Niall Horan is a pop star who thinks he can handle anything. Even a crush on fellow musician Alaine Hods. He only has one thing on his mind, make Alaine his. But once the demons from his past start to resurface, Niall has to make a choice between Alaine and his sanity… and he never chooses wisely.
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She stormed up to him, rage fully pumping through her veins now. “I have given you space, two almost three weeks’ worth of space, Niall. And what have you given me? Nothing but the cold shoulder; God, it’s like nothing I say or do is good enough for you! Tell me what I’m doing wrong here?” Alaine begged, getting right in his face, taking his water as he attempted a swig. “TELL ME.”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “You’ve done nothing wrong, okay? Just calm down.”
“No. No I’m sorry but I can’t do that, Niall. I won’t do that. Tell me now or I’m leaving.”
A smirk crept up on the Irish lad’s face as he took the water back from Alaine’s hand and drank some more, pushing past her. “You aren’t going anywhere, Alaine. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Excuse me? I am not going anywhere? You know this for a fact?”
Niall stood across from her debating what he should say next, part of him was smug, knowing Alaine would never leave him as she’s said it before… but the other part of him was on his knees, wishing that he could explain to her his fear: confessing what he’d done, and had been doing for months now, and have her leave. How could Niall handle that? Confess and have Alaine leave, or be a dick and possibly string Alaine along for as long as he could before she cracked? Option two.
I run faster and faster. He's going to catch me. I let out a very girly squeal as I feel two sets of arms grab me slowing me to a halt. "That is not fair!" I scream at the curly haired boy. He just chuckles letting go of me. "Yes it was. You never said I couldn't use other people." He shrugs. "It was implied. And he's training for the Olympics." "You're training." He states simply flipping his hair out of his eyes. "C'mon, we're going to be late." He grabs my wrist and starts pulling me down the street. "I really don't want to go." I whine while his grip doesn't falter but possibly gets tighter. "You really don't have a choice." He mumbles. "Since when have you cared about being punctual?" He's always the late one. "Since your job depends on it." And he's right. Maybe I should back up. I am Harry Styles' personal bodyguard. That doesn't really clear it up, does it? Well, this is what happened...