The Project [Louis]

Chapter Four (Or White Boys Are No Good)

"Drunk Harry and this tweet that's going to make me look stupid."

"You already look stupid." Niall chirps.

I rub my eyes, mumbling profanities which Niall probably can't hear.

If... Yeah, Louis - if what? If I do anything else underwear/large load related again there's going to be a whole army of balding men sent over to tell me off. I could always just keep it at "if" but then I would seem like a complete asshole. Then again, I could come off as a clever, slightly manipulative genius who is adept at keeping everyone in suspense. Or not. Would I seem cheeky or perverted if I asked her to post a nude.

No, I'd be arrested for that one.

@louisemiller If I can figure out how to meet you without getting myself into trouble.

Oh boy.

I'm gonna be some deep trouble for that one.

But they did want me to end the whole thing, so that's what I'm doing.

Believe it or not, my phone starts ringing and a picture of a Victoria's Secret model pops up on the screen a mere thirty seconds after the tweet was officially broadcasted.

"Is this Louis Tomlinson?" The voice on the other end says, just a hint of something like pure and utter hatred on his voice,

"It me." I say in a small voice.

"We know you don't like us - you've made that very clear - but you can't tweet that!" The voice says, the pure and utter hatred positively oozing. "We can fire you. Are you aware of that?" 

"Yeah, but you wouldn't, so I'm okay." I bring myself back to my point which I mention whenever they threaten to fire me. 

"Didn't the reps talk to you today?" The voice on the other end of the line sighs with frustration, sounding much like when I was papped while smoking.

"Yeah."

"So you know we'll be cutting your pay for this month?"

"Sure."

"I'm trying to sleep!" Zayn yells, interrupting my conversation.

"Say hi to Modest, Zayn!" I yell back, met by a string of swears a damnations that are just quiet enough so that whoever I'm on the phone with can't hear him. "Zayn says hi." I tell the person I'm on the phone with.

"Louis -"

"Listen, Harry's super drunk and I need to go help him, so talk later?" I hang up without waiting for the man to reply.

"You're an ass." Zayn mumbles sleepily, obviously almost already back asleep again.

"A hella fine one." I close the laptop in front of me, deciding that enough is enough for one day and I'm tired and I should get some rest because I mean, how stressful is my life? 

"If you don't leave I'll call security." Zayn says.

"I'm leaving, calm down." I mummer before standing up, almost tripping over Niall in the process. He's decided to sit down right in the middle of the floor.

As soon as I'm back in the hall again, I realize that I've got no place ot be right now. I was sharing a hotel room with Harry and that is obviously not the place to be at the moment, I'm not welcome in Zayn's room, and who knows where the hell Liam is? He's always doing something actually productive with his life while the rest of us get flabby and stupid in hotel rooms because we're rich and we can.

The next obvious thing to do is sit in the lobby and -

"Sorry!" I yell, as I run into a cleaning lady's cart, spilling various shampoos and towels all over the floor.

"Stupid boy!" She shrieks, throwing her hands up in the air,

"I can help -"

"No! Don't touch anything! Young Americans, you're all no good," She rambles in a heavy Hindi accent, "You know I see you smoking outside? I go tell your mummy daddy and you be disowned!"

I stand, not knowing what a socially and legally acceptable response to this is.

"Look this one! You think you all handsome, but call me when you're Saif Ali, eh?"

"I -"

"No! Yout shut up! And you friend, the one with so many tattoos? He gon to hell. Stupid bloody white boys! What you need? Girls, beer, earring. So many earring! I go on the plane and come to America, and what do I get? White boys! So many white boys! My daughters love it! But no white boy for them! You hear me?" She yells in my face, waving a towel around.

"To be fair, my friend with all the tattoos isn't really white." I say in a small voice,

"Ah, bakavasa banda." She mummers, waving me off.

"Sorry..." I shrug, shoving my hands in my pockets and walking as fast as humanly possible away from the angry white-boy-hating lady.

Just for the record, my mummy daddy hate each other with a contempt that can only be understood by the two of them.

And I see nothing wrong with being a white boy.

 a/n: LMAO I DONT KNOW HOW TO END CHAPTERS i know i said that i'd update when i got to 90 votes but i've had a shit ton of stuff happening lately

PLEASE VOTE AND MAYBE LEAVE A COMMENT?? I LOVE YOU ALL!

note: if any of yall (i dont know what i said yall im canadian) think im being racist towards indians or whatever, my dad was born in india and this is literally an over-exaggerated version of his family.