RIDE ✧ {H.S.}

8.

Cigarettes were regrettably one of my biggest vices.

Oral fixation.

Something about smoothing my lips around the white paper and sparking the light between my fingers felt so serene. I was only paying attention to connecting with my breath while I hopefully found peace away from life. It was like a ritual, one I performed often. It got the point where when living with my father he'd prohibit me from buying them, so I'd roll my own before sneaking outside to smoke under the stars. I had many parts of myself I was trying hard to fix, but smoking was just one of those things that was going to stay.

I was about to face a battle, so my cheeks dipped as I inhaled a cloud of smoke before entering the doors of A.C. Record studios. 

Along one of L.A.'s busiest streets held the soundproof studios that produced some of the greatest artists of the 80's. Within the dim lobby was memorabilia from this golden age in music, with lined posters of their greatest hits. Once rock wasn't as mainstream and the allure of the star died down, the company faced penalties. 

This studio was notorious for the worst. I recalled Livia getting drunk and reminiscing on nights where musical legends ran their noses dry between these walls. She'd had generations of family money that allowed for passion projects, such as her father owning a record label to get an in on the Hollywood lifestyle. She'd taken after his steps once he disgracefully retired, but managed to keep the trashy antics up.

What I mean to say is, she'd slept with lots of her fathers studio clients.

There were nearly crimson walls painted in the lobby, but it was hard to see from lack of light. Each long hallway held many doors, leading to a recording booths. Next to the doors were plaques that stated the room number and person of occupancy. I lightened my steps as I searched for the right corridor, all while trying to avoid a possible encounter with Livia. 

I needed some good karma on my side, so relieving myself of any heavy objects was my first idea. Alleviating any karmic debt would hopefully break me from the binds of guilt I still held.

Scouring the halls with little luck, I came to the rough end before finding a door labeled "H".

Unless there was another infamous H that recorded here, my bet was on Harry. I wanted to return him the camera I had used for blackmail as a way to apologize. Putting my weapons down and waving the white flag was as generous as I was willing to get. We couldn't be seen in public, and I didn't have his number. Cornering him in the only place I knew he resided was guarenteed success.

Should I knock before I enter? What if they're recording... This is all so stupid. He doesn't want to see me. Us being around each other had caused nothing but pain. Him, a broken arm. Me, a bloody leg. Accardi's were at the helm of our injuries.

Poor judgement flushed past my sensible thoughts as my hand made contact with the door knob to crack it open. Shutters of light bled through into the dark hallway while Harry and three other men sat inside clutching instruments. Before fulling entering, I held out the camera as a peace offering.

"Look who it is!" Harry sat among two other men, slouched on couches and scribbling in note pads. His previously casted arm was free under his baggie t-shirt, extending out as I entered. Grey sweats hung at his hips with a singular pearl strand from his neck. The long coils of hair were in a loose bun to preventing the need for taming. 

"I'm sorry Clio, we're fresh out of bumps darling-" His face gleamed at his cheeky remark. He's in quite the mood I see. 

"This is the Clio?" One of the men helping Harry produce chimed in, directly asking Harry.