UNFAMOUS [BOOK ONE] (A Wattpad 'Featured Story')

Ch. 12 | California King

I open my eyes; I am sprawled out alone on a king-size bed that doesn't belong to me.

Groggily, I sit up -my head pulsates a little when I reached 90 degrees. I blink a few times and rub away the sleep that has gathered in the corners of my eye before focusing on my surroundings. Where the bloody hell am I?

The walls are painted light grey with only a large Samsung flat screen and Bose surround sound speakers adorning it. The bedding is unbelievably comfortable; I imagine it's the equivalent of lying on a cloud with black sheets made of the softest cotton I have ever felt, and plush silk pillows that are now the lucky hosts of my dribble stains. I frown at them and flip the pillow over hoping that the owner won't notice until it's too late, then I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. The cherry wood shutters on the large window on the left side of the room are closed; were it not for the glow of the soft pearlescent light behind the head board I wouldn't be able to see anything –there isn't a lamp on the bedside table. There is however, a tall glass of water and a packet of paracetemol set out on it. Whoever brought me here knew I would need this like the desert needs the rain; God bless them. I pop two of the chalky white oblong pills into my mouth and wash them down with the slightly stale tasting water which I continue drinking until the glass is drained.

 I swing my bare legs off the side of the huge dream bed only to feel my toes connect with the chill of the cherry wood floor. I shiver then stand up, coming face to face with my cataclysmic reflection in the full length mirror next to the closet. The mirror informs me that my weave is a mess of knots and limp curls -but fortunately not as messy as it could be thanks to the silk pillows –and that I'm in a man's white shirt and my underwear. Confused, I tug the hem of the shirt; where the bloody hell are my clothes?

A frenetic spin helps me spot them neatly folded on a chair in the corner of the room. Ok so my clothes are safe, now all I have to figure out is where exactly I've ended up. I run through last night's events and come up short, my memory going fuzzy after running down the stairs into the girl's toilets to puke.

I drag my hands through my knots in irritation, the shirt material brushing my nose as I do...and then I smell home; I smell him. He is all over me and the room is practically doused in his palatable scent. This is Nathaniel's shirt, which must mean that I am in Nathaniel's room...but where is Nathaniel?

Without further thought, I charge over to the bedroom door and fling it open, flinching as the crystal door-knob smacks into the wall behind it.

I'm now standing on a dark quiet landing in nothing but a shirt that luckily is long enough for me to maintain some sort of dignity in case someone sees me, not that the fact that it fits a little too well helps much.

With the choice of two other doors and a flight of stairs, I opt for the stairs, afraid that one of the doors could lead someone else's bedroom. I'm not sure if Nate lives alone or not –it's not a topic we discuss -but I wouldn't be surprised if he did; he possessed the means to do so. Being that this is London and property prices are ridiculous, for a 19 year old boy, this is nothing short of impressive.

I have never been to Nathaniel's place before; when we were together he still lived with his parents in Notting Hill. His family home is intimidatingly beautiful; white washed walls, high ceilings, breath-taking front and back gardens, a collection of contemporary art, and every room looked like it had been transported from a high end interior design catalogue due to his mum, Natasha Gibson, being one of London's most sought after interior designers. His dad, Daniel Gibson, is a successful architect –his parents are loaded. Unlike my upbringing, Nathaniel was raised in perfect family harmony. They were all beautiful, successful, charismatic, witty people to whom money was no object, and happiness was easy to come by. The first time he introduced me to his family, I envied him terribly.