violet skies / michael clifford

don't trust strangers, right?

1. don't trust strangers, jessa

Pressing the earphones into my ears, I quicken my pace through the park. I usually hate walking though such a public place; the risk of getting cat called around here is high. It's sickening, really. Keeping my hands by my sides, I make sure the flowy skirt I'm wearing doesn't fly up in the wind.

People find it weird, how I always walk places. I shrug them off. Walking is the one thing I have to clear my head. No distractions.

But today there is a distraction. He has pastel purple hair, shining in the sun and matching the bright smile on his lips. He is laughing at something the blond one next to him says. They are each holding a guitar, busking on one of the benches by the pathway.

They look a bit older. Nineteen, maybe? Letting my eyes linger for just a little while longer, my eyes accidentally meet with his. I'm so taken by him that I forget how to walk.

Boys have always been my weakness. Although I would never admit it, they make me feel clumsier. They make me twiddle my fingers; they make my eyes shoot to the ground. Boys are the reason for my feet being a little bit twistier than they already are; they make me fall.

To the ground.

I know I've fallen over when the blood leaves a taste of iron in my mouth. It's not the way I would have wanted it to happen, but that's how I meet him. With a swollen lip and a scraped knee. But I'm not complaining. Knowing me, it could honestly have been worse.

I look up at the boy, standing at my side. He's said something, but the earphones block him out. I pull the music out of my ears to hear him better. "Huh?"

"Sleeping with Sirens," he says, pointing to his own ear to get me to catch on. The music is blasting loud from my earphones, even when resting at my chest. "They're good."

"Uh, yeah," I mumble, smiling.

I've tried to get my best friend, Ashton, to come to a concert with me before, but the hazel-eyed boy simply shook his head at the idea and stated that he wasn't into that kind of stuff.

Now, I'm face to face with a guy who looks just like the fit guy in the bands I love. Eyebrow piercing and all, he is everything; tattoos under the rolled up sleeves of his jacket hinted of even more inked skin.

I'm swooning.

"Let me help you," he offers me his hand, looking back at his friend - the blond one - who keeps himself at a distance.

"I'm okay, really," I assure him. If only the blush wouldn't be so quick to creep up my face.

I can't be getting flustered by an older guy. He has stubble, for god's sake! I've got to keep it together.

"Distracted by my hair?" he mocks, lips stretched into a wide grin. "I mean, I know it's bright, but you should probably pay attention to where you're going next time."

He's caught me staring at him.

I blush harder and stand up with his help, my eyes darting from his green electric eyes to his mouth. "Oh, um."

The blood trickles from my knee still; there is no way to hide the bruises on my bare legs. I can't remember the last time I wore jeans, but if I had, I would have wiped my hands on them.

"You should probably get cleaned up. You on your way home?"

"Yeah," I say, lifting my backpack off the ground and onto my shoulder. I'm ready to leave.

"Where are you going? I could give you a lift," he says. "My car's over there, we were just about to go, anyway."

Hesitating, I consider his offer. I'm not sure; talking to strangers really isn't something I do on a regular basis. Or ever. And getting into a car with a stranger would be just plain stupid and dangerous.

I wish the blush would have hone away by now, but it's still there, creeping as he stares at me. He's waiting for an answer.

"I know, don't trust strangers, right?" he chuckles, as if he can read my mind, and puts his hand out. "I'm Michael."

"I'm Jessa." I hold up my hands as if in defeat, showing him the blood and dirt on them. "I would but. . . they're kinda gross."

"Right, sorry. So, are we still strangers or can I give you a lift?"

"Okay, yeah. Thanks."

I was never a reckless person. I wasn't one to make decisions without weighing the consequences at least once or twice or four times. But a few minutes later - when he has convinced his friend that picking up the clumsy girl who fell over in the street is a good idea - I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his car.

"Alright there, Luke?" Michael laughs.

The blond friend downgraded to the backseat, and doesn't look pleased about it. I glance at him in the rearview mirror, and quickly look away when he catches me. His intense glare burns like fire at the back of my head.

"I'm great, thank you Michael," he mutters. He's squished with two guitars across his lap. The little car clearly isn't meant to fit three people and two guitars.

Michael's car smells of old cigarette smoke and something stale, heavily covered by men's body spray. I try hard not to cough, and take a breath of relief when he finally rolls the windows down.

"We were busking for petrol money for this gig we're playing Saturday," Michael explains. "We're not sure if we can make it there yet, cause it's far away, you know? Would be a really big thing for us."

So he's in a band. I feel butterflies at the pit of my stomach; the fangirl within me is bouncing up and down at an offbeat.

"What's your band called?" I ask, trying to evade the piercing blue eyes that are still staring at me from behind.

"Haven't decided yet. We're pretty new, to be fair."

A phone goes off and Luke answers. He seems annoyed in the way he speaks to whoever is on the other line.

"We're gonna be late," he says. "Mike has picked up some girl and apparently we're driving her home first. No, not a groupie."

"I'm being polite you dick!" Michael reaches one hand behind his head in an attempt to hit Luke, but fails. The car swerves to one side, and he puts his hand back on the steering wheel. "Sorry about him, he's having a bad week. You know, girl stuff," he smirks.

"Fuck you Michael," Luke shoots back.

I cringe at their exchange. I've never been one for swearing. Then again I know I'm being a hypocrite; the songs I love are all full of swears.

"Um, you can drop me here," I say as he turns onto my street.

"Is this your house?"

"No, it's just down the street, but I'll manage."

"Okay. Just be more careful next time, princess."

"Thanks," I say, quickly getting out of the car.

Princess. Was he saying that to let me know he thought of me as a young girl, or because of the pink skirt I'm wearing?

Giving him a smile, I turn to walk home. The blush once again makes its way to my cheeks as I think back to the moment where I fall over. He told me to be careful. As if he cares if I hurt myself again. So caught up in thoughts, I barely notice when Michael's car drives up beside me.

"Sorry, I forgot to ask for your number. You see I don't do this a lot, I just thought it would be nice to know you got home okay."

With my heart beating fast in my chest, I - the girl who's never been asked for her number before - enter the final digits of my number into his phone before handing it back to Michael through the car window.

Then he does the same for me.