Dangerous: A Marcel Styles Fan Fiction

29: Texting in Styles

29: Texting in Styles

   Marcel had taken me home after the romance had died down a bit, so I awoke in my own bed. There was a slight stab in my brain obviously telling me I shouldn’t have slammed back three tequila sunrises last night.

   Anyway, in my half intoxicated state, I discovered I hadn’t plugged in my phone. My battery still had some life in it, but it wouldn’t even last until work. It would die in the middle of math. I simply decided to just leave it here to charge, but not before I answered two unread texts. The first was from Georgia Rose:

   Vomiting. Not coming to school today. Too much tequila :( Never drinking again! I’m gonna die :/

   I just rolled my eyes at her unnecessary dramatics and moved onto the next text message. It was from Harry:

   BSE is almost done editing. Should be premiering in maybe a week or two :) – H xx

   Harry’s message made me as extremely giddy (which disturbed me). I felt like Georgia Rose involuntarily fangirling over this band. I would watch the video with them before anyone else would! My heart pounded loud in my chest and I felt exactly like my squeaky blonde friend. To get this horribly pleasant feeling out of me, I needed to text her:

   Harry just texted me! They’re watching it soon (like a week maybe)! I’m screaming inside!

   “Veronica!” my mother called from down the hall, giving me the alert that it was almost time for me to leave for school.

   I shoved the plug into my phone, squinting my eyes as the sudden brightness of the screen made the slight headache I had just a little worse, and threw it on my bed to leave it to charge. I grabbed my school bag and left the room, ignoring the buzzing my phone made as I dashed.

   I ate quickly, nodding as my mother reminded me, “After work, I need you to babysit Vanessa. Your father and I are going out tonight.”

   I left after that, cringing at the sun like a vampire as the immense power of its light just made the mild tequila head pain worse than when I saw my phone. I hadn’t felt this bad last time. Then again, I had been plagued with euphoria thanks to Marcel (not that I was complaining about the sex or anything).

   I got to school which was a drag the entire day as usual. When I first saw Marcel, he was wearing shades and told me he’d “be a liar if he didn’t say he had a mild hangover too.”

   “Please, don’t make me drink again until we’re legal,” I begged.

   “Deal,” he consented, “Are you doing anything tonight after work?”

   “Babysitting.”

   “So, your house?”

   “Yup.”

   Then he led me off to algebra. When lunch came, he joined me and my friends (turning them all into squeaky Georgia Rose disciples). After school, when our breaks from work came, he gave me a taste of the evening ahead of us in the closet. Of course, it didn’t really last long and would pretty much be a mirror of all I’d get this evening. Like I’d told him, I was not telling my sister “where babies came from.” The most I’d settle for under my parents roof was a chaste, passionate make out session. And so, that was what we did.