Hostage (a One Direction story)

Chapter Twenty Six

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Niall's P.O.V. 

Staring blankly at my feet, I meander out into the city, the smell of rain fresh on the asphalt along with the puddles. My mind is in turmoil, as is my heart. 

Does Jae even like me? She kissed me like that, but then she said she needed time? I mull over her words. Why are girls so complicated?! Why can't she just say 'Hey, Niall, I like you.'  or 'Hey, Niall, I don't like you.' ?Why does it have to be all this 'I need to think, I need time' crap? 

She probably feels as confused as you, whisperes a reasonable corner of my mind. 

I'm busy arguing with myself when I suddenly hear a loud scream. "OHMYGAWD IT'S NIALL HORAN!!" 

Shit. I yank my hood up and start sprinting. I can't be caught by fans or paps right now - I need alone time. Keeping my hood low over my face, I weave through crowds of pedestrians, finally turning a corner ahead of the mini-mob chasing me and divnig into an alley, where I press myself against the wall, panting. 

I hear screaming and footsteps as the girls rush past my hiding place. Breathing as quietly as possible, I inch further into the alley, realizing that the wall I'm pressed up against is part of our hotel. Maybe there's a side entrance? 

Footsteps echo in the alley and I whirl around to see a figure in black walking into an alley. I press a hand to my hammering heart  - I thought it would be fangirls, cornering me - and breathe deeply, smiling at the man.

"Ya scared me, mate." I said, smiling at him. 

He looks at me, icy eyes meeting mine from under a hood.

"Sorry," he says, his voice rough. "Hey, don't I know you?" 

I grin sheepishly. "Probably, I'm part of a band..." I trail off as realization dawns in his eyes.

"You're Niall! From One Direction!" says the man. "Oh, I have a special friend who's a HUGE fan of yours." 

I smile, a little wierded out from the creepy smile the stranger is sending me. "Mind getting a picture with me so I can send it to her?" 

I nod, running a hand through my hair as the man rifles through his pockets for his camera phone, presumably. He pulls out a rag and I stare at him, confused. "How're you going to take a pictu-"

He lunges at me, the hand with the rag going over my mouth and nose, another grabbing my wrists so that I can't hit him. I struggle, but its useless - the chloroform soaking the rag is kicking in, and my muscles aren't responding. Slowly, I sink into blackness, my mind floating into oblivion with one last thought passing across it.

Jae.