taking a giant bite. "We'll talk tomorrow, Goldie. I'll give you the interview you've been waiting for."