Words, Words, Words

‘King of the party scene.’

It has a nice ring to it, aye? I won’t lie and say that I’m not proud of the title people have given me, here in Sheffield. I actually use to it to my very advantage; there’s not one club I can’t get into and not one girl I can’t swoon into bed. Insert sly smirk here.

Well, except one girl.

Not even the very ‘King of the party scene’ can win Amelia over. The reputation I have makes her even less fond of me – if that’s even possible - believe it or not. Being known as Sheffield’s very own ‘Bad Boy,’ who can get any girl, drinks more than the rest and parties every night isn’t exactly golden in Amelia’s eyes – at all. Insert slightly disturbed frown here.

Oh, Amelia.

My heart tells me I want to please her as these thoughts about what she thinks of me fill my head. It’s time like these I want to rip my heart out and just do what my balls tell me to. But there’s one problem with ignoring your heart and going with your testicles, males – you don’t win the prize.

My secret prize is so obviously Amelia’s attention and respect.

But how do I gain that from her when I keep letting my tongue slip and closing off my heart? Simple. I don’t. I have to change.

“Olleh!” Tom calls, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I let my hazel eyes dart up to his baby blues as he gives me an odd look. “Are yeh goin’ teh get ready? My party’s in an hour and we all know yeh take forever teh get ready.”

“Yeah,” I say, ignoring his insult and standing up from my bed. Tom looks up at me from my computer chair with a questionable stare. I look back at him and sneer, “What about yeh? It’s yeh party and yeh still haven’ showered.”

Tom rolls his eyes and stands up, mumbling something along the lines of, “He’s back,” under his breath before exiting my room. I watch the door close slowly behind him before looking at my closet and sighing.

Another night, another party, another chance to embarrass myself in front of the only person I’m trying to impress.

__________________________________

Usually, an hour into the party, I’m already tipsy as hell. But tonight, it’s way past a mere hour in and I’m only slightly buzzed. Of course, what kind of ‘Party King’ would I be if I wasn’t at least pretending to be drunk off my arse? A bad one; I guess that’s why I’m acting like a complete wanker, letting two girls rub against me as I hold my second beer of the whole night on the dance floor.

Through the cracks of the crowd as they decrease and increase casually, I can see some of my band mates taking turns dancing with a slightly off Amelia. She looks good in a white wife beater tank top and a high-waisted skirt, cut off mid-thigh. I can’t help but almost completely ignore the sluts grinding against me and stare at her every once in a while – but I refuse to admit I’m jealous.

Then what is this horrible feeling? I can’t put my finger on it as I bite my lip and stare at her joyful expression as she moves her body perfectly in sync with Matt N’s. It’s not guilt – guilt is a feeling that makes my stomach churn and my head pound. It’s not It’s not sadness – I don’t feel like breaking down into tears. No, all I want to do is push Matt aside and take Amelia into my arms.

The song stops for a second and it clicks.

I am jealous of my band mates. I’m jealous of Tom. I’m jealous of anyone who can have a conversation with Amelia without her screaming at them or rolling her eyes at them; anyone who gets one her smiles directed their way. And the feeling of jealousy quickly is overtaken by frustration. If I’m so jealous and so in need of her, why do I keep screwing all my chances of a normal relationship with her up?

Before I even can over think my actions, my feet guide me over to Amelia. My hands find themselves content on her small hips and I feel her tense in my grasp. I can feel myself become a second-guessing wreck, paling out and searching for words to say that’ll win her over. But over it all, I wonder, ‘Am I doing the right thing? Will I be able to get what I want out of this?’

My mouth form the words that have been sitting on my tongue for a while now and I almost choke on the words as I whisper them in her ear through her hair, “’Ello, love.”

She turns around and not an ounce of surprise or shock crosses her beautiful features as she looks up at me; just sadness and fear. That guilty feeling is faint but there, unsettling with the alcohol in my stomach. She says softly, obviously uncomfortable, “Hi, Oliver.”

My heart takes control and I manage to say, still sounding strong and savvy, “Care teh dance?”

My facial expression hints nothing but mischief as I look down upon her but on the inside, I’m a mess; the normal mess I always, torn between two different people, the Oliver Scott Sykes people see me as and the Oliver Scott Sykes I should be. I watch her as she bites her lip – then completely shocks me out of my wits.

“Alright,” She says, a playful smile crossing her lips. I let my smooth guard down for just a moment as I let my eyes widen. But quickly, I refrain myself from letting a wide smile take over my small smirk and let her take my hand. Her body – as cliché as this is – acts like a puzzle piece with mine, fitting perfectly in all the spaces as she dances with me, moving to the beat.

And for a few songs, it’s as if our past never existed and our future seems more promising than ever.

Even if she’s rather out of it.