Sleepyhead

Certified Loco

It felt like someone stabbed me in the back of the head. 

Or you know, in the eyes and the stomach and the chest and the thighs and the bum and the right collar and the left calf and then right in the mouth. 

My body hurt like fucking hell. 

You’d think waking up naturally would allow for my body to rejuvenate itself, or something. You know, get rid of all those toxins and ouchie feelings while sleeping and then, when it was officially ready and brand spanking good as new, it would allow me to wake up from my slumber, a beautiful butterfly ready to conquer the world.

But it seemed my body had a different idea of sorts. I’d been lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, over the covers, and trying to imagine how in the hell I was going to get out of bed and actually live my life. Because let’s get real here, the odds of my successful return to my own hotel room were slim. As in, not even gonna happen a’ight.

I looked to my left. Niall slept on his back as well, except his mouth was wide-ass open and he was snoring like a banshee and there was quite literally a pool of saliva forming beside his head, dripping down his mouth and actually collecting in a puddle. If I had the strength, I would have easily slapped him silly.

But alas, I did not. 

This is bad Sutton Lark, self-proclaimed sleepy sleeper: cannot sleep.

Someone call the doctor.

Or you know, at least Astrid or Reed. But my mobile is still in Zayn’s room along with my jumper and thigh highs so I’m sort of trapped in Niall’s massive basketball shorts and Zayn’s t-shirt. Maybe they could bring me clothes. And…snacks.

Nutella.

Mmmmm.

“Arghhhhh!” I groaned, smacking my hand against the bed. Niall didn’t even flinch. I sighed, taking a moment to appreciate the fact that he’d been toning up in the last few weeks. Biceps were defined and he was wearing one of those purple cutoffs he seemed so fond of. Blonde hair was messy and sticking up in all sorts of directions, but it suited him quite well. And save for the drool and obnoxious sounds coming from his mouth, he was a catch. More than a catch, really. Blue eyes and sweet smile. Fucking Reed.

We’d talked for about five minutes last night after I followed him back to his room. He’d said that Reed was just really short but polite and walked away after she declined his offer. We then preceded to opening all the alcohol bottles in his room. 

And drinking all of them.

We drank everything.

Which explains why I’ve got this massive hangover headache. The body ache, of course, comes from the playtime I had with Zayn. Over and over again. 

Ouchie.

“Arghhhh!” I cried. “Lord help me!”

Niall rolled over this time, eyes opening as he landed in his pool of drool. “Arghhhhh!” He screamed, although more so in his Irish accent so it sounded far more interesting than when I did it. He flew off the bed, one of his many spectacular Niall Horan Defying Gravity Jumps and landed on his feet beside. Frantically swiping at his face, he yelped, “The fuck was that?”

“Your own drool,” I said slowly, pinching my eyes shut at his loud noise. “And would you…keep it down? My…head…”

“Here,” Niall grabbed a pair of sunglasses from beside the bed and tossed them to me. They landed against my chest and I hissed in pain. He shrugged, spun around and moved towards the bar where there was a bunch of leftovers from the room service he ordered.