I Carry Your Heart [Harry Styles]

Chapter 2

Present Day-Harry

I wake up feeling like shit. 

Pushing my long unruly brown hair out of my face, I slowly open my eyes, blinking a few times, I have the headache from hell.

Where the fuck am I, I think, before I look around and recognise the plush warm interior of the bedroom at my London house. I have been travelling so much recently I sometimes lose track of where I am.

I have no idea what the time is or if its even morning, thank god for my black out curtains.

Clumsily grabbing for my phone from the night stand next to me, I look at the time and realise its about noon. I also have ten missed calls from a number I don't recognise. I really hope a fan hasn't got hold of my number again, meaning I'll have to change it.

I look down and realise I am naked and only covered by a thin sheet, hanging low, below the fern tattoos on my hips.

I wonder why I am nude, lifting myself up slightly on my elbows, I glance next to me, realising I'm not alone, but rather there are two naked women asleep in my bed, a blonde and a red head.

Fuck, what happened last night? I really have to stop doing stuff like this, although I could also argue its just part of the rock roll lifestyle and the fans love it.

The evenings debauchery comes back to me in vivid flashes; An acquaintances birthday at a lux private club; Soho House. I'm not the biggest coke fan but there were lines of it, scattered on tables throughout the venue. And after a number one record and a sold-out world tour I really needed to let off steam.

I think I remember some paparazzi flashes as I stumbled out the club in the early hours of the morning, completely waisted and all over the two women currently in my bed. I'm a little ashamed I can't remember their names; all I recall is that they are models and hot as fuck.

My management and PR team are going to love this.

My mouth is dry and feels like its stuffed with cotton balls, so I reach for the half-drunk bottle of Dom Perignon Champagne next to my bed and take a swig. I probably shouldn't waste it since it cost about £300, but who honestly gives a fuck. I also notice a bottle of Xanax, lying open on its side with pills scattered around it, I must have taken a couple last night to wind down

I need to pee, so I quietly push myself up, sitting on the edge of the bed for a minute, trying to get my head to stop spinning. There are clothes littered messily all over the floor of my room and I eventually find my ripped black skinny jeans tossed haphazardly in the corner. I slip them on and walk over to the bathroom and switch on the light, flinching at its brightness. I pee and then wash my hands, splashing some cold water on my face which immediately wakes me up a bit. 

Leaning on the bathroom sink, I glance up at myself, my hair is messy and my eyes are drawn to the numerous tattoos snacking their way over my skin. I don't look too bad I suppose, for my twenty-three years on this earth, considering the amount of partying I have done the last few years. And who cares if I am tired, my career is booming, I'm rich and women and men love me. Its all a far cry from the small town I grew up in and the people I left behind. Thank fuck.

I'm still exhausted and about to crash back into bed when my phone goes, the caller ID recognizing it's the same number as the earlier missed calls.

I debate not answering it, but at the last minute I slide the button and say hello. My voice raspy and low, from lack of use this morning.

"Hello. Is this Mr Styles" an abrupt voice asks.

"Yes" I answer, wondering who it is.

"A Mr..um..a yes..Harry Styles?" she asks and I can hear paper being rustled. She clearly has no idea who I am, which doesn't happen very often anymore.