Wanted by The Wanted | ✔️

|| SIX ||

|| B I S H 'S N O T E ||

I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN 48 DAYS😱😱

Holy mother of gawd that picture. That's kind of what Oscar looks like, except Oscar has grey eyes because damnit I always give all my characters brown eyes so I wanted something different xD

Anyhoo, are the POV changes bothering you guys at all? Should I stick to one POV per chapter? I feel like maybe I'm doing them too often, but it's hard to write in just one perspective for a whole chapter when I want character development. Hmm.

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:| A V Y N L U N A V E R |:

"You sure are reacting to this well..."

"I look like a boy, my eyes are green and sting, my piercing hurts like a bitch, I've been kidnapped by strangers who told me my dad died of overdose when I was told all my life that he died of cancer - I really don't think I'm reacting enough."

I sigh and lie back against the bed frame, the sharp spruce wood pressing against my neck as Oscar pulls his shirt over his head and slides on a fresh one. Too mentally worn out, I don't have time to swoon.

"You guys really couldn't have bought me any clothes? I've been wearing the same clothes for five days now," I say, picking at my nails absent-mindedly, "I haven't even had a chance to shower yet."

Oscar picks up a bag and heads for the door with a shrug, "Your fault, shower's right there. Trent bought you clothes yesterday along with the hair stuff," he points to the bag that Trent had bought yesterday to get me to cut my hair.

"You couldn't have told me earlier?" I frown, scooting towards the end of the bed and reaching for it.

"The other guys are in the other room, I'm going to the gym," Oscar states, opening the heavy door with a chaste wave.

Pulling out a can of hairspray from the bag, I look up at him, "Didn't you go yesterday?"

"Gotta keep this intact," he smirks, running a hand down his chiseled body before winking and leaving.

Choosing to ignore his existence, I pour out the contents of the bag. Hairspray, hair straighteners, curling wands, combs, hair bobbles and clips freaking galore. As I locate the clothes, I pick out a batman shirt and a pair of frayed, light-wash jean shorts with a pineapple on the butt. I decide not to question it.

The weather in LA today is warm and humid, despite it being January, so I place my choice of clothes on the bathroom counter in satisfaction and step into the shower.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself sitting on the bed with my newly-short, damp hair dripping onto my shirt. I frown at the array of hair instruments in from of me. I've only ever used straighteners - even for curling my hair.

I flicker my gaze up to my reflection in the mirror, running a hand through my hair. I secretly like the new cut, and the colour is slowly growing on me. The only thing I really despise are the green contact lenses. They really sting when put in, and over my light brown eyes, they turn a murky swamp colour.

"What should we do with you, hair?" I mutter, once again alone in the hotel room with no-one to stop me escaping whatsoever.