Harry Styles One Shots

One Night In Nashville

The sound of your phone vibrating against your wooden bedside table promptly wakes you from what you thought had been a deep sleep. It makes you jump, leaving your heart pounding and your ears ringing, just like your alarm does on a daily basis. You ignore it, not even bothering to check the recipient of your two a.m phone call, because absolutely nothing could be that important at two in the morning. Well - it might be two o'clock, but it's not like you've seen the time anywhere to know for sure.

Your bed is never more comfortable than when you're woken in the middle of the night, when consciousness is hardly an achievable goal and all you should really be doing is sleeping. Even when you know your mattress is in dire need of replacing because the springs are giving you backache and you wake often with a pulled muscle, somehow it doesn't feel the same in the early hours of the morning; you're numb to it.

Just when you think the coast is clear to settle back into your slumber, and you've snuggled your sheets closer to you in preparation for the next oncoming wave of unconsciousness, your phone starts ringing again. You heave a long sigh and gingerly sit up, rolling your head to look at which bastard was waking you up from your first content sleep in what felt like months through tight and sleep-covered eyes. You can't honestly think of many people who would dare to wake you at such a rude hour, let alone have the persistence - and not to mention the arrogance - to call you twice.

Simon Sampson. What could your insufferably polite and way-past-camp editor possibly want from you at this ridiculous hour? And you weren't far off when you'd predicted two o'clock, because your phone currently displays 01:57. Whatever he's after it better be fucking good.

You take another deep breath and pick your phone up, sliding the bar across the screen to answer his call before it rings out for a second time.

"Hello." It's not even polite - in fact your tone is pushed past irritated, and isn't helped by the fact that sleep covers every syllable you speak.

"Darling, it's Simon!" Much too loud for the time of day but you'll let it slide since he's your boss.

"Hi, Simon."

"Darling," it's a token term of endearment he uses for those he actually likes, perhaps a little overused sometimes, like now at two a.m, "massive favour to ask of you." You would tell him to continue, but you know he'll do it regardless. "Roxanne was due to fly out to do a review in Nashville tomorrow but she's just rang with residue apparently coming out of her every orifice-,"

"How lovely." You mutter.

"I know," oh, you'd said that out loud, "ghastly. Anyway, would you mind? Don't want poor Roxanne vomiting all over our artist friend, do we?"

"Simon," You stress his name, voice cracking on the very last letter, "I don't do those reviews anymore."

You don't always contest your editor's requests, but some things (at certain early hours on a Monday morning) you can't help but express your disdain towards.

You hear him scoff, and you can just picture him rolling his eyes. "I know, darling. But I don't have anyone else I can trust. Besides, it'll be nice for you to head out of New York for a couple of days. What do you say?"

You rub a hand over your face as you pinch your eyes shut, trying to control your breathing so that you don't sound too pissed off at his last minute request. The idea of getting out of NYC for a short period did have immense appeal, but equally you'd been looking forward to a few days on your own to do absolutely nothing at all. It has you torn.

Apparently Simon can sense your reluctance all the way from his penthouse on the Upper East Side, and is willing to bargain with you more. "I'll make sure you're paid time and a half. And I'll have them call the hotel to put you in a suite."