As it turned out, being a personal assistant to Harley Stone was not like what one may expect.

The first text came a week after their conversation. Gabe had been waking up with a cup of coffee in the small tour bus kitchen when his phone chimed beside him, alerting him of the message.

Room 204.

The text was from an unknown number. Gabe had half-the-heart to imagine it was the drummer's personal cell. Pocketing his phone, Gabe stood with a roll of his eyes.

For the first time in months, they had a later start today. There was no show for two days so the crew was taking the short break time to kick back and relax. That is, if you could call getting high, wasted and fucked nightly relaxing.

Gabe flashed his identification at the hotel receptionist with a stoic expression and entered the elevator. Taking it up to one of the top floors, he stepped out and approached the allocated room. Knocking on the door, he waited.

A voice called out to enter and Gabe did so. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, yet Harley Stone was fully clothed and made-up as he sat in the middle of the floor of his hotel room.

Surrounding Harley were numerous piles of letters, envelopes, postcards, assorted chocolates and various gifts. Four mail crates sat on the floor, overflowing with more junk. Gabe stared.

Harley looked up at the roadie's entry. "I see you received my message."

"What is all this?"

"Fan mail," Harley sighed, looking around him. "Lots and lots of fan mail."

"Okay." Gabe said. "And you texted me because?"

A bored look appeared on the drummer's face. "Because I needed assistance and that's your job."

Gabe scowled. "I'm not your beck-and-call girl."

"No, but you do work for me so here you are."

Gabe clenched his jaw. "Why am I here?"

Harley gestured around him at the scatter. "All this needs to be organised. Normally I do it myself but it's just getting out of hand. The piles get bigger every time."

"Aw, it must be so hard being famous." Gabe drawled mockingly. "Can't answer all your fan mail by yourself? Too many admirers?"

"Not this time."

Gabe stopped, staring wide-eyed at the drummer. "Wait, you actually answer your fan mail?"

Harley scowled at him. "Yes."

Gabe's mouth opened and closed. "You're serious?"

"Did you actually think I'm the type of person to just ignore the people who've put me where I am?" Harley said scathingly. He stood, gesturing around him. "Do you think me so cold as to not have a heart and respond to people who so kindly send me such adorations?"

"I don't think you know what modesty is but you certainly tried at the start there."

Harley huffed impatiently. "Yes, I respond to my fan mail, Gabe. Is that so hard to believe?"

Gabe hardly paid attention to the way his name rolled off the drummer's tongue. Harley had called him by his name before but the boy seemed more shadow than human and hearing his name in the rockstar's mouth sent chills down Gabe's spine.

Gabe glared. "So what do you need me for?"

"I need you to repackage this stuff as I respond to it. It usually takes hours and I have a radio interview at noon."

"Alright, fine. Whatever." Gabe said, walking over to the centre of the room because this was his life now. "Let's just get this over with."

Harley looked almost surprised at Gabe's compliance but he had the decency not to say anything as he slowly sat back down beside Gabe and got to work.

They worked in silence for about thirty minutes. Every time Harley finished writing a short letter, he handed it to Gabe who would seal it in a black envelope and scribble the return address on the front. Slowly, the crate began to fill back up.

"What do you do with these?" Gabe asked, holding up a box of chocolates.

Harley looked over and sighed. "As cruel as it is, I usually throw them out. Who knows how long they've been in the mail before and god only knows someone's tampered with them to begin with."

"Right, into the trash it goes." Gabe chucked the box into the small hotel trash can beside the door.

Harley watched the box with a frown. "I should really tweet something about that but I don't want to come across as ungrateful."

"Oh yeah, you're a real saint." Gabe scoffed, chucking another box of candy to the side.

Harley turned and watched him with a furrowed brow. "I don't get why you think I'm so callous."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you literally spend your time hiding out in the shadows avoiding people, glare at anybody who speaks to you, and have been stalking me for a month for god only knows why. You're right, you're a real charmer."

Harley's frown deepened. "It's not stalking."

"Oh please," Gabe scoffed. He lifted the envelope in his hand pointedly. "This is the first redeemable thing I've ever seen you do. Up until today, I was convinced you had no angelic qualities."

"Our fans are the only reason we have been successful," Harley said. "The least I could do is respond to their messages."

"Or, and I'm just spitballing here, how about you actually talk to them during meet-and-greets? How about you actually smile during a photo for once? God, do you even know a single fan's name? Don't pretend to be such a saint when-"

"Gabriella Marchese," Harley said. "Anna Winscott, Bryce Dallas, Zala Abate, Georgia Antin, Lucien Clermont-"

"What are you doing?"

"Listing." Harley replied, as if the answer were that simple. "You asked if I knew the names of any fans. The first was from a trip we took to the Royal Children's Hospital in Australia. The second and third from a marathon that was raising money for breast cancer. The fourth was from a developing school we visited in Ethiopia. The fifth from a high-school led protest for LGBTQ rights in a region of France before it was legalised. They were trips we took when-"

"A few good deeds doesn't make you a hero." Gabe stated. "I'm not so convinced that someone in your position wouldn't know that."

"I've never tried to be a hero," Harley replied. "Or a saint. I just do my small part in hoping it may make one thing about the world a little better for someone."

"Spoken like a true hero." Gabe mocked, sealing an envelope.

There was silence for a moment before Harley asked, "You seem to have a pretty solid impression of me in your head. Care to explain that?"

"There's nothing to explain." Gabe mumbled. "It's just observation."

"Or is it the result of believing everything you hear?"

"I hear very little to begin with. Never mind actually caring to pay attention to it."

"You can't work for this band without knowing the rumours."

"Are they rumours?"

Gabe looked up at Harley only to be met with a blank expression. The drummer said, "What is your personal impression of me?"

"I don't have one. We've been through this."

"You only said you didn't care about my life. You never said you didn't have an impression."

"I thought these were supposed to take hours, right?" Gabe spoke suddenly. "So why are you spitting out shit instead of writing?"

Harley was unfazed by the aggression. "Enlighten me."

Gabe huffed. "I don't know you personally. The only impression I get of you is through your on-call fuck toys who have mouths bigger than Trump's ego. From what I can see, you live up to your reputation just fine."

"And what reputation would that be?"

Harley had a point there. To the world, he was known as the brooding bad boy who dominated the music industry. Unlike his band mates, who were known for their charm, Harley's mysterious and dark persona was one the media fed off and fans soaked up. Whether it was all the leather that fooled them or the permanent scowl, Gabe didn't understand the appeal.

Then there was Harley's other persona. The one that kept him at stadiums until two o'clock in the morning, and where he rarely spoke or fucked around with his friends. He was a mystery to the public, but behind closed doors he could be the poster boy to sociopathic therapy. Nothing he did ever made sense.

"Why don't you talk?" Gabe asked.

Harley looked up from his current letter. "What?"

"Tyler, Nate, Austin. They all laugh and mess with each other on stage. They rile up crowds and are just as feisty offstage. They're always going out to clubs and parties and being plastered all over the headlines. Why aren't you?"

Harley looked back down again. "Call me crazy but I don't believe in drinking away your every night."

"I literally delivered Nate's eight-ball at two o'clock in the morning last night and you want to play the virtue card?"

"You asked for an explanation. I gave one."

"It didn't answer the question."

"Perhaps you didn't word it right, then."

Gabe sealed another envelope and tossed it into the pile. "You're so different to anything they've ever said about you."

Harley said nothing. Head bent low over the response he was currently writing, a light frown formed on his face as he scribbled across the piece of paper.

Gabe said, "It doesn't look like you enjoy this."

Harley stopped writing. He stared out the window opposite Gabe as he said, "Define 'this'."

"Your job. Playing music. Your kit is at the back of the stage in the dark, you blend into the darkness with all the black you wear and you always disappear after the shows as soon as you can."

"Is that a question?"

Gabe shrugged. "I thought that's what we did now."

It was the first time Gabe had ever verbally expressed a union between he and Harley out loud. Whatever game they had twisted themselves into over the past month, it was the first civil conversation they had had. Gabe wasn't nice, but something about the room was calm in a way that the job never had been before.

Harley must've sensed it too, for his demeanour came down to match Gabe's. They weren't friends, not even acquaintances, but they were bantering this morning as though they were comfortable and relaxed. Gabe didn't know which was worse.

Here he was, dressed in sweats and a plain T-shirt in Harley Stone's hotel room. Just being in the same proximity as the mega-rockstar would be enough to have the world falling at his feet, but something about Harley that morning was strangely human.

Dressed in dark jeans and a casual hoodie, Harley only had his ear piercings and nose ring on display. His dark hair was free of gel and his pale skin showed in the areas his clothes rode up slightly. Gabe sneaked a glance at the black armbands decorating his forearms. Tattoos peeked out of his clothing but he was still dressed down.

There was no leather in sight, no heavy combat boots that he stomped across stage in. He wore plain grey socks on his feet and was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. His hair fell in his eyes every time he bent over to write a new response. It was calm, but Gabe didn't feel at ease.

Harley said, "Sometimes dreams cross over into nightmares. It doesn't make you want to sleep any less."

Gabe didn't know what to do with that. Somehow he understood, though he didn't want to. He didn't want to be personal with the drummer. He didn't want to know Harley Stone.

Yet, that was becoming harder and harder to avoid each day. It hooked a deep anger inside Gabe, but there was also another feeling that he resented with heated passion. If it was curiosity, Gabe would be the cat.

They continued to work in silence. Gabe knew better then to risk another question given that Harley was already suspicious about his own history. Crossing the line could be fatal.

However, Harley said he would protect him, but how could he do that if he didn't know Gabe's past? Better yet, how would he protect him if Gabe never planned on telling him? Nausea swept over him like an unwanted breeze.

It was good for thought really. Harley had said that they could help each other but how exactly would that work? Gabe didn't know nor trust the drummer and he sure as fuck didn't understand how he could help him in return. What mutual benefit were either of them receiving when they lacked the knowledge to utilise it?

They finished their work without another conversation. When Gabe stood up, he turned to leave the hotel room but Harley called him back.

"I didn't say you could leave."

Gabe faced him with a vicious raise of an eyebrow. "And I suppose free will is a fuck-all concept to you? I'm willing to bet you have a BDSM kink."

"Right. A person who doesn't engage in sexual activity has a sexual kink."

"It could be metaphorical."

"How could that possibly be metaphorical?"

Good, they were back to their seething hatred.

"I don't wanna know what fucked-up things occur in your head." Gabe shot back. "Not now, not ever. Are we done?"

"No."

Gabe scowled. "Do you have another crate I don't know about?"

"You're coming with me to the radio interview."