I Want It Bad - Narry

Chapter Twenty Three

Niall gazes up at the tall building, his teeth digging into his bottom lip so hard that the skin becomes raw and irritated, a bitter metallic taste filling his mouth when he licks over the burning spot. His fingers tap anxiously against his jean-clad thigh, his stomach filled with butterflies and doing summersaults every step he takes closer to the wide, doubled doors.

“Why’re you so nervous, love?” Harry asks softly from beside him, reaching up to adjust his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“This is me future,” Niall replies, his Irish accent prominent from the thickness in his voice, “Who knows when I’ll get anotha’ chance like this.”

He threads his fingers into his hair, the roots brown as they bleed into blond. His hand then falls limply to his side, but he brings it back up to chew on his nails, a habit he picked up early on when he became nervous.

Inside the building lies a single desk with a woman behind it – a woman Niall assumes to be Janice. Her hair is neatly wrapped in a bun and lips coated with a bright red as they stretch over her pearly whites in a large smile. She immediately picks up the phone lying on her desk as if she’s programmed to, her voice speaking quickly into it in a formal, lighthearted voice.

“Mr. Smith, Niall Horan is here for his appointment,” she says without even having to ask the blond his name. “Yes, I’ll send him right up,” she adds with a short nod.

She smoothes out her black skirt as she stands, motioning the couple to follow her down the long, narrow hallway to the right. They reach another set of doubled doors and by the time Niall turns to thank her, she’s already gone, the sound of her high heels clicking against the linoleum flooring slowly fading away.

Niall shakily reaches out for the door knob, not sure if he should just go in or knock, and really, this is literally the least of his worries but all he can think right now is don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up, don’t fuck up. And when he walks in, his heart stops and sinks into his stomach. His eyes meet with his (possible) future manager, seeing an angry scowl set deep into his features, eyebrows heavily furrowed together. Of course he somehow managed to piss off the guy before even meeting him.

“Mr. Horan,” the man acknowledges in a gruff voice, not bothering to look back up from his papers again. He waves a hand to the two chairs placed before his desk, finally looking up as the two slowly sit down in the uncomfortable wooden seats.            

“We met in London not too long ago,” he states simply, the statement itself so vague – Niall doesn’t know how to respond. He dumbly nods because the whole atmosphere is so tense and awkward, draping over Niall and Harry like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

“I’m not gonna beat around the bush here, kid. You got a nice voice, and you’re not too shabby lookin’. I can work with what ya got; make ya into somethin’. But you have to do what I say. Otherwise, the deal is off. I can already tell you’re a cocky ‘lil shit, and trust me son, I won’t put up with it.”

Niall’s hands are tightly clenched into fist against the armrest of the chair, a flush spreading across his pale skin in blotchy red spots.