Error. [H.S.]

4.

The modern day metronome tormented my thoughts, each strike of the rhythmic tempo invading my peace with the hushed inconvenience. Each tick mimicked my slowed heart rate, complimenting one another in an melodic beat. My ankles crossed loosely over the edge of the worn leather sofa, pattering my top foot in sync with the ticking while my eyes studied the numerals on the face of the clock, using the digits to run over the mathematical equation of my offered bonus to tag along on Harry fucking Styles' tour.

The "ticking clock method" replayed in my head as I recall seeing those words on a PowerPoint my first year of college in a creative writing course. The concept was a simple tactic to heighten the suspense in a story; the method provided a deadline in which the protagonist must meet a goal or fall victim to the consequences of failure. My professor at the time was genius beyond belief, his every word spoken with the intent to provoke thoughts you didn't know lied beneath the surface. After each class, I left with a new feeling that resonated with me, a reason to think and a reason to strive for greater heights. His most notable quote that he ever spoke was one that demanded that we apply the ticking clock method to our lives, at least once in our youth, because once the bomb explodes, sorrow is all that remains in place of the memories that may have lead you to much more miraculous things.

Maybe this was my ticking clock opportunity.

Thirty-two double sided pages rested on top of my stomach, clasped together by a binder clip. My fingers twirled around my curled tresses to distract from flipping through the contents of my agreement for a forth time.

Judging by the printed text, each team member would be assigned an alias in protection of our identity and purpose for joining the tour. I would be concealed as Harry's assistant, which meant I'd likely be fetching his coffee and taking on whatever pesky tasks his manager didn't want to take on — yippee.

In my oh-so typical fashion, the pros and cons of joining the team on the tour weighed heavily in my mind, mentally getting sorted into different categories.

Pros: Get paid to travel the world while getting first hand experience with what life of an Investigative Journalist would entail.

Cons: Transfer to online classes, no more direct access to the case files, and have to fetch coffee.

The contemplation bounced back and forth in my mind minute after minute. How would I explain to my friends my sudden withdrawal from my classes, let alone vanishing into thin air? The non-disclosure clause would hold me hostage to so many rules, I can't even begin to think what lie I'd spew to cover up my disappearance.

Would I even be able to find time to keep up on my classes? And what if nothing happened during this tour? I'd be spreading myself thin, tearing myself away from opportunities at the precinct, just so I could be some roadie for a musician I don't even like.

"I'd pay good money to get fucked the way you're eye-fucking that clock." A raspy tone broke my internal dilemma, immediately pulling me to sit straight up at the waist, my eyes darting towards the door. A warm blush flocked to my soft cheeks, embarrassment threatening to drown me at the vile words.

The voice interrupting my thoughts was laced with an accent, slow syllables and rich vowels invading my serene hideout. The variety of accents that surrounded me daily couldn't compare to this one.

Verdant eyes fell down at me, soaking in my embarrassment with a tongue-in-cheek grin plastered on his flawlessly sculpted face. A sharp wink flashed over at me as prominent muscles contracted beneath a white t-shirt, his deep laughter rippling through the room.

"That's...Not what I'm doing, not even close." I stutter out my defense, my red glow brightening from my foolish response.

Obviously that's not what you're doing.