Harry Styles, AKA Blue, is a petty thief in the dirty streets of New York. In attempt to escape, he runs into the beautiful stripper Pink (played by Zendaya). The two find themselves in a wild journey to freedom. Are you ready? Buckle up, it's going...
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Rushes of adrenaline course through their bodies. A quick release of the hormone sloshes through their bloodstreams like the most intense of rivers. They are half-inflated rafts, thrashing from bank to bank, over jagged rocks and white, foamy waters.
As soon as Pink puts her "borrowed" car in park, their hands rip at each other's clothes until they're practically half naked at the front door of her apartment complex. Lucky for them, she's the first door on the second floor. An easy entrance, providing quick sanctuary for their eager minds and fast hands.
Camera follows their feet up the stairs. Her weathered black slip-on Vans. His suede ankle boots. They both nearly fall to their knees with each step but they anchor themselves in the energy of the other's zeal. Their steps match to the beat of a deep bass in a song not even playing.
"This is me," she says, fumbling with her keys to get inside. He kisses the back of her neck, the spot where her hair hits her sweet skin. The sensation sends a thrill through her bones, like the first big drop of a roller coaster. "Fuck!" She drops the keys on the ground, losing her spot in the janitorial-like key ring. She begins her search over again. Key by key.
"Who has this many keys? What fucking key is it?!" He grabs the ring from her hands and — with the fates on his side — he selects the correct one right away. "Lucky guess," he says. The door slams open as he pushes her into the thin wood, strands of her hair getting caught in the thin brassy frame of the peephole as he rips her shoulders away.
His long fingers grasp the bottom of her tank top, peeling it off her torso, off her arms and to the ground. Her bare chest is exposed, nipples hard.
"Fuck," he comments in response to the sight of her welcoming body.
She one ups him, not quite as delicate. Starting from a small tear at the top of his white crew neck, she shreds the shirt off of his upper half. The black ink of his tattoos peaks out from under the contrast of snow-colored fabric.
"Fuck," she responds, watching the skin of the butterfly on his stomach flex and relax.
Camera goes from her confident grin to his shocked face as his shirt lying on his shoulders like a baggy, thin vest. He lets the shards of cotton fall to the ground. Her hoodie, one of his boots and none other than the Rolex lay in the echoey hallways of her building but the residence of their stranded garments is neither here nor there to them. The face of the watch sits back in a lonesome state as the slam of her front door disrupts the night of her unknowing neighbors.
Harry attempts to take back control of the situation he's quickly losing grasp of. He digs his fingers up the nape of her neck and runs it through her scalp, pulling hard at the roots while pushing her body back. Their now bare feet trip over each other until her hips ram into a waist-high shelf. The shock of pain shoots up her body like a needed defibrillator to her chest. The hit to the surface jump starts the record in the player on top. A hit on the path of their destruction.
