The club was bustling, men with tattoos up their necks surrounding the various pool tables, girls who seemed barely eighteen falling over drunk with every step they took. The many conversations going on throughout the room garbled to make it seem like everyone was speaking an unknown language. I sat next to Harry as he was in deep conversation with Louis, his 'business partner'. I ran my finger around the rim of my glass, slipping out of reality. Harry nudged my shoulder, bringing me back into focus, he said something that was lost in the noise of the club as he stood. He soon disappeared into the crowd, leaving me alone at the bar. I finished my drink, occupying myself by picking the lavender nail polish off my fingers. I barely noticed the man sit down next to me. He began to speak, making comments here and there, trying to spark my interest.
"You wanna get out of here?"
The man asked, brushing his hand with mine. I drew my hand back, snapping my head in the direction of the man.
"No."
I said with a stern voice, looking him in the eyes before continuing to pick off another piece of polish. I expected the man to leave or at least leave me alone, but I had no such luck. He continued to make comments, and the more he made, the more suggestive they got. I glanced back at the crowd, trying to pick out Harry's figure.
"At least let me buy you a drink, love."
The man insisted, letting out a frustrated sigh when I didn't reply. Placing his thumb under my chin, he turned my head to face him. I began to speak when I saw a figure rushing towards us out of the corner of my eye. Harry appeared in a flash, his fists clenched as his side.
"What do you think you're doing, mate?"
Harry snarled, the man removing his hand and shifting back on his stool.
"Just having a conversation, that's all."
The man stuttered, fear growing in his eyes.
"Is that so... Evangeline?"
Harry looked down, I knew what was going to happen next. I only gave him a small nod, confirming his previous belief. I stood and walked through the crowd of people, hearing the room become progressively silent as people watched the fight unfold. I could here angry yells of Harry as I walked into the bathroom. I stood there for the longest time, not wanting to witness the event. I had only seen Harry fight once, and he had never let me witness it again. My unhappy past was brought into full view of Harry that night, when he witnessed my breakdown. Since then, I was always escorted out of the room by one of his guards or told to 'go get a drink' when something was to get ugly. Harry was definitely not the best person, but he was a caring boyfriend and as idiotic as it may seem I loved him, no matter how much blood was spilt or laws broken.
"I'm not leaving without my fucking girlfriend, get it?"
Harry said, close enough to the bathroom that I could hear him. I walked out, finding him a few feet away, arguing with someone who I assumed to be the manager. If we were in one of the clubs run by his gang or even his few acquaintances we would've been fine, but Harry had felt the need to have drinks at the new club in town, meaning that the club manager had no idea who he was or about the reputation that proceeded him. I stood at Harry's side, nudging his arm to try and draw his attention from his budding fight. He paused mid sentence, his facial expression becoming less harsh as his eyes met mine. We made our way through the crowd, exiting the club without another word to anyone. I walked at his side, trying to ignore the blood on his knuckles and darkening bruise on his cheek.
The ride back to the flat was silent, other than the few angry comments made about bad driving. I messed with the radio, finding a station with music that wasn't complete garbage. I listened without another word, sometimes humming along. We eventually arrived home, walking together up the steps, Harry fumbling with the keys as he tried to open the door. I went to retrieve the first aid kit as Harry sat in the living room. I returned to find him on the phone, yelling once again. I sat next to him on the couch with the supplies in my lap waiting for him to be done. Nearly twenty minutes later he slammed his phone down, his jaw clenched , the veins on his neck beginning to protrude.
"Is everything alright?"
I whispered, not sure how he would react.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
He snapped, his eyes full of anger. I turned the other way, not saying another word.
"I'm sorry."
He said, his voice cracking. He placed his hand on mine, shifting so he and I were inches apart.
"It's fine."
I mumbled, opening the bottle of rubbing alcohol and wetting the cloth, I removed the dried blood first, most of it not belonging to him. Minor cuts covered his knuckles, making him wince when dabbed with the cloth. It only took a few moments for the blood to be removed and cuts cleaned. I gently ran my hand across his cheek, planting a kiss on his cracked lips.
I tried to remember what Harry was like when we first met, his hair always tucked away underneath a beanie, his lips never without a smile. I vividly remember the exact day we met, almost as if it were yesterday. I had been walking back from my afternoon class through a part of town that I had yet to see. At first, the walk was an adventure, but as more time passed I was afraid that I would not be able to find my way back to my flat. My feet began to ache as I sat on a worn bench in front of a small coffee shop, I pulled out my phone trying to locate where I was by the means of a map. A boy sat down on the opposite end of the bench, looking as if he hadn't slept in months, at first he scared me, with his arms full of tattoos and harsh facial expression. He never once looked in my direction, sitting on the bench staring at his shoes. I wasn't the type of person to talk to strangers or ask for directions, I would rather sit stranded in an unknown city than talk to someone I didn't know. Maybe it was my lack of sleep, or my four cups of coffee before my ten a.m. art history class, but as the boy stood to walk away I spoke up, asking him if he could help me. At that moment I didn't know that he was the up and coming leader of the most notorious gang in England, nor that in a few years the number of lives he would take would outnumber the amounts of fingers and toes the both of us had together. In that moment, I knew that he was a boy who smelled faintly of coffee and cigarettes, that when words escaped his lips I could do nothing other than listen, and my world ceased to spin when he was around. He was my muse, my next masterpiece, and the largest palette in the world could not encompass all the colors that spewed out of his mouth when he laughed or the colors his eyes shone when he smiled.
