Outcasts » Luke Hemmings

➥ two: learn how to trust me

                   WE ENDED UP MISSING FOUR periods that day.

I didn't know what the hell I was thinking when I decided to take him home. And I probably wouldn't ever be able to understand. At least, not in this lifetime.

And of course, Luke couldn't ever keep his trap shut. And maybe, ten years from now, helping the asshole would be considered a mistake. And perhaps when I'm thirty years old, I'll look back at this memory and laugh until my stomach hurts. But right now, in this very moment, I wouldn't even think twice about leaving him.

Luke trudged alongside to me, muttering hushed profanities and angry grouses. His arm was draped across my shoulder, his legs trembling from aching pain, as his hand clutched his stomach from agony. I watched him inhale a rush of stale air and exhale a puff of white ringlets. His breathing grew steady, unfaltering, and even despite his harsh state.

"Your car keys," I began, as my eyes searched for his jet black car. My hand brushed his arm, and I looked up, my eyes meeting his. His eyes were ice cold, his complexion pale, and the blood trickled onto his navy shirt, as the bruises slowly began to darken. He was in a daze, an insensible stupor, and if I were to pull out a loaded gun, he even wouldn't notice. His eyes were as empty as my father's heart, and as hard as I tried to search for some kind of signal to gain access his finite thoughts, all I could possibly find was a blank discovery. Emitting a breath of haziness, I spoke subtly, "Luke, I need your car keys."

I realized the phrase seemed to instantly pull him from his reverie when he scowled sullenly. Luke's arm flung aimlessly from my shoulder; his tone was bitter and harsh when he spoke. "Fuck no," he said, glowering.

I stopped dead in my tracks as Luke continued to cautiously limp across the parking lot. The dumbass didn't even know where the fuck he was even going.

Scoffing, I gently paced towards him. My Chucks sunk into the puddles on the ground, creating an endless effect of ripples, gradually disappearing. Then, swiftly and cautiously, I breezed towards him. The tips of my fingers reached down to snatch the keys that hung loosely in his pocket. It was unnoticed.

I twirled the set of brass metallics around my index finger, swiveling. The clacking noise was exceptionally loud, and Luke's head veered in my direction.

Luke squinted, his eyes turning to slates. "Holy shit," he mumbled; his tone impressed. Despite the fact that I stole his keys, he remained calm. "How the hell did you do that?"

"Years of experience of pick pocketing from Royals and Aristocrats," I said. Then, after a pause, words poured from my lips, "Where's your car?"

Suddenly, everything seemed to run into reverse. The unbearable silence grew heavy, nearly suffocating me. Luke's expression grew weary, his lips sealed shut, while his baby blue eyes taunted me. That was when I realized that the feeling of exasperation had evidently been stitched into the package of being a helpful citizen.

As we neared the rear of the parking lot, I grew slightly irritated. Royals didn't cooperate, and hell, they're as stubborn as my baby cousin. And for that, I questioned myself if I could ever be able to steer him into a direction full of anticipation and blithe rather than having a mind consumed with worry and anxiety. It was the events like these when I often blamed my heart of gold for guiding me into these types of situations.

Eventually, I spotted the ebony black car and I grinned in delight. "Never mind. I found it," I said, nudging Luke when he stood motionless, gaping at his automobile.

I unlocked the doors to the car with the remote, waiting patiently for the beep of the indicator. As soon as all of the doors unlocked, I pulled on the door handle, hopped into the diver seat and smiled in pleasure.