Roses : A Punk Harry Styles Story

Chapter One

Friday nights were, in my opinion, the best time to stay in.

Almost all of the five hundred dorm rooms in Brixton Hall were empty, it's residents out and about enjoying the college night life.

My radio quietly played the likes of Bowie and Tears for Fears as I finished the calc problems my professor assigned for the long weekend. My pencil tapped feverishly against the textbook as I tried to figure out the last problem.

A delicate humming came from the nightstand next to my bed. I blindly reached for the phone, not even taking my eyes off the book.

"Hello?" I answered, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear as I finished jotting down numbers.

"Sorry to bother you Stevie, but Im stranded at the library. Do you think you can pick me up?" she timidly asks.

"Yes of course, i'll be there soon."

I grabbed my keys and headed outside. Fall was fast approaching in Camden, a heavy winter seemed to be on the horizon for the small New Jersey city.

Fifteen minutes past and I was pulling  into the vacant parking lot of the university library, but Amy was nowhere in sight.

I dialed her number and she answered on the first ring.

"Im inside. Just come around to the front." she says.

"Okay, meet me there."

As I walk away from my car and to the front doors, I hear a group of footsteps behind me.

A boy whistles.

"Oi, is that Stevie? I didn't know she went out on Friday nights."

Followed by another thick, New Jersey accent.

"Yeah, to the fucking library."

They all laugh.

Without turning and acknowledging them, I continue on my way.

"Yanno', she's actually kinda cute."

"Thats cause you're fucking hammered." They all snicker. 

I closed my eyes and tugged my jacket tighter around me. This was the reason I didn't go out on Fridays. Or any other night either.

"Either way she's still a nice piece of ass and I'm cashing out tonight." one of the boys clasps his hands together, rubbing them a few times before wiping the corner of his bottom lip with his right thumb. A smirk spreading across his face. "Aye Stevie, why don't you bring yourself over here?"

"Fuck off." I yell over my shoulder, picking up my pace.

"Frigid bitch!" one boy bellows, throwing a beer bottle at my back.

Once I turn around the boys stop laughing.

"Leave her be."

The sound of chains and crunching leather come closer as the man who called out steps around me. Black leather boots effortlessly move to stomp out a cigarette butt that was thrown in front of me. Once halfway between his friends and I, he turned to look at me over his shoulder. Swirls of black ink danced on the tops of his hands and at the base of his neck. His lip ring captured the light of the street lamps, as did his dark green eyes.

After connecting with his group of intoxicated goons, the man turns towards me and speaks again. 

"Love, you shouldn't be out this late. Go on home." He smirks, false concern flooding his features.

Not wanting to spend another moment outside, I quickly nod and run to the library doors to get Amy. When we come back out, the group of guys were gone. 

**

Once Amy and I were back into my room, I told her about the events that had unfolded outside of the library.

"They didn't touch you, did they?" She asked.

I sighed, taking my glasses off and rubbing my face. "No. They didn't have a chance to. Some guy showed up and told them to back off."

"What?" Amy uncrossed her legs and sat upright in her chair. "Who?"

I stood up from my bed, pacing the small length of the dorm. "I don't know who he is. He's certainly not from around here." 

She hummed in acknowledgement before wishing me goodnight. Her parents were in town and was going to visit them first thing in the morning. Amy softly closed the door behind her as she headed upstairs to her own room.

**

I weave my way through the crowd of teens scattered on the front lawn and enter the small building that housed the art department.

The halls were unoccupied except for a few professors and students. Many others preferring to soak up the last bit of warm October weather before it faded into winter.

My visual arts class was a very small class of twelve. It allowed for a more "intimate setting", as my instructor put it. 

Not everyone showed up though. There were roughly five or six students that came every Tuesday and Thursday. This sometime meant I was the odd one out. Group projects usually consisted of me by myself or myself and the instructor.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

My bag was set down next to my easel and I went off in search of brushes and watercolors.

"Good morning Stevie." My instructor, Ms Garcia greeted. She was a very young woman, in her late twenties. In the past month and a half the both of us have gotten very close. I usually visit her during her lunch hours, and we would paint together and share stories. My favorite stories are those she tells me about her tattoos and her Latin heratige. 

"Hey Noel." I smiled, looking at her over my shoulder before turning back to my canvas.

"Im getting take out for lunch today. It's on me. Anything you'd like?" she asks.

"Anything's okay with me!"

"Cool." she nods, taking things out of her satchel and organizing her desk from the week before. 

After the class fills in and she gives her usual greeting and demonstration, she drags her easel next to mine.

"Alright Stevie. What are we painting today?"

"Im not sure." I answer, dipping my brush in green paint, mindlessly dragging it along the canvas.

"Flowers?"

"Flowers it is." I smile.

**

About five minutes before the end of class, the door swings open. Sudden movement caught my eye and who I saw made me sit upright. In doing so, I managed to kick the leg of my easel. The loud screech caused all eyes to focus on me. Panic set in as I tried to collect myself, but instead I knocked my can of brushes to the ground. 

It was that guy from the parking lot last Friday night.

He looked slightly amused as he strolled towards the instructors desk, maintaining eye contact with me the entire time.

"Can I help you sir?" Noel says from beside me, turning round in her stool.

 "Yeah, um, are you the instructor?" he asks in a deep English accent.

"I am?" she says, crossing her arms as she watches this guy look her up and down. A deep scowl settling on her face.

"Well I'm new here." He states, handing her his transcript. 

"Well then. Welcome to visual arts Mr. Styles." 

"Please." he smirks. "Call me Harry."

"Alright, Harry." she drones. "Have a seat anywhere you'd like and please, never be late to my class again."

"Of course, Noel." he charms, sliding onto an empty stool.

"Please." my instructor begins. "Call me Ms Garcia."

The smirk falls from his face as the playful light leaves his eyes. Its now Ms Garcia's turn to smirk. 

"Class dismissed."

**