Fast Paced Heart

"Do you feel that?"He says leaning in closly pressing his soft lips onto my neck.

"Feel what?" I respond taking in a sharp breath as he find that one spot I despise. He smirks against my skin and continues to suck on the sensitive area.

"Your heart, and how whenever I'm near you the pace quickens." He says his smile growing wider as his dimples begin to become visible. "Do I make you nervous?" He asks putting his overly large hand on my chest in order to feel my heart beat. I shake my head causing my hair to bounce around.

"You don't make me nervous." I say and look him in the eyes as soon as his lips leave my neck.

He smirks again, the smirk that could take the breath away from any girl that laid eyes on it. The smirk that causes my knees to become weak. That smirk that causes my heart to pound so hard against my chest that i think it may burst.

That smirk that belonged to the one and only,

Harry Styles.

~Chapter One~

Captivate the reader. Thats what my dad always said. But, he was a writer, and I'm no where near having much of an education in order to become a writer. Or succeed in general, because I basically suck at life.

That quote, 'we don't choose where we come from, but we can choose where we go from there,' is easier said then done. Actually, where you come from basically determines if you'll succeed or not becuase if you think about it, if you're dirt poor, then how the hell can you become super rich. I think it's more about the head on your shoulders and if you have a horrible up rising then wouldn't that mess you up? In the head? That is however my opinion.

So I suppose if you're going to read about my oh-so-amazing life you want to know about me. I'm a closed book, if we're being honest here. Most people don't even get passed the title. The title is usually the name of the story, and my name is rather booring, actually it's the worst name that my mother probably could've given me. Britney Theresa McCan.

I was born February 28th, 1994, to a father that decided that he should rub his career in me and my mothers face for 6 years and leave us. And to my lovely mother that I can thank for my alcohol and cigarette addiction. But, she raised me so back to that lame ass quote, 'we don't choose where we come from,' and thats for damn sure.

My mum's job barely pays the bills considering she had to drop out of high school in order to have me. And following in my mother's footsteps, I did the same, besides the getting pregnant part of it.

Since the job my mum has actually hardly ever pays the bills I decided to take matters into my own hands. As soon as I turned 18 I decided to leave the oh-so-loving environment that my dear mother provided me with. Although this broke her heart to know that her 'precious baby' was leaving her, it would help her. The bills would become smaller, and it would be more manageable. So even though I was breaking her fragile heart, it was all good intention, kinda.

Living on your own is scary at first, but you get used to it. You get even more used to it when, you're barely home alone because the next male that you had over, if I'm lucky spends the night. It's a real shame when I wake up in the morning to find my food eaten and not any saved for me.

As I wake up to another empty bed with the other side unmade I sigh to myself as I walk into the kitchen. I look at the mess that was left behind by -what was his name? John? Jake? - and sigh a heavy sigh. Thankfully I work tonight so I will be accompanied by another handsome individual. I smirk to myself just at the thought of whoever the lucky male will be.

I walk around the flat that I have found myself falling in love with since the first day I signed the papers. The living room took up most of the space, and it was fairly nice. Good enough to bring company home every night. The tv was an old one, one with the box at the end but it didn't really matter nothing on television seemed to hold my attention. I made it so the two walls were filled with books, just to add a vintage feel. I don't even know what half the books are, some but not all.

I take a shower trying to brush off the disgusting gross feeling I get after having sex with someone. As I wrap my hair in a towel and secure my body with a towel. I look at the clock hanging above my small queen bed. Which told me that it was 9:43. I have precisely 3 hours until I have to leave my beloved apartment, and head to the one place I dread most; work.