|| Love to Hate Me ||

{Nine}

"Never was on time
Yes, I once was mine
Well, that was long ago
And darling, I don't mind."
-Meet Me In The Bathroom,
The Strokes
__________

Liana had drank eight beers. She fell asleep, tipsy and tired. But the party continued on for Harlan, breaking out a pint of bourbon he had kept stowed away in his suitcase. He had wanted to buy the whiskey at the liquor mart specifically for Liana—he wanted to finally see her lose control, even if only for a little while.

She was too controlling; too meticulous in everything she did. He knew he had to get drunk. There was no way in hell he felt right sleeping next to her in his right mind.

He felt something for Liana, even though he wasn't sure what that something was. Maybe it was pity—maybe it was lust; maybe it was the fact that she was a nice girl with good intentions. Harlan wasn't used to being around women with good intentions. In fact, he always seemed to attract the opposite.

He shook his head at the thought, taking a swig of whiskey. There wasn't a chance in hell Liana was attracted to Harlan, she was too much of a "goody two shoes" to even think of Harlan that way. Although he had caught her admiring him a few times—she couldn't deny that.

She had even admitted that at one point in time, she had wanted to marry him. He snickered at the revelation; imagining a hormonally driven teenager thinking she had the ability to tame the wild boy that he was. He wondered if she watched his interviews, or if she was simply just crushing on him through pictures and music videos.

He nearly cringed at the thought—Liana watching old interviews of him and his band mates. He was notorious for being cold and indifferent to journalists. He had gone out of his way to make them regret ever landing an interview with the rockstar.

He was intentionally rude and complicated; giving bullshit answers to very straightforward questions. He hated that part of it all—he made Deke and Gus take control of those interviews most of the time. But every journalist knew their shit; they knew Harlan had written all the music, so in turn, they wanted him to answer their questions.

Harlan had to admit, he felt a little guilty putting his friends on the spot, making them the ones to have to answer to his off the wall lyrics. But that had been before their demise—before his best friend had ruined his life.

Gus Faulconer.
Fucking. Gus. Faulconer.

Everyone believed Harlan Hayworth had been the destruction of The Revolts. Everyone believed that Harlan Hayworth had been the cause of their breakup. Harlan took the opinions of others in stride, letting people believe whatever the fuck they wanted—he didn't care. If people wanted to believe Harlan was once a lyrical genius who had set out to destroy his own career, then so be it.

Harlan wasn't about to answer to anyone—no one deserved an explanation of what really happened. No matter what, people would inevitably believe what they wanted to. He supposed his statute of limitations had run out anyway—it was seven years ago. The sooner everyone forgot about Harlan Hayworth, frontman to The Revolts, the better.

He had hoped to establish a new image—a guitarist to a delightfully oblivious "teenybopper."

He smiled; Liana was not a teenybopper. She was incredibly gifted—an amazing singer and songwriter. He was thoroughly surprised when his manager called and said she had requested him to play for her.