vegas | H.S.

f e a r f u l i n t r o d u c t i o n s

For now, his house is awaiting, along with my future that it holds.

. . .

112 Old Bexley Lane, the nameplate that read the address was plastered on the gate of the luxurious Victorian style home.

I stared at the letters that marked his family's crest and supposedly, notable name. The winter's blast of wind caused me to huddle inside of my fur, windbreaker jacket, hands cozied up in the gloves my mother gave me last Christmas.

London was occasionally chilling, always playing in my favor, unlike today.

Along the wire of the gate, a steel lock hung. From the looks of this, this place could be abandoned for all I know. Now that would replace the favor the weather usually grants.

Near the nameplate, my fingertip applied pressure to the small button. A sharp, ringing alarm flinched at my nerves as I stiffened my posture.

"The Duke is not accepting any guests today," The robotically generated voice reported. "Please go home, and come back another time. Thank you."

Duke? Mr. Horan said nothing about that. Do I have the wrong address? I swear I checked several times before typing it in my GPS.

"I am Vegas Blacke, from Horan Publications," I continued after my teeth shattered from the cold, "I would just like a word with Harry Styles?"

Silence.

"Hello? I need to speak with someone. Anyone would be perfect."

More stupid silence.

"I'm not leaving from this spot until I speak to an actual human,"

I assume this was a final straw for the person inside, because they began to ruffle through the intercom. They released a rushed breath, clearly bothered by my visit, but I could care less.

Now that I'm here, I can not mess up this chance for a spike in pay, and the irreplaceable and priceless look that Aleczandra would provide.

"Fine. What is your name again?" This time, a female voice, someone in their mid-forties, answered.

"Vegas Blacke from Horan Publications."

Within seconds, a clicking sound loosened the lock on the gate, dropping it to the concrete below. I leapt back a few inches, before realizing the slightly rude invitation the lady gave as she stood on the steps of the large home.

"Hurry in, child," Her hand waved, pushing my steps to trail behind her elongated dress of antique fashions.

Inside of the home, the color of the drab wallpaper was repellent; the shades of black and gray almost revolting because of the lack of color or a scent of emotion besides sadness or despair. The decorative portraits of rather odd people were hung above the two descending staircase.

I was curious as to who could possibly live within a home that was completely hideous.

Nevertheless, I kept my opinions to myself. This is a potential returning client that could make Mr. Horan less..intimidating towards me.

"Welcome to the Styles' Estate," The lady finally spoke to me, holding her chin high with a sharp glare. "I am Martha, the head maid."

"Hello.." I croaked, nodding with uncertainty of words.

"Yes," She scanned my attire, consisting of a midnight black mini sweater dress, paired with the pair of knee high boots I found in a thrift store half its retail price. I was proud of the ensemble that I threw together out of nervousness this morning, but telling by her look, she disapproved. Her bold eyes remained on me until she broke the line of contact away. "Well, follow me to Mr. Styles' office,"