player ♚ lrh

11 - pretty girl

Luke could not take his eyes off her.

There were a couple reasons for this; the biggest one being that he was absolutely furious with her. He didn't show it completely, but the anger was there, made clear by the way his jaw ticked uncomfortably and his eyes were hard set—on her, of course.

He had thought he made himself very clear, earlier, but it was painfully obvious that she hadn't cared to listen once his eyes landed on her, here, where she absolutely had no business being.

The other reason was arguably more frustrating, at least, in Luke's eyes. It wasn't like the thought hadn't occurred to him before, but he never actually let himself dwell on it. He'd always found a way to push it back—far back in the depths of his mind—because he knew himself. And once Luke let himself go down that road, it turned into a rabbit hole that he could never crawl back out of. But now, he had no choice but to think it, because she was here, and the red glow clung to her in a torturous spotlight and Luke just couldn't deny it any longer.

She was a pretty girl, and this was an ugly place.

Both halves of such a statement could exist exclusively; on their own without the other. But, as Luke found to be certain, putting the two together seemed to exemplify each one in a much more prominent way.

He already knew this place was less than attractive. It was dingy, dirty, gritty, and there was a reason for that, he knew it.

This was not a night club, and this was not some raunchy underground rock concert either. The music was simply ear candy; grungy tones Luke decided to add only to fade into the background and make space for the real attraction.

This was a goddamn fight club. Lawless, unfiltered, and unsupervised fighting. That's it.

He could sugar coat it all he wanted, but this entire operation was kept under wraps for a reason—a reason Luke himself initiated. It wasn't to be spoken of—as cliche as that may be—because it needed to stay his dirty little secret. And it wasn't just for his sake, either, it was for everyone's—fighters, or, players, as they called them—and spectators alike. Of which, Elise was neither, and he wanted to keep it that way.

In other—much less amount of—words, Luke was not happy that she was here.

So, for those reasons and more, he found himself taking long strides over to where the girl was standing curiously alone, away from the crowd and with her head in the clouds. For one, she looked drastically out of place, standing off to the side in a slight daze, obliviously taking her time to observe the place with a certain wide-eyed innocence he had never seen before.

He didn't even know how she got here, having picked up on the fact that she clearly didn't have a car, and he saw no sign of the boy he hated, his red haired best friend, or the other barista that Luke always managed to miss. At this point, he didn't know what he hated more; her being here with one of them, or her somehow coming alone. Right now, he was pretty sure it was the latter.

Luke didn't have a plan of action, he was just frustrated once he came up behind her, causing a pulsing shiver to run up her spine when the palm of his hand barely—just barely—grazed the small of her back, enough to lean down and speak low in her ear over the busy noise of the place. "What are you doing here?"

She didn't need to look back to know who it was, but she did it anyways, wincing at the stern look on his face. Once again, Elise found that Luke looked utterly different from before; black jeans with careless frays and holes, matched with an equally dark t-shirt and a familiar piece of leather draped over his shoulders. Just hours ago, his hair hadn't been mussed up and showing signs of curls, and his bottom lip had been free of any black hoops, but there he was, behind her with all of that and more.