Must Be 18 Or Over To Enter//Golden Boy

Flavor.

"Don't you just love eight hour flights?" The old lady beside me remarked sarcastically and smiled at me. I sighed and smiled back.

"Couldn't imagine a better day." She laughed quietly. I put my other earbuds in as we stood in line to get on the plane. Apparently, it was unusual for a 19 year old to fly first class. My ticket was scanned with great caution. I was directed down a hallway and as soon as I set foot on the plane I was directed up a set of stairs and to my own personal booth. There was a large reclining chair with a larger than normal flat screen tv in front of it. and a pull out table on the left. I set my backpack down on the table and sat down in the chair. It was so comfortable I could have fallen asleep very, very easily if it weren't so dry and cold. It was the biggest plane I'd ever flown on and was making multiple stops after the first in England. After a long and boring speech about safety I could nearly recite from memory, we finally took off and I got started on the plane's wifi.

There were still six winners to be announced when I was already on the plane on my way there. The minute after I got my email, it was announced on Oliver's social media. So far, there was Grim, the actual Satan worshipper, June, the hick who once told me I was going to hell via dm, Perrie, Miss Teen New York three years running, and me, the only one that fought Oliver Sykes in the comments. Long ago, I entered some silly contest in which the host posts a picture of you, and whoever's picture gets the most likes, wins. I won, and as I thanked people for voting, Oliver, someone whom I considered an idol at the time, commented calling me a joke. In attempt to remedy the situation, I replied apologizing for whatever I had done to anger him, and mentioned that I was a big fan. For the sake of brevity in the story, he made a post basically calling out everyone that was solely famous on social media, and how useless they truly are, directed entirely at me. Hence the nickname, Oliver Sucks. An update: Tragedy has struck. Natasha Evans. @Nayisforhorses. Anywhere she wasn't was idea for a trip. Her enter brand is working hard on the farm, and taking care of her horses, and being a good honest country girl, but I went to one of her parties before. It was the biggest house I'd ever been in with personal servants, hired chefs and bartenders, and they even paid a dance company to come and perform in her house. The little ranch house she claimed to spend all of her time in was over a mile away.

"Oh my god." And that was it. The end of my life. "Kylie? As in Edwards?" I looked up to see the bestiality convict standing before me.

"Mmmmh." I groaned as I glared up at her. "Nayisforhorses right?" Her sunbleached hair, dark tan, and freckles made her story all the more believable, but I knew she used brown eyeliner to make her freckles darker and her tan came from a bottle. I had no problem with changing your appearance to fit however you wanted to look, but it was just eveerything else about her.

"Kwards right?" She crossed her arms, though still smiling. I would have posted a behind the scenes video from her party just to ruin her brand, but I signed an NDA when I walked through the door, so unless I wanted her to sue the shit out of me my hands were tied. "Didn't know you won."

"Yeah well, if you checked your Instagram feed more than your own account you probably would. Being able to read might help too."

"Wow, not the first time he posted about you either then, right?"

"Those in glass houses should not throw stones." I smirked.

"I don't even know what that means." She braided her long blonde hair in small sections, habitually.

"I bet you said that a lot, hm?"

"Ma'am I'm going to have to ask you to take your seat." The air hostess approached Natasha. She smirked at me before walking back up the aisle.