Double Take [Sequel to Bound]

22. Outbursts

UPDATE 1/30/17: I changed where it said "Trump Hotel" to the "London Hotel" because really... I don't know what I was thinking. It probably didn't matter as much to me because when I first wrote this chapter, he wasn't running for President or some shit like that. Now that he is, in fact, POTUS, I am x10 homicidal and didn't want a scumbag like him mentioned in my story. :-)

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Chapter 22—Outbursts

Leah's POV:

I wanted to die.

I knew—I just knew—agreeing to go out with Klara on one of her wild night escapades would be a bad idea, and now I was surely paying for it. The pounding in my head was violently relentless, the Tylenol I had taken seemingly taking forever to find its course and put my head to rest. I was tragically hung over; praying to God to put my head at ease and promising never to drink again if it meant that I would have to face this aftermath.

"God, I hate you," I mumbled to Klara, picking up my hand bag and phone as we exited our hotel room. Marc and George already took our bags to put in the car, and were waiting for us in the lobby to leave the hotel.

My sister, who wasn't as hung over as I was and was smiling brilliantly at me, chortled. "I never told you to get so wasted," Klara mused, shutting the hotel room door behind her as we made our way towards the lift. "That was all on you."

I rubbed my temple as she pressed the down button. "You could've been a good sister and, you know, stop me," I stated, sarcasm evident in my tone as the lift let out a ding and the doors slid open.

Thankfully, it was empty, so Klara and I stepped in and pressed the lobby button as I leaned back on the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. The headache I was currently sporting was slowly dying down—too slowly for my liking, but at least it was diminishing. "But you were having so much fun," Klara mocked, repeating words I had apparently uttered to her last night during my drunken state.

I refrained from rolling my eyes, since it just accentuated the headache, as I stared at our blurred figures on the metallic walls of the lift. "Sod off," was my only reply.

When the doors slid open, we stepped out to be greeted by our body guards, and I noticed a couple of people standing off on the side, phones out as they recognized us. Unfortunately, I wasn't exactly ready to stop for pictures so I subtly sped my pace, feebly hiding my face behind my sunglasses as we stepped outside of the London Hotel.

As expected, the shouts of the paparazzi overshadowed the bustling of the busy city, and Klara and I managed to ignore them—not without them worsening my headache—before swiftly jumping into the black car and shutting the door behind us.

"Do you think they noticed?" I asked breathlessly, glancing at Klara. "How hung over we looked?"

She snorted, much to my annoyance. "They're used to seeing me hung over," she supplied carelessly, shooting me a teasing smirk. "You, they'll probably throw a riot over."

My blank expression curled into a glare behind my dark sunglasses, which she promptly ignored as she let out a short laugh and turned to look out the window. Instead of replying, I merely looked out the window I was sitting near; watching as we drove through the busy streets of New York. It was nearing eleven in the morning, and our flight was in about an hour and a half—although the plane can't really leave without Klara and I, since it was a private jet and all.

With my headache diminishing, I pulled out my phone and unlocked it, ignoring the text messages I had and going straight on Twitter. And as I did, minding the thousands of notifications I had, I went on my timeline and scrolled through it, reading tweets from fans and others.