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Chapter 2: Arm Candy

⟡ Chapter 2 of PR Only

⟡ wc: 4246

The pounding in your head wakes you up before you even get the chance to fully open your eyes. The faint morning sun barely peeks through the closed curtains. Your throat is too dry to speak and your skin is drenched in sweat, even though the blankets are kicked off of you.

Lifting your arm makes your muscles ache as you rub your eyes, trying to focus on the surroundings of the room and remember where you are.

It’s not until you hear the bathroom sink running that you remember that you’re in some upscale hotel room from last night. You glance down at your chest and notice Eren’s shirt still loosely fitted on your body. It feels heavy, as if it’s sinking you down into the mattress.

The bathroom door creaks loudly when it’s pushed open. “You up?” he asks with his arms crossed against his chest, standing in front of the bed with a towel sitting low on his hips, and water still dripping from his hair.

You nod without saying anything, trying to remind your body that you’re still alive and that this isn’t some drug-induced nightmare.

“Good,” he says with relief, eyes briefly scanning your body. “Brunch is in an hour. I need you dressed and ready.”

Your eyes barely adjust to him through the bright light. “I don’t have extra clothes.”

“Wear what you wore yesterday,” he says while vaguely gesturing to your clothes left on the floor, “with my shirt.”

You roll off his bed and your joints pop with each movement. Eren doesn’t do much except hand you your clothes, watching you slowly slide on your fishnets with more rips in it than the night before.

“Did we like… do something?” You ask, staring at the extra holes in your fishnets, only remembering bits and pieces from last night.

Eren kneels down and picks up your heels, setting them down carefully in front of you. “No. I wouldn’t do that,” he says. It sounds sincere enough.

The black mini skirt sits tight against your hips, almost completely covered by Eren’s band tee. You lift one leg, slipping your foot into the heel with a soft groan, then ease on the other with a slight wobble.

You make your way to the bathroom, slow and foggy, and catch sight of a blue toothbrush still in its packaging. It’s probably something he bought for you to look a little more presentable. He doesn’t say anything when you fumble with the plastic, and the sound of him rummaging through his suitcase is faint from the other room. You unsteadily rip open the plastic before reaching for his toothpaste.

The toothbrush drags across your teeth with sluggish, uneven strokes, clumsy from the hangover still hanging heavy in your limbs. When you’re done, you rinse your mouth out, and splash cold water on your face. You don’t bother with makeup because all of it is stuffed in your purse, which you haven’t seen since last night.

“Do you have anything?” You ask as you walk out of the bathroom, staring at the chains around his neck.

He’s wearing something simple today. Just baggy black jeans with combat boots, a bullet belt sitting low on his waist, and a band tee with cut off sleeves. His tattoos are hard to look away from: a black centipede wrapping up his arm, a rosary around his neck, a heart with wings on his shoulder that’s drawn just messy enough to be personal. But you don’t ask, you just look.

Eren nods while reaching into his back pocket, pulling something out and holding it flat in his palm in front of you. It’s a sparkly pink pill.

Your favorite.

A sweet smile creeps up on your lips as you grab it from his hand. “I like your tats,” you say while popping the pill in your mouth and swallowing it dry.

“Thanks,” he says flatly, brushing off your words while walking toward the door.

You were hoping for a little more conversation.

Your phone is cold when you grab it off the nightstand, screen lighting up as you walk out of the room. Hundreds of notifications hit all at once. Texts from people you barely know, DMs from strangers, tags on Instagram stories and news posts. When you open TikTok, your face is everywhere. There are clips of you stumbling behind Eren as he walked you to the Green Room, and videos of your legs swinging in the air as he carried you into his hotel. You were too high to even remember the cameras.

Your palms are already sweating as you grip your phone, heart racing faster than it usually does when molly kicks in. You just took it. It hasn’t even hit yet, but the headlines are concerning enough to make you dizzy.

“Eren?” You hesitate, voice more quiet than you mean it to be, while he shuts the door behind him. “There’s videos. Like everywhere. People keep tagging me. Commenting on my old posts. Everyone’s calling me a groupie.”

“That’s kinda the point,” he mumbles while pressing the elevator button.

You don’t really question him because you half remember his conversation last night with his band.

The elevator is painfully slow as you watch the numbers on the wall count down the lower you go. Eren’s hand finds your lower back when the elevator dings and the doors open, guiding you into the hallway and out the front door.

“Remember,” he says while his limousine pulls up to the curb, “stay quiet and look pretty when we get there.”

He opens the car door and you slide into the back with him following right after. The drive isn’t too long, or maybe it’s the molly making you lose track of time.

The limo barely slows before the flashes start. Cameras clicking in bursts, cheap flashes from the sidewalk, phones out, a few guys with a real camera. It’s not the paparazzi exactly, just people who knew who would be here.

Eren steps out of the car first, handing you his sunglasses that are just a little too big for your face. You slide them up the bridge of your nose before stepping out after him.

Someone near the door snickers. Another guy lifts his phone and takes a picture of you. “She’s really here?” you hear one of them whisper.

Eren finally offers his arm, letting you hook your arm through his. Not because he means it, but because this part is supposed to look good. You’re here to look pretty on his arm.

He mutters, “smile.”

And you do. You feel pretty because your high is slowly kicking in. Your hands are sweaty, your skin’s warm, and everything feels just a little slower. It’s like your body’s reacting before your brain can catch up.

The doors are opened for you when you reach them, and you’re immediately taken upstairs to the rooftop of the restaurant with not enough shade from the sun. The rooftop is expensive. There are glass railings that overlook the city skyline and white tablecloths with pristine silverware. You’re already sweating. Everything’s bright and blurry.

There’s a long table filled with people who look rich. Band members, models, faces you’ve only seen on social media, and people who are definitely in a higher tax bracket than you.

Eren pulls out an empty chair near the head of the table and you silently sit down in it, trying your best to look as small as possible. A waiter’s already pouring mimosas in each glass around the table. But everyone’s eyes are on you. It’s burning into your skin.

You don’t bother to take off Eren’s sunglasses either. He sits down in the empty chair to your left and his hand finds your thigh, but it feels more like claiming than anything. The sun is beating down on your skin and sweat is pooling on your forehead.

Sitting directly in front of you is Connie, you remember because of his recognizable buzzcut and eyebrow piercing. To the right of him is Jean and to the left, you think, is Reiner. You barely caught his name when dozing off on Eren’s knee last night

They’re all staring at you like you just murdered their families, with wide eyes and dropped jaws, like you personally ruined their lives. Probably not believing that Eren is actually going through with his shitty plan. And you’re starting to think that maybe you should’ve left when you had the chance, but it’s too late for that now.

Your gaze shifts to your right, and you see someone that you’ve never met before. He greets you with an awkward smile that doesn’t meet his bright blue eyes. He has light blonde hair that stops at his ears and a round face. He wasn’t in the Green Room last night.

“I’m Armin.”

“That’s cool,” you reply dryly.

Jean snorts and turns his attention away from you. Connie grins like this is the best show he’s seen all week. Reiner mutters something under his breath about how you’re “the second worst thing to happen to the band.”

“You okay?” Armin asks, voice half concerned.

You squint before taking a sip of your mimosa. “Yeah. I’m with Eren.”

Connie chuckles underneath his breath. “Do you even know what day it is?” he asks.

“It’s Tuesday,” you reply confidently.

“It’s Sunday.” Armin deadpans.

Eren interrupts, “she’s fine, Armin. Drop it.”

A few seats down is a woman with short black hair staring at you with pity. She’s extremely well toned and has a recognizable scar under her right eye. She’s not glaring, but it feels like she’s already decided who you are. You’ve definitely seen her before. She’s on those giant billboards downtown, magazine covers, perfume ads, and your Instagram explore page. That’s the model Mikasa Ackerman. She’s sitting next to Jean. Their legs are brushing and his arm is resting on the back of her chair. Maybe they’re together.

Everyone’s dressed decently appropriate for the occasion, but you feel like a cheap whore with Eren’s shirt on and fishnets that climb under your mini skirt. You try to stay still like Eren said. Like being still makes you safer, less noticeable and easier to keep.

The waiter comes back around to refill the mimosas and to take everyone’s order. You don’t hear Eren ordering for you because you’re too focused on watching the champagne and orange juice swirl around in your glass.

You lean into Eren’s side and whisper, “Why are they looking at me like that?”

Eren shrugs without even looking at you, “because you’re with me.”

You don’t have any reason to argue.

Eren’s focused on talking to some girl with brown hair tied back and glasses. You feel more like a prop than a person, especially with the negative attention on you, and no one even cares enough to talk to you.

The world feels like it’s melting around you. Eren's already talking to Jean now, or maybe still the manager, or someone else. You can’t focus. You grab your glass and swirl your drink, trying to count how many bubbles rise to the top, but you lose track at four. Everything feels funny because you’re too high to be here.

Someone takes a picture and the flash makes you flinch. You push up your sunglasses to your head and your fists dig into your skin when you rub your eyes. They drop back down on your nose when you lean your head on Eren’s shoulder. He’s busy arguing with a woman who’s clearly important.

The woman with glasses walks around the table and places her hand on his shoulder. “Can I borrow you for a sec?”

Eren stands up and mumbles, “stay here. My PR rep wants to talk.”

You sip your now warm mimosa and make a face. Jean’s watching you like he saw a car accident, Armin’s trying his best not to look, and Reiner hasn’t said a single word to you. Looking at Connie, you give him a thumbs up, which he immediately reciprocates.

Eren already walked off to speak to his manager. They almost step completely out of earshot.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Her voice is sharp and low, only controlled because of nearby cameras.

Eren crosses his arms and says, “she’s not doing anything wrong, Hange.”

“She’s barely coherent. She’s been licking her fucking mimosa glass.”

“Better than me beating someone up.” He rolls his eyes.

You’re too busy stacking sugar packets on the table to pay attention to their conversation. It feels like being placed in a zoo while having people make fun of you. With a non-sticky finger, you push the sunglasses back up your nose, and try to avoid thinking about how sweaty you are from the sun.

Hange’s voice gets sharper. “You brought a fucking junkie to an investor brunch. And she’s obviously high right now. She’s a fucking liability.”

“She’s just an accessory.”

“If this backfires, we drop her from everything.”

The sugar packet is now your boyfriend. It’s sweet and doesn’t talk back, and lets you lick him when you want. It’s not staring at you like you’re some alien who’s trying to learn human characteristics. Your skirt rides up when you cross your legs under the table, and keeps doing so no matter how many times it’s tugged down.

Eren sits back down and his hand finds your thigh, gripping tightly without even looking at you. Your eyes trail up his centipede tattoo, watching it flex as his fingers press into your skin. The same waiter from earlier comes by and places a plate of sunny side up eggs and wheat toast in front of you, next to your unopened napkin of silverware.

“Eat,” he mumbles while rolling out the napkin and placing it on your lap.

“I’m not hungry,” you say while looking at him and blinking slowly.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

You giggle, “I had gum.”

He doesn’t even laugh, just says your name in a stern tone. His eyes glance over and catch yours already staring through the sunglasses. The sun’s too bright and the thick plastic of the chair is sticking to your thighs, leaving fishnet indents in your skin.

He leans in closer, voice low and annoyed. “You’re gonna pass out. Eat something or I’ll feed it to you.”

You squint. “Like, in a sexy way? Or a mean way?”

“Mean.”

You reach for the toast with slow, shaky fingers and nibble on the edge like it might fix everything. Even if you’re not hungry, pissing him off feels worse than playing the part. Even as just an accessory, you know better than to make yourself difficult.

It tastes like nothing, but you chew slowly as he watches you. He doesn’t really care, he’s just making sure his PR girl doesn’t malfunction in public.

He watches you take another bite of the toast. But your mouth is dry and no amount of water or champagne is going to fix that while high off that pill he gave you earlier.

“I’m supposed to meet Sasha for lunch later,” you mumble, acting like he should already know that Sasha is your best friend.

“Who’s Sasha?” he asks, turning his head back to his own plate of food.

“My best friend,” you say, like it’s obvious. Well, your current best friend. You’re not going to bring up your dead best friend. Mina’s not someone you’d talk about while at brunch. But Sasha texts you back, and that’s enough for right now. "Sasha Braus."

Connie drops his fork onto the plate, nearly choking on a strawberry. “No fucking way. Dude, what the fuck. Like food-stealing Sasha? Who never shuts up?”

You tilt your head and hum. “Mhm.”

“Bro.” Connie looks around the table like it’s the biggest news of his entire life. “How do you know Sasha Braus?”

You furrow your brows while setting the toast back down on the plate. “She complimented my skirt at a New Year’s party” you say with a shrug. “Then we did ketamine in the bathroom.”

Connie laughs harder into his glass, sipping water to push down the food he almost choked on. “What the fuck.”

“Sounds like her,” Jean mutters under his breath.

“It was right before someone tried to hang from a ceiling fan and ripped the whole thing out right before midnight,” you add.

“Holy shit,” he exclaims while leaning closer to you. “That was my fucking party!”

“Yeah,” Reiner murmurs. “He almost ruined the countdown.”

You smile, relieved because something finally landed right. Now everyone’s looking at you again. Smiling and laughing, and acknowledging your existence. And for the first time since the eggs arrived, you feel like you exist again.

And everyone here seems to know Sasha too. You figure that’s how she got you into last night’s party.

You bite your finger and glance at Eren, tilting your head to see his reaction. He still hasn’t looked at you, but he hasn’t told you to shut up either, so you stay and bask in the attention.

A man with blonde hair and big bushy eyebrows walks over to Eren. He looks important, probably his manager. He squints at you with a frown before tapping on Eren’s shoulder. This time, Eren doesn’t mention where he’s going when he stands up and follows him to the other side of the patio.

The blonde man sharply says, “You’re done.”

“She looks good next to me.” Eren groans while crossing his arms.

“She looks high next to you.”

Eren shakes his head while looking over at you laughing with Connie. “People like chaos and hot girls.”

“People like controlled chaos. Not viral TikToks of your drugged out girlfriend slurring your name and tripping in her heels.” He explains before checking his watch.

Eren impassively says, “but she looks hot, Erwin”

“Do you understand how fragile your PR situation is right now? The label’s already pulling your interview with Billboard. Investors are scared shitless. And if she passes out in front of a camera, we’re finished.”

“People will stop trying to cancel me if they think I have a girlfriend,” Eren explains.

Erwin glances over at you. “No. People are going to confirm that you’re still abusive because you’re bringing around some girl who’s never had a sober day in her life.”

“How is that going to prove anything?” Eren asks. “Because you’re enabling her to be high all the time.” Erwin says.

Eren scowls, brows furrowed. “I’m not enabling shit.”

He doesn’t wait for a response and cuts the conversation short, eyes locked on you as he walks across the patio. He leans down and his lips brush against your ear. “We’re leaving.”

You stand on instinct more than decision, but your knees feel loose after your skin peels off the chair. Connie looks up from his plate. “Where are you going?” he asks, voice low.

Eren ignores him. You just shrug with a half apologetic look and then follow after him.

The hallway is too quiet and the elevator is too slow. Neither of you speak when you get inside of the elevator, but his hand finds your lower back again. Eren doesn’t look at you, but he stands next to you the entire time. Your fishnets are sticking to your sweaty skin, hair is matted to your forehead, and you still keep your sunglasses on inside.

Outside, the sun hits hard, sticking to your skin like a second layer. There are more people with cameras this time. Expensive ones that don’t stop clicking as you walk on the sidewalk, blinding you with each flash. Every step you take triggers a new wave of flashes, but they’re only saying Eren’s name and asking him invasive questions. No one really knows who you are yet.

The limo’s already waiting at the curb like the driver was prepared for this to happen. As if Eren always causes problems at important events like this. Eren opens the door and gestures for you to get in first, ignoring the few people taking photos.

The air is cool when you sink into the leather seat, fingers tugging down the hem of your skirt. He slides in next to you and shuts the door. You sink into the cushion, fingers scratching at your skin, too high to feel his sunglasses sliding down your nose.

Eren leans back in the leather seat, legs spread and jaw tight as he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds, taps the bottom against his palm, then slides two cigarettes halfway out with his thumb. He offers you one without looking.

You take it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. Your hand is colder than you expected.

He slips the other between his lips, leans to the side, and fishes a lighter from the opposite pocket. It’s sleek and a solid red. There’s one smooth flick before it catches the end of his cigarette, glowing bright red as he inhales deep.

He doesn’t say anything when he hands you the lighter. You press the cigarette between your lips, but your hands are a little shaky from the high and lack of food in your system. You didn’t really eat much at brunch and that pill from earlier settled in your stomach faster than any food would’ve. Everything feels about a half-second behind.

You try to light the cigarette, but the flame slips once. You try again, but your fingers aren’t cooperating. Before you can even register the struggle, Eren leans forward and plucks the lighter back. He doesn’t say anything. Just flicks it again and holds the flame to the end of your cigarette like it’s nothing.

You breathe in and smoke fills your lungs. His fingers hover close and for a second, the only sound is the hum of the limo and the soft pull of breath.

And maybe you’re too high or too tired or too fucked up to tell the difference, but it feels nice. Not soft nor sweet, but intentional. Like he still wants you here, even though you’re just supposed to look pretty.

It’s not the first time someone’s lit a cigarette for you. Not even close. Guys have done it at parties, in alleys, outside club doors with shaking hands and hungry eyes.

But it’s never felt like this. It’s never felt like how he’s making you feel right now.

There aren’t any cameras around. Just this quiet kind of care that makes your stomach twist. He doesn’t even look at you when he does it. He doesn’t even wait for a thank you. Just lights it like it’s automatic, like he’s done it before and he’ll do it again.

And fuck, he looks hot.

His legs spread, wrist draped over his knee, and cigarette perched between his fingers. His hair is messy in the bun, lips a little chapped. He looks like every bad decision you’ve ever made. But this time, it wasn’t really your decision to be here.

You take another drag, just to stay grounded. But all it does is make you more aware of the silence. The fact that it’s just the two of you in this car. That you’re supposed to be a headline for a distraction.

But now all you can think about is how close he leaned in.

And how badly you want him to do it again.

He occasionally ashes out his cigarette in the cupholder, but you’re smoking a lot slower than him. The faint bass of whatever song’s playing thumps through the limo, out of tune with your heart. He stays silent throughout the ride, eyes flickering over whenever you breathe too deeply.

He interrupts the silence. “You wanna get dropped off at Sasha’s?”

Your eyes beam up from hearing her name. “You know Sasha, too?”

He nods while putting out his cigarette in the cup holder. “She’s been Connie’s friend forever. Way before the band. I’m surprised she never introduced you to us.”

You blink. “Wait. Why didn’t I ever meet you before?”

“I saw you,” he says, not looking at you.

You narrow your eyes and sigh. “You told me you’ve seen me at every party.”

“Because I have.”

“And?”

He smirks faintly. “You’re hard to miss when you’re half-naked and dancing on tables.”

You giggle through the smoke. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“No reason to,” he mutters. “Didn’t need you until now.”

“Right.”

He raises his voice slightly, eyes flicking to the front of the limo. “Yo. Take us to Sasha’s.” Like Sasha’s just a name in his world.

You don’t say anything. You just lean back and inhale the last of your cigarette until the filter burns your fingers. The city slips by outside the tinted glass, sunlight ripples through palm trees, traffic lights dimmed, rows of houses stacked against the hills. The backstreets of L.A. feel different in daylight. It’s the kind of calm you’re not used to.

He doesn’t speak again.

But he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking. When you shift your legs, when you bite your lip, or when your fingers tremble in your lap.

By the time the limo turns onto Sasha’s street, you feel the weight of it in your chest. Not the kind that comes from fake headlines or label contracts, but the kind that sits in your throat and stays there.

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