Hot Mess | N.H. (discontinued)

s i x [ 6 ]

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Hot Mess:

c h a p t e r : s i x [ 6 ]

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"The effect of power and publicity on all men is the aggravation of self, a sort of tumor that ends by killing the victim's sympathies." -Henry B. Adams

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Emery

"Are you just gon' stand there and stare at my hand or grab it?"

It'd be hard not to recognize the thick, Irish accent (in Ireland, might I add) that's been heard and broadcasted all over the world on various radio stations as Niall Horan's—one-fifth of overly-famous boyband One Direction, not to mention the blonde hair poking out of his poorly-drawn hood over his head and the baby blue eyes that can be seen vaguely even through the black sunglasses.

So, like any other person shocked at a celebrity—and a huge one, at that—standing in front of them, I merely stare at his hand outstretched towards me, debating whether or not he was doing this just out sincere kindness, or mere pity.

"Well?" the boy presses, obviously growing impatient; his toes bouncing off the ground kind of give away the well-played act of kindness, and now I'm more thinking he's on the pity side. "C'mon, kid, it's mad cold out here and I'm—we're—on the verge of freezing."

Actually, I'm about twenty degrees past freezing. I'm just about to reach for his hand before I freeze half-way (metaphorically and physically, because—let's be honest—I'm about to die freezing here in this water that I'm still sitting in). "I'm nineteen. Don't call me 'kid,'" I counter, my blue eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly at the "sweet teenage heartthrob."

This time, it's his baby blue eyes that narrow at me through the glasses, roaming themselves over my body, and I can't help but feel a bit insecure. "Ya sure?" he asks, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Well, you sure don't have a lot to show for it, anyways."

This is the asshole I have to stalk for a month?

Scoffing, I swat his hand away and reach underneath the cold water, placing my hands solidly on the smooth concrete with a shiver and pushing myself up. I step out of the fountain, embarrassed as people walk by and stare at me with an odd look. Shooting them a dirty look, I'm about reach around for a towel when I remember that this isn't some hotel pool—but a moldy Ireland fountain.

"I'm sorry—I didn't get the memo that you wanted girls to be sluts around celebrities like you," I snap back with a scowl, removing the camera from around my neck and placing it on the edge of the fountain, the scowl replaced by a look of pity as I see the poor thing.

Niall raises his eyebrows at this. "You—" He clears his throat of his Irish accent and comes back with a terrible American one, "—you think I'm a celebrity?"

I shrug my shoulders sarcastically, slipping my soaked jacket off them and attempting to ring the water out. "Well, my little sister wouldn't have just a random Irishman plastered on her walls."

Niall's quiet for a moment until he gets the nerve to speak up. "Sorry," he quickly apologizes, his accent coming back. "It's just—I've had a lot of shit going on lately and I've not been in the best mood."

Finding his accent amusing, I offer the boy a pity smile, but not one that says I've completely forgotten about his shitty mood. "Believe me, I can tell."

"What's your name? Y'know, since you already know mine," Niall jokes. He shoots me a lazy grin, the left side of his cheek rising up slightly. "And aren't you, like, freezing right now?"