Dearest Riley

Riley Horan. Sound familiar? Probably not. According to Modest! Management (a.k.a. One Direction’s management company), Riley doesn't exist. She is Niall Horan’s sister, but she goes by her fake name: Riley Gibbons. Management has asked (more like forced, actually) Riley and her family to keep her identity a secret from everyone else. No one knows that she has a famous brother, or that her famous brother has a sister. And it seems that Niall is absolutely fine with this situation; he seems to enjoy Riley not being in his life. Depressed and quite pissed (because her life is pretty bad at the moment), Riley thinks she has no one to turn to for help. That is, until another member of One Direction strolls into her life and changes things.

And don’t worry; this isn't a typical “teen-age-ery” love story. In fact, Riley doesn’t even like Harry Styles when he enters her life. If you really want the truth, Riley thinks Harry Styles is an asshole…….

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11. Change of Plans

I open my eyes, awakening to a splitting headache. What the fuck?

I groggily sit up, my back sore from sleeping on the ground for a second night in a row. I look around. Harry wasn't in his bed; he must be getting ready. I was thankful for this. I've had too much of Harry bothering me the last 24 hours.

I slowly stand up, feeling as if my back was going to snap. Fuck.

I bitch and moan as I open the door and walk down the hall. Harry isn't going to get away with hogging the guest room bed.

"Good morning, love."

Walking past the kitchen, I do a double-take. Did Harry just call me love?

I take a few steps back and stare at Harry in disbelief.

"What the fuck did you just call me?"

"Love," Harry replies, shrugging his shoulders.

"You can't go from calling me a bitch to calling me 'love'. I swear, are you sure you don't have PMS?"

Harry just chuckles. "Whatever. Just trying to be nice."

I shake my head as I walk to the couch. That boy confuses the fuck out of me. Sitting down, I hear the squeak of a door opening from down the hall.

Emer walks in in her pajamas, smiling as she sees me on the couch.

"I like those pajamas on you," she says, referring to my moth-eaten pajama pants. They were kind of childish, considering they were pink with ice cream cones all over it.

"Thanks," I mutter.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"My back just hurts, that's all."

Emer nods in sympathy. She's silent for a moment before she begins talking like a maniac.

"So, how was your date last night? Isn't Harry the sweetest? Oh my gosh, did you guys kiss?"

"Slow the hell down. First of all, it was not a date. Second of all, I think he's an asshole. And no, I did not kiss him, the main reason being that I think he's an asshole."

"You're such a downer. You could've at least come up with a bullshit story just to please me."

I laugh. "Not going to happen."

Emer laughs, too, joining me on the couch.

"You know, Harry isn't such a bad guy. He's really sweet once you get to know him."

"You have your opinion, and I have mine."

Emer sighs in defeat.

I roll my eyes at her response. Emer was the type of person who loves everybody and everything, and can't find a single thing wrong in the world. Now that I think about it, I don't even know why Emer and I are friends. We have nothing in common. She kind of just appeared in my life. There wasn't anything that happened, or any mutual friend or similarity. I had always felt indifferent towards Emer in school, until one day we became friends. It was a very blurry past that we had, but since the day that she decided that she would be there for me, I've known that I can always rely on her to help me out.

As if on cue, Harry walks in from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. He hands one to Emer, saying good morning, and hands the other one to me, telling me how he likes my pajamas.

What the actual fuck has gotten into that boy? I'm starting to think that he's bipolar or something.

"I'll be right back," I say, placing my coffee on the coffee table. I follow Harry to the kitchen. I was going to set this boy straight.

"Nobody's buying your stupid 'nice boy' act. Getting me coffee isn't going to make me forget that you're an asshole," I state, crossing my arms.

Harry smiles. "I'm sorry if you have the wrong impression, but this is how I treat people who are nice to me. Emer's lovely to me, so I intend to treat her the same way."

"Bullshit."

"Whatever you want to think."

I groan and walk back to the couch. I was so fucking done with fake people.

My phone vibrates on the floor, where it was charging in a nearby outlet. I hesitantly pick it up, praying it wasn't Mark. I had texted him before I went to bed, apologizing for my loss of contact. Mark was accustomed to me constantly having family issues, and usually he would mind his own business and not ask too much about it. I was thankful for this; it was just really hard to lie to Mark, since he was so honest with me. Lying to my friends is by far much easier, mostly because you know that they probably lie a lot too. But Mark, I don't know, he seemed very open, and would never hesitate to tell a secret. And that's why I really don't want to talk to him at the moment, because I couldn't bring myself to lie to him again. At least, not now.

"Who is it?" Emer asks, stretching her neck to get a glimpse at my phone's screen. I swear, Emer was such a snoop. She could never mind her own business for more than a minute.

"It's Mark," I answer, now panicked. What the hell does he mean?

We need to talk. Now.

What the fuck? What is this about?

His picture pops up on the screen and my tacky ringtone begins to play. Do I answer it?

"H-hello?" I nervously pick up, afraid of the conversation about to take place. I knew this wasn't going to be good. I can guarantee it wasn't going to be pleasant, just because of the simple fact that nothing in my life ever turns out okay.

"For fuck's sake, Riley! Where the hell are you? I've called your house a million times!" he shouts from the other end of the phone. It was obvious that he was agitated, and an agitated Mark is a scary one.

Then again, I'm pretty sure that Mark fears me more than I fear him.

"I'm sorry I haven't called you. I really am."

"Bullshit. Why haven't you taken my calls?"

"I'm not home, Mark. I moved out."

"Well fuck you, Riley! You had me worried sick!"

"I'm sorry. Besides, why didn't you just call my mobile?"

"After calling your fucking house like thirty times, I wasn't so sure you even wanted to talk to me!"

"Then why did you decide to call me now?" I ask calmly, making sure Emer didn't catch on to the fact that we were having an argument.

Emer looks at me suspiciously, probably having already figured out that Mark was unhappy with me. I sigh and walk away, stopping in the middle of the hallway. I don't like it when people know too much about my relationship.

"Are you seriously asking me why? Isn't it fucking obvious?! You went on a fucking date with... with um, uh....."

"Harry?"

"Yes! Harry! You went on a fucking date with that asshole! Does he even know you have a boyfriend?"

"It wasn't a date."

"Bullshit."

"It really wasn't. He's a friend of a friend. And, yes, he knows about you. You have nothing to worry about."

"I'm not so sure about that anymore," Mark sighs, exasperated.

I frown. I couldn't believe this was fucking happening to me.

"What the fuck, Mark? How do you even know about Harry?"

"I logged onto Yahoo! this morning, and the first thing I see on the Trending Now page is your face. 'Harry Styles on a date with mystery girl'. Of course I'm going to be fucking pissed. Wouldn't you be?"

"Mark, he's just a friend."

"Since when are you friends with celebrities?"

"It's complicated," I state, wishing there was another way to explain it.

"It's too fucking complicated for me."

My heart drops. Is he saying what I think he's saying?

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm fucking breaking up with you, that's what! I'm not going to date a fucking two-timing whore."

My eyes grow wide at his last comment. I go ballistic. He was about to get a taste of Riley Horan going ape shit.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? HE'S A FRIEND, FOR FUCK'S SAKE! IF YOU CAN'T TRUST ME, I'M KIND OF GLAD THAT THIS IS OVER. YOUR A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. HAVE A NICE LIFE WITHOUT ME, ASSHOLE."

"Riley!" I hear him shout, right before I hang up on him.

What the actual fuck just happened? I sink to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. Mark, the one person I trust, doesn't trust me enough to believe Harry's just a friend. I shed a tear. He was right not to trust me; I lied to him about my identity everyday I've known him. But still, shouldn't he at least give me the benefit of the doubt before he goes and breaks things off with me?

I feel my cheeks dripping with salt water, my eyes rapidly secreting tears. I can't believe he just called me a whore. A fucking whore. I couldn't believe it. Fuck him.

How does he even begin to justify his insult? He never even gave me an opportunity to explain myself. If he can't even respect me enough to hear my side of the story, then he can fuck off. In my head I was pissed, but in my heart, I was hurt. I felt like my trust had been ripped in half, leaving me with a throbbing, aching, half of a soul. Fuck him. He doesn't deserve me.

I take in a sharp breath. My mind was in a jumble, and I felt like the walls were collapsing down onto me.

You think you know somebody, but then they pull the rug out from under you, leaving you on the cold hard ground.

That was it. That was the last fucking straw. My life would be so much fucking easier if I was just Riley Horan. No blackmail, no lying, and no fucking management company breathing down my neck.

I could peacefully live on my own, in an apartment which was owned by Ms. R. Horan, with my name printed on the mailbox. I wouldn't have to break my back sleeping on Emer's shitty floor, or sleep in the same room as Harry. I could have my own twitter account, and introduce myself to complete strangers using my birth name. It would be fucking great. I was sick of living in a prison built by Modest!

I'm going to pay Niall a visit this afternoon, and give him a fucking piece of my mind. Either he was going to break the contract himself, or I was going to do it for him.

 

 

 

 

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