alumni ➢ luke hemmings [DISCONTINUED]

0.6 ➢ Zeta.

Alumni ➢ 0.6
The idea of attending my first ever college party didn't seem so bad when Michael first introduced it. I actually felt a little excited. But now, as we step into the elevator of one of the most luxurious buildings in all of New York, to get to the penthouse of a guy that neither Calum or Michael are particularly fond of, I suddenly wish that I'd stayed in my dorm.

I'm no good with parties. I'm no good with any type of social event overall, because as typical as it sounds, I'm not a very sociable person. It takes a lot to break me out of my shell and although Michael's got a firm hold on my hand right now, a constant reassurance that tonight will be okay, I can't push myself to believe him.

The elevator's not small, but it's packed with a load of excited freshmen, completely over the moon about getting texted an invite. And when I check my phone, I see that an unknown number's texted me one, too; an automated message, no doubt. I pocket the device before wiping my clammy hands on my skirt, the act triggered by my nerves.

Breathe. All you have to do is breathe.

That's what I've been telling myself ever since I got here. Breathe. Just close your eyes, and let yourself calm down.

It hasn't worked so far.

The elevators open soon enough and I can just about decipher what's going on as Michael pulls me forward; out into a long, elongated hallway that further leads towards two glass double doors.

The setting is unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, and I can hear my heart practically ringing in my eardrums along the music as the doors part. Sweaty bodies grind against each other on the dance floor and the entirety of the glass wall exposing the rest of New York is covered; either in people having against-the-wall make out sessions, or some type of sticky alcohol that will pull someone through hell and back if they try to wipe it off.

I've only been inside of this building for five minutes, yet I already want to leave.

If you ignore the plethora of bodies, the bottles, and the occasional sorority sisters crying in random corners of the large hall, you'd be able to see that the structure of the penthouse itself isn't actually all that bad. It's lavish, bold, and luxuriously designed- no doubt there to make a statement for the richest son in all of Manhattan- but it's not awful.

To think that a guy like Luke Hemmings comes home to a place like this every night intrigues me. For some reason, I can't see it; I can't see him winding down, taking a seat on one of the plush leather couches, looking over the balcony at the city that never sleeps. It doesn't seem his place.

But it is his place, and I know this because as soon as we enter the kitchen- which is bigger than my entire dorm multiplied by ten- Ashton's quick to look for the guy. He kisses Mia on the temple and tells her that he'll be back soon, and she nods.

"I should probably go with him," Michael says, turning to me with reluctance on his face. I hate having him worry about me, but I'm aware that it's all he can physically do right now; by the way I'm acting, I'm not surprised if I resemble a turkey about to get slaughtered for Thanksgiving. "Get this over with. I just need to talk to Luke and then we can-"

"Just go," I say, interrupting him softly, "I'll be okay. I have Mia and Calum,"

"Are you sure?" his eyebrows pull together in concern. The one thing I love about Michael is that he doesn't settle for anything below one-hundred percent- meaning he'll want a real answer, whether you like it or not.