Flashes of Light
One-Applications
Eva's POV
"Please sign here, and here." The (overly shiny-smiled) blonde secretary grinned up at me, and I nodded back as I scribbled out my signature. Eva Sloane. "Okay...yup! Perfect! I'll send this into Mr. Cowell for you!" Oh, god. Somany exclamation points.
I'm Eva Sloane. Nineteen year-old girl from this sunny place called Laguna Beach. I'm a surfer, but apparently, my parent think that that's not a good career choice. So that meant soccer was out of the question, too. Oh, excuse me, football. I guess I should get used to the lingo, now that I'm here in London, signing up to be Demi Lavato's private trainer. A good 'fall-back career', I guess.
Fingers Crossed.
*Two Weeks Later*
I was sitting in a coffee shop, killing time, when my phone beeped. I pulled it out and read the screen. ONE NEW E-MAIL
We regret to inform you, but Miss Lovato isn't in need of a trainer at the moment.
Shit.
However, we do have a client available for you. If you are interested in working with Niall Horan, of the band "One Direction", please respond.
Okay, you have got to be kidding me. A boy band? They want me to train a member of a boy band? What, so that they can fit into their matching white suits and do their air grabs well? Hells no.
I was about to delete the message when I saw their phone number at the end. No...phone numbers don't have dollar sig- holy fucker.
That "phone number", was my paycheck.
I took a deep breath, sighed, and pressed 'reply'.
I was in for one hell of a ride.
"Please sign here, and here." The (overly shiny-smiled) blonde secretary grinned up at me, and I nodded back as I scribbled out my signature. Eva Sloane. "Okay...yup! Perfect! I'll send this into Mr. Cowell for you!" Oh, god. Somany exclamation points.
I'm Eva Sloane. Nineteen year-old girl from this sunny place called Laguna Beach. I'm a surfer, but apparently, my parent think that that's not a good career choice. So that meant soccer was out of the question, too. Oh, excuse me, football. I guess I should get used to the lingo, now that I'm here in London, signing up to be Demi Lavato's private trainer. A good 'fall-back career', I guess.
Fingers Crossed.
*Two Weeks Later*
I was sitting in a coffee shop, killing time, when my phone beeped. I pulled it out and read the screen. ONE NEW E-MAIL
We regret to inform you, but Miss Lovato isn't in need of a trainer at the moment.
Shit.
However, we do have a client available for you. If you are interested in working with Niall Horan, of the band "One Direction", please respond.
Okay, you have got to be kidding me. A boy band? They want me to train a member of a boy band? What, so that they can fit into their matching white suits and do their air grabs well? Hells no.
I was about to delete the message when I saw their phone number at the end. No...phone numbers don't have dollar sig- holy fucker.
That "phone number", was my paycheck.
I took a deep breath, sighed, and pressed 'reply'.
I was in for one hell of a ride.
Notes
Eh...it's not great.
This is my first fanfic, so please comment rate (10.0 maybe?) and subscribe!!!
More soon if you do!!
