𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

4

"WHY THE FUCK WERE YOU clinging to him like that?" Trippie snarled, his joint tucked in the side of his lips, smoke streaking from it like a thread.

"I was not," I looked at him, alarmed, shocked.

His hold on my waist tightened and I winced. I recalled the conversation I had with him, there was no clinging involved. I had words I never knew could be exchanged, a conversation that was made up of clouds and neon lights. Trippie would not understand that.

He scoffed, removing his hand from my waist to toss his unfinished and sparking joint into a bush carelessly. We were walking to the car park from Machine Gun Kelly's studio, approaching Trippie's car because he hadn't let me come in my own. I glanced towards the target bush nervously, hoping it wouldn't catch fire. I was skeptical like that, wary of the environment and how I contributed to it. Trippie did not understand that either.

"You would've fucked him right then and there if I hadn't barged in and ruined the moment," he muttered in frustration, his thick hands in his pockets with a short dreadlock hanging on his forehead.

"Stop it," I scolded, shooting him a look of anger.

He was presumptuous, wanting me to impress his friends but getting closer to them made him lose his mind. It wasn't that I got closer with Trippie's friends in that sense of the word, they were absolutely horrible, all of them. This one however, was different. If there was any truth in Trippie's accusation, it was that he certainly had ruined the moment with his presence.

Trippie laughed then, his hands came out of his pockets and clamped together.

"I'm kidding baby," he uttered, catching up to me again and wrapping his arm around my waist to pull me closer before we reached the car.

Our foreheads touched and a tremor shot through my body, discomfort and helplessness. I wonder what it felt like to touch foreheads with the right person, it shouldn't feel like this. It shouldn't feel wrong and disheartening.

"Kelly's my man, he'd never do a bitch that belonged to me," he murmured, his breath smelled of joints and iron.

My eyes bore into his. "Don't call me that."

He laughed again, everything was funny to him. "Chicks like being called that."

"I don't, I've told you that so many times, Michael," I answered, sighing in frustration, knowing full well he'll keep calling me what he wants in moments when he's high and angry whether I like it or not.

He murmured something again, it sounded like a song lyric because it rhymed, a verse of a rap I couldn't make out. This was my cue to shut up because he was no longer paying attention to my words anymore. With both his arms around my waist he kept pulling me closer until our stomachs touched through the material of our clothes. Tremors prickling at my skin, screaming at me to resist, my heart feeling so heavy that it choked.

In the darkness of the night, I suddenly felt another feeling. Something that told me I was being watched. I looked around, nothing but cars in the lot and lights from billboards reflecting onto Trippie and me. Instinctively, I looked towards the studio building, my eyes shooting up to the terrace where I had just felt like I was truly high without any sort of drugs. There, I spotted a tiny glint of a lighter catching on to the end of a cigarette. Everything else up there was in darkness.

There was someone there. As I watched, Trippie murmuring unintelligible things in my ear, his breaths hot and uncomfortable against my skin, the person on the terrace relit the lighter and brought it purposefully closer to their face. It was Colson, his expression vague and stoic and yellow from the firelight from where I stood watching, but his eyes were on me, on us. Then the lighter went out again, and he disappeared.