alumni ➢ luke hemmings [DISCONTINUED]

3.3 ➢ Bad Boy.

LUKE HEMMINGS

She's not my usual type, not by any means.

She's clumsy and goofy and silly and she thinks like a child most times, and she laughs at things that aren't funny and she tries to make me laugh even when I don't want to. She's really shy. Overly cautious. But that's just who she is.

And all of it- every single bit of it, right down to the clumsy mannerisms and the nervous giggles- is fucking beautiful.

Of course, it's not like me to be thinking this in the middle of a party. It's not like me to be within arms reach of a pretty girl with my pants still zipped up and my hands on anything other than on her waist or on her throat.

Yet here I am, every single bit of me sat next to every single bit of her, and my mind is clouded with one thought racing rapidly after the other.

I don't want to kiss her- no, that'd be too cliche. I'm too baffled at what I'm thinking to lean in, and who knows? Maybe I'll regret it, because a part of me has always wondered whether Sophie Hayes is the type to make you regret doing something after it's been done.

I just want to hold her. And not a quick hug, not a cheap embrace. But to fully hold this girl, to feel her body against mine and the heat of it interlocking with my own, sounds very appealing to me now.

Obviously, I don't get the chance to, because she's on her feet as soon as I open my mouth to say another word.

"Right," Sophie says, extending a hand out for me to take, "Wanna get out of here?"

Who am I to say no? That's all I've been wanting to do since we walked through the doors in the first place.

We get downstairs and the music is still too loud to comprehend much of anything. It all happens so quick, and so fast, but when it does I have no time to react.

"Michael!" I hear someone shout, probably Sophie, as something hard connects with my lower jaw. Then I'm being pushed up against the wall, somebody's entire body weight being pressed up against my own, and my natural instinct is to reverse the position.

I hold my forearm against their neck, and I can practically feel the air deflate from their lungs. It's Michael. His brightly coloured hair flops against his forehead, slick with sweat as he looks at me with pure, intoxicated rage in his eyes.

This looks all too familiar.

"Get the hell off of me!" he says, his voice raspy. He smells like beer and vodka and jaeger, a disgusting mix of drink that I have to stop myself from pulling a face at. "Get off me, Hemmings!"

"What the fuck's your problem?!" I yell at him, my forearm nudging closer and closer against his neck, my right arm pulled back and ready to lunge forward.

He doesn't reply, instead he just glares at me, his teeth clenched together.

"You know what my fucking problem is,"

"I couldn't give less of a fuck about you, nevermind your 'problems'," I slam him against the wall one more time, anger radiating throughout my entire body as I louden my voice, "What's the matter, Clifford? You were so brave swinging that punch earlier, what the fuck happe-"

"Luke," someone places a hand on my arm, and I'm stopped mid sentence, venom still dripping through my teeth. "Luke, come on man. He's wasted. Leave him be."

"I'm not going anywhere," I snap at them. My eyes don't look away from Michael's, but his seem to be darting in every possible direction.

There's a small crowd around us now- as small as a crowd at a fraternity party can be, anyway. From the corner of my eye I can see Ashley, her hand on Sophie's shoulder, holding her back from what I presume is stopping my actions.