Hot Mess | N.H. (discontinued)

o n e [ 1 ]

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Hot Mess:

c h a p t e r  :  o n e  [ 1 ]

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"People want you to be a crazy, out-of-control teen brat. They want you miserable, just like them. They don't want heroes; what they want is to see you fall." -Leonardo DiCaprio

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Niall

"Niall Horan spotted with blinding model!"

Barbara was nothing more than a friend.

"Irish-popstar having a little too much to drink at local pub!"

I haven't been to a pub in months.

"One Direction's Niall Horan seen with mysterious girl near Los Angeles International Airport!"

That 'mysterious girl' was my cousin, you bollocks.

The cold breeze of New York's chilly air bites my exposed skin; the only parts that aren't covered by my disguise consisting of a hat, sunglasses (even though it's not even close to sunny here), and dark, heavy clothing. I lift the neck of my black sweatshirt closer to my head, trying to conceal my sides, as I stare at—yet another—falsely-written article.

I can't believe they're at it again, I think as I read the headlines on various magazines and newspapers that litter the New York newsstands. The paps and writers had stopped searching for more juicy details from me for a few weeks, but it looks as if their little break is over now. I had only stepped foot into the public a week ago and already they have their so-called "stories" published.

"Oh my god, Emma—look!" a young girl squeals a few feet away from me. I turn my body slightly to the side, alarmed, praying that they haven't recognized me.

But she just stares right past me, thankfully. "Oh-em-gee!" another girl squeals next to her, a large grin on her face. They both run past me and snatch the magazine I was looking at from its place on the iced-over stand in front of me. "It's Niall!" she exclaims, pointing to my face plastered on the page.

I watch as the two girls squeal over me, not even knowing that the person they're excited is literally standing right next to them. I smirk slightly to myself, dazzled by the things I can do as a celebrity.

"I knew he was dating her," the other girl says, disgust in her voice. "I hate Barbara now. She just wants his fame, that gold-digger."

The other girl nods in agreement and drops the magazine to the ground below her without a care in the world. They both saunter off together in a different direction as they discuss pointless things, and I wrinkle my nose in response to their unpleasant manners.

My gaze averts from the two girls and drops down to the magazine laying stiffly on the ground, its pages still open and visible as they show a blurry picture of me and Barbara Palvin late one night after my recent X-Factor performance that they were looking at. Sure, it kind of looks like we hand something going on—but Barbara has always been nothing more than just a friend. We had lunch together, I think, a while back, but that was just management's orders for some odd reason. She's a nice girl, though; she's just not the right girl for me.

And even though we may not be dating, what gives people the right to bash on someone they don't even know for something as stupid as a picture? It disgusts me, really, how immature some of our fans act sometimes.