Far Away From Here

Consensual

What does dying a slow death feel like? An hour ago, I could not describe the pain, but sitting in my three-hour lab of physics, oh, I could write you a thesis paper with a bibliography. My professor was the characterization of shooting me in the foot. He didn't move his lips that was his problem, every word he said was just graveled into one giant slur of a sentence. I pulled out my phone from my back pocket, tucking it underneath the long, metal table I was situated behind.

What are you doing right now?

I read the text from the unknown number, trying to rack my brain for who I had given my phone too recently.

Sorry, who is this?

I finally questioned after coming up with no success of who it could be.

Louis.

I gasped faintly; peering up from my phone I eyed the room to make sure no one heard me or noticed my instantly inflamed face. Why would he be texting me? How did he get my number, first off?

I replied with my initial curiosity. How did you get my number?

It was on your resume. What are you doing?

In class. What are you doing?

At Sins. Come in after class.

My eyebrows furrowed together. I was not scheduled until later this evening and since I had an analysis paper due tomorrow morning that still needed revising; I made plans with the library until my shift. 

Sorry, I can't homework.

Do your homework here, want to see you.

My breath instantly caught in my throat. My insides clench at the possibility his underlining words may mean. Did he want to see me for something work-related or something not-so-work related? I immediately wanted to latter, but knowing my heart may not be able to think about the hypothetical scenario I started to think of all the things he may need to see me for at the office.

As soon as my class ended I hurriedly packed up my stuff, making sure not to miss anything. The journey to Sin's usually was a thirty-minute tram ride, factoring in the other stops and unneeded delays of traffic I arrived in front of my place of work forty minutes later. During the ride, I checked my phone texting back George who had thanked me for the fifth time for spending the weekend with him. As if he needed to thank me, I should be thanking him.

When I dropped him off early Monday morning, I was dreading the call from my mother a few hours later. Right on schedule, I got a call from my angry birth-giver at noon scolding me for letting the incident on Saturday take place. I tried to explain my side and I could hear George in the background defending my case as well, but of course, to my mother, it was always my doing.

I felt guilty enough and spent the rest of Saturday and Sunday making sure George was okay and taking him around Manchester doing whatever he wanted to do. After Louis made sure I was okay and scanned my head for any harm. I told Jonas' I wanted to go home, Bush agreed to allow me to leave my shift early. Louis, however, wasn't too happy. He demanded I call the store that night when I got home and when I woke up to make sure I was okay. I called once Sunday afternoon and got my scolding from Louis for disobeying his demands. Before I could apologize for the fifth time, I heard a slight rustle and Bush came on the phone telling me to have a good rest of the day and he and Louis would see me later.

This would be the first time I have seen him since the incident. Taking a sharp intake of air, I entered through the door being greeted with the harsh chime of the front bell. "Hello?" I called out delicately not wanting to alarm him, especially if he was tattooing someone. I peered around the hallway which constructed a barrier from the front to back.