Been There

Chapter 3: C'est La Vie

Now that I'm fully clothed, I can breath much easier. Yeah, the shirt is absolutely drowning me, but it's almost comforting. It's like I'm wearing a blanket. A stiff, pink, button down blanket. The pants are surprisingly not that much bigger than one of my own, but there's too much room for my nonexsistant junk. It's not a big deal though and I use the belt to keep them in place. My contacts are sitting in a contact case that isn't mine and I assume that it belongs to this Lyle guy. That's convenient.

Once they're in it's like I'm a blind man seeing the sun for the first time.

Everything comes into focus and my headache subsides. My heart relaxes - if that's even possible - and I take a few deep breaths. Then I slowly take in my surroundings with full sensory back in tact. I'm definitely in a hotel, I can tell from the various little soaps and towelettes around the bathroom. It also smells far too clean to be a boy's personal ensuit. No matter how tidy the boy may be, this smells like lemons and fresh linen.

With a slow step, I move into the way of the mirror and take in my appearance. It surprises me that I don't look as terrible as I was imagining. My mental image was more along the lines of Gene Simmons, but then again I always think I look that way. Thankfully instead I at least look decent enough to appear in public. My makeup is gone- must've washed that off in my sleepwalking episode last night- but that also means I don't have gunky, crud all around my eyes. They're a little high looking, but who could blame me? My hair could pass for somewhat windblown which I'll take.

Overall, I'm not hideous. That's always good.

"Whatever," I mutter aloud to myself, as I snag a complimentary comb from the medicine cabinet. My hair's a little thick and tangly for it, but I manage to force it through and give some appeal back to this swooshing lion mane on my head.

My next move is getting my teeth somewhat whitened again so I take the pink toothbrush, which I'm sure is the one he leant me last night, and go at my mouth for a good three minutes. Once my mouth is stinging from the minty freshness, I'm ready to approach the man in the other room again. Hopefully he's not that sore on the eyes- now that I'm capable of actually seeing him.

As I enter the bedroom again I slowly open the door and peer inside. Scanning the room I notice that all the curtains are drawn so it's oddly dim in the room even though I'm sure it's at least mid-morning. My eyes land on his behind- he's bent over at his closet, rummaging along its floor. He's not dressed yet and his pretty boxers are still weird, but I decide to mature up and not laugh.

"Um, hey," I whimper out and I'm surprised he even heard me. He whips around and blank stares for a moment, then shakes off the shock of my exsistance to offer me an award winning smile.

How do I know it's award winning? 'Cause I saw it on a magazine cover last week.

This is freaking Lyle Kingston. Freaking Lyle Kingston. The star, in the flesh, standing in nothing but his boxers, smiling at me from across his hotel room. I'm wearing his shirt, jeans, and belt and I spent the night in the same bed as him.

Freaking. Lyle. Kingston.

"Good, they fit well," he cheers, his dimples coming in clear drawing my eyes right in. Awe damn it.

Don't get me wrong. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm not the type to fan-girl, but honestly. I never actually thought I'd meet Lyle unless I was equally as famous enough to do so. Never did I think he'd rescue me from a rapist or let me spend the night in his hotel room with him. Never could I have predicted that I'd know he wears girly boxers or that his bathroom smells like lemons and linen. No one can ever guess this kind of shit!

So forgive me if I take a moment to let it all sink in and get over it. Probably looking like a suddenly mentally incapable child, I struggle to form a coherent reply to what he said.