Falling for Dylan Day

Dylan Fucking Day

Heyoo sorry I've been gone...didya miss me??

Dylan on the side *heart eye emojis*

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Chapter 4: Dylan Fucking Day

When I woke up, I realized three things.

One: I was wearing nothing but a lacy, black Victoria's Secret lingerie set.

Two: I was in a shitty hotel room, sleeping next to the sexy son of a bitch who had tried to hit on me last night.

Three: I had no fucking clue what had happened.

My head was throbbing. It felt like those mini Oompa-Loompas from Willy Wonka were mining chocolate inside my skull. I moaned and rolled over onto my back to stare at the cracked, crumbling ceiling. What the hell happened last night?

It wasn't until I heard a low groan come from the other side of the bed that I fully acknowledged the guy who was up until now, sleeping soundly beside me.

I inwardly cringed. If I looked as good as I felt, I wouldn't be surprised if he ran away screaming.

He simply yawned, and looked me up and down with judging eyes. I mentally groaned. I must look like medusa right now.

Right when I was about to snap at him for looking at me like a pervy fifteen-year-old, he rolled his eyes and turned back over onto his side with the intention of falling back asleep.

Excuse me?

"Hey!" I croaked. He ignored me. I cleared my throat and leaned over so my mouth was right next to his ear. "HEY!" I screamed.

He jumped, causing me to fall on top of him. At this moment, I realized he only had a pair of boxers on. Shit.

I forced myself to keep calm, even though my cheeks were probably the color of a fire engine by now. He smirked. I bared my teeth.

"Who the hell are you?" I said, shoving myself off of him. He looked at me, confusion on his angelic features.

"What do you mean, 'Who are you?'" He asked, disbelief laced in his accusing tone.

"I mean, who the hell are you?!" I screeched, already frustrated. The Oompa-Loompas were hard at work in my head, and apparantly, demand was high because those motherfuckers were putting it into high gear.

He looked at me, completely bewildered. "Are you serious? Everybody knows who I am. I'm famous!"

I gave him a flat look. "Yeah, right. And I'm the Queen of England. Will you just tell me what your name is, dude? I really need to go. I got shit to do."

He shook his head, still not believing what I was saying. Damn, this guy was really self-centered. I mean, he's hot, but that doesn't make you famous.

"Call me Dylan," He finally said. He looked over at me, waiting for my reaction.

Wait.

Did he say Dylan? As in...

"Fuck," I whispered, "Fuck."

I had sex with Dylan Fucking Day.

Wait, hold up. Did I? We were still fairly decent, and I didn't see a condom wrapper anywhere. And the bed wasn't mussed...

Oh thank science. My mom would've killed me.

I raked my hands through my snarled and ratty hair, and turned to face him. "Do you mean Dylan as in Dylan Day? World famous popstar and poster-child for teens ruined by fame?"