"Drugs, sex, and sun salutations."
Harry Styles thought he would never make it big, but that all changed when he ran into public relations manager, Celestial Gray. With long lists of problems on both sides and an unusual duo, the two never imagin...
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TWO GHOSTS chapter four january 23, 1975
"If I had beat the shit out of him, he would've left you alone." He said to her as the two climbed in the backseat of the yellow taxi that Celest had flagged down.
"See, that's where you're wrong, Styles." She replied quickly in response, "Evil is all around us, in ways and places you'd never even imagine of. It's a dark, dark thing. It's not something you want to be."
"I have imagined it. I've lived it." He replied, telling the driver where to go. 'Maggy,' he called it - home. His hand had reached its way onto Celest's thigh, her skin trailed with goosebumps and a chill down her spine as she tensed up. He started to rub his thumb aimlessly as he spoke, Celest relaxing as she began to realize how comforting the small touch actually was. She closed her eyes.
"Celest, we're trusting you on this. Sign here." Her boss said as she looked beside her to grin widely at her newest client. She took the paper first, and with the pen in her hand, she made her end of the deal official. She slid the pen and paper to her right, Harry's hands eagerly taking it from her, his signature falling on the line right below her own.
Celest smiled to herself at the thought of Harry Styles finally agreeing to sign with her being replayed in her mind, she now had to represent and make all of his little dreams come true, and she was more than up for the task. It was an impossible friendship in the making, and she felt deep down that the planets were aligning at the right time, because they seemed to make things work so effortlessly.
Soon, the two arrived at Harry's old apartment building, and she noticed how different their lives truly were. She smiled at him and told her she'd be in touch as he climbed out of the backseat.
"Thank you for dinner and the ride." He said as he thanked her for paying for his meal and his half of the ride - a small gesture that Celest learned went a long way with some people. Apartment number 18, she thought to herself.
Harry unlocked the door to his little apartment and threw the keys over to the couch, bouncing with a jangle as they landed on the soft surface next to his old guitar. The guitar that had heard him pour his emotions out in more than a million times - it held so many songs and memories that Harry felt that he could never get rid of it. He sat down next to it, grabbed it by the neck and pulled it over to sit in his lap. The only comforting feeling he seemed to know.
His most valuable possession was the old, slightly warped blond guitar―the first instrument he taught himself how to play. Nothing fancy, just a Madeira folk guitar, all scuffed and scratched and fingerprinted. At the top was a bramble of copper-wound strings, each one hooked through the eye of a silver tuning key. The strings are stretched down a long, slim neck, its frets tarnished, the wood worn by years of fingers pressing chords and picking notes. The body of the Madeira was shaped like an enormous yellow pear, one that was slightly damaged in shipping. The blond wood has been chipped and gouged to gray, particularly where the pick guard fell off years ago.
