COOL (LUKE HEMMINGS) Pt. 1
Inspired by Troye Sivan’s “COOL”
Lights flash to the tempo of human eyes blinking here, constant and present even when no one realizes.
It’s paradise in these islands. Curving beaches and curvy women. There’s mansions made out of marble and pools in every backyard. A cigarette hangs out of my mouth as I tread through the plaza, watching the pretty people jump into the water and lay in their sun chairs. The breeze brushing off of the coast blows in my hair, and I exhale the smoke.
Ever since I stepped off the plane into this exotic getaway, I’ve been greeted with white smiles and firm handshakes. Women bat their eyes and touch my arms, men either glare or grin to intimidate me. Apparently it’s strange for a single rockstar to be traveling alone, however I am with someone almost every night.
Parties bounce along the pavilions after sun the goes down, and girls pounce on me like panthers. I’m considered “a catch” in this place, after all, I have the St. Laurent fur coat and leather boots that everyone here seems to understand have some sort of significance. The pretty people on the islands like their accessories, and what’s not to like?
They sit under the sun, sweating until they pass out on daiquiris, attempting to deepen their already too golden tans. I see a child push another off of the flamingo floating in the pool, climbing on immediately after. The father listens to his music on one phone, emails his coworkers and wife on another, and texts his lover on another. Laughter pours stronger from the shaded cabanas the more drinks are poured into fancy glasses. It makes me laugh, actually.
A hand yanks mine to turn around, and the grin on my face fades as I see her. She has mascara running down her hollow cheeks, her acrylic nails dig into my wrist. “How could you?” she yells at me, stomping in her tacky cheetah print pumps. I hear the cameras flash from beyond the bushes. This incident will surely make tomorrow’s headlines.
“You let me pay for your drinks, sleep with me, and then leave the next morning? You sleazy, horrible, disgusting-”
“Don’t forget vile.”
She stares at me after my interruption of her rant, her green eyes burn holes in my brain. I thought I would’ve gotten used to this look by now; the gaze of someone I had made feel vulnerable as they woke up in my bed, seeing me not lying beside them. However, the smirk on my face remains as she twists up her nose and declares, “you’re such a dick.”
The girl whose name I can’t remember marches away, her hands balled into fists and the straps of her dress sliding off of her shoulders. She looks like a mess, but it makes sense; I made her feel like one.
Whispers trail from behind the neatly-trimmed hedges, and the clicking of their cameras forces me to turn to the paparazzi, though I can’t see where their faces are exactly. I shrug, take the burnt out cigarette in between my fingers, and crush it beneath my padded silver boots. A smug grin never leaves my face.
As I pace away from the scene, I search for the key to my penthouse suite in my jean pockets. My heart races in my chest, I can’t breathe. Fame caught up to me before I could stop it, now I can never keep pace of my own tracks. The money makes my life move too fast, the knowledge the world is watching makes me want to run faster.
I don’t understand how the pretty people on these islands wear such bright smiles. It seems as though they are happy here, like their life is complete by dressing in their extravagant clothes, drinking their treasured alcohol, loving the other plastic people just like them. While they laugh and dance at night they appear to be truly enjoying this lifestyle of parties, vacations, and cars.
A green light allows me access into my suite, and I push down hard on the handle and slam the door behind me. I would go out on the balcony but I know the paparazzi can spot me so long as the sun can. My lungs concave in my chest, and I slouch down the door, feeling my knees crumble.
Trying to regain my cool exterior, my gaze falls on a small black tube on the floor, a foot away from the counter. I assume it was the girl’s lipstick, as red as her skirt that my hands couldn’t stay off of or out from underneath. There’s a mirror across the entryway of the suite, and I stare in it, seeing myself from last night. I was covered in that fire engine makeup, the feel of it smudging on my face and neck and chest, and the image makes my cheeks burn. I see myself in that mirror, except hollow and vain.
I decide it’s in my best interest to go to bed for a little while, and rest before I hit up the clubs later tonight, in search for someone else to fill the empty space beside me when I sleep, even though it’s only temporary.
“Mr. Hemmings, glad you could make it.”
A man talks to me as I step into the carousel of prism-colored lightbulbs and swaying bodies, welcoming me with one of those denture smiles. His grey hair offsets his black coat, and his eyes sink into his face as if the skin meshes with the skull itself. I swallow hard, but smile nonetheless, shaking his hand with a, “glad to be here.”
Heads turn as I step into the crowd, batting eyes and dangerous glares. Despite the episode this morning, it seems the girls either haven’t heard or don’t care to be another one of “Luke’s one-night-stands”. One with sandy blonde hair starts to grind on my waist, her tight dress shows off curves that I didn’t know where anatomically possible for a woman to have. My jaw clenches and I feel the urge to smirk, show off this hot chick who latched onto me within minutes of my arrival.
What can I say? The long hair, the barely-buttoned shirts, tight jeans and wallets full of cash; I can wear pretty boy well. It’s my profession to be a womanizer, along with the music of course, and I can play the part.
Blondie dances with an urgency and roughness, as if she wants to make sure every other competitor in the club knows I’m hers, at least for tonight. However much I would have been pleased with this fever rolling from her hips onto mine any other time, this occasion was different. Green eyes burned holes in my brain this morning, and I can’t get them out of my head. I am sick of staring into a set of eyes that hates me and thinks I’m another sick, foul man who’s only after sex. Even though the tabloids and the cover stories write me as a player, I like to believe I’m a romantic at heart. Tonight, I decide, to start acting like one.
I step away from the mess of people drinking too much and stumbling on their feet. Blondie raises an eyebrow at me, rolls her eyes, then turns on her heels to the next guy. My heart sinks at how replaceable I am to these women, and to most people in general.
Subtle ocean breezes whisper up into my hair, the sand separates with each footprint I leave behind. It’s quieter here, I can actually hear myself think. Laying down in the sand, an act I know will not be forgiving to my expensive silk shirt, I stare at the stars. It reminds me of an old song I used to sing to thousands of girls who loved me for me, not my money and fame. Humming the tune I close my eyes, trying to remember the feeling of relishing in popularity and climbing charts.
I can still taste the ocean, like it was today.
Critics have exploited every evil portion of my personality, and reading it over and over again in magazine articles and TV interviews, I suppose I started to accept my new cheap reputation instead of fight it. Girls became currency, booze is the paycheck. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. It’s all so typical, and I start to question when, exactly, did I become a scolded stereotype.
You said please keep on holding your hands, and the rain it came too soon.
“Hey, I know that song,” a girl says, the crunching of footsteps against the sand growing louder with each passing second. I bolt to sit upright, embarrassed, and I look out to the sea as I ask, “you do?”
She sits near me, crossing her legs and staring out into the black waters likewise to my current position. “Yeah. Kind of old, but good.” I nod in agreement, feeling myself blush at her compliment. The way her voice lilts and fluctuates surges an emotion through my chest that I haven’t felt in a really long time, my breathing slows.
“5 Seconds of Summer,” she states, drawing figures in the sand with a delicate finger. “I used to be pretty crazy about those guys.” How open she is to practically a complete stranger causes me to laugh, and the fact that she is obviously unaware who she’s talking to in this moment.
“Don’t laugh!” Her sweet voice giggles, the sound eases my mind and repeats itself over and over. With a smirk on my face, I ask, “Did you have a favorite member of the band?”
It takes a moment for her to respond, and I can tell she is flushed pink when she answers, “the lead singer, for sure. I hear he’s a bit of a douche now though.”
It strikes me in my ribcage, a painful twinge of regret and magenta streaks flash across my eyes as I blink. Turning to face her, I swipe the hair out of my face, desiring to know the face of this girl who previously adored me, but now recognizes the ego-maniac I became.
The darkness clouds my vision, but I can make out the shadows of her face. My heart swells and where I should feel myself sinking I begin to float. Expressions are hard to read on those angelic features of hers, but I notice her eyes begin to widen, her mouth parting. She pulls her legs up to her chest, hugging them and apologizing, “oh my God I’m so sorry I swear I didn’t-”
“You’re right.” I shrug, biting my lip where my piercing used to hang out of my mouth. A heavy silence fills between us, spare for the waves gliding against the shoreline. We turn to face the sea again, lost in the blankness of it all for a few minutes. Somehow, this stillness doesn’t feel awkward, but instead it’s comfortable.
A nudge on my shoulder causes me to face her again, shame beyond gravity forcing my features to drag down. I see her lips tug into a reassuring smile, attempting to cheer me up as she suggests, “a real douche wouldn’t admit to being one.” I laugh, a genuine one, and she follows suit. God that adorable laugh of hers, I want it in my head like a broken record.
“So, rockstar,” she tilts her head to the side, “what brings you to the islands?”
“Sweet life living, I guess.” I don’t know how to answer that question, my words felt like lies because this place is bitter and artificial. “My managers said it would help me settle down and relax a bit.”
“Has it?”
The two words alone made me want to cackle in hysteria, claw my hair out, and drown in the ink that lies no more than twenty feet ahead of me. “It’s paradise,” I reply calmly, gritting my teeth and digging my nails into the palm of my hand. For one reason or another, I don’t want to disappoint this girl. Her spirit is magnetic. She doesn’t say anything in return, so I direct the question to her.
I can see her bite her lip before she answers, “Oh you know, same as you. Relaxing from that busy lifestyle.” Looking at the ground, she etches circles in the sand, growing more forceful the more seconds pass lulling in the conversation. I’m gazing at her, wishing my eyes could adjust to the night. There’s something about only seeing the shadows of her eyelashes and lips that is driving me insane. Not knowing whether I did it on accident or my mind is drunk on this torture of low visibility, my fingers brush against hers. She continues to mindlessly scribble in between us, not looking up.
“What’s your name?” The words fall out of my mouth before I think about it, my eyes searching for hers.
“Y/N,” she discloses, speaking lowly as if she didn’t want someone to hear. A witty glance meets my gaze, and she sneers, “I would ask you the same but I have a feeling I know your name already.” I chuckle at her jest, and she buries her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I just admitted that to you without even realizing that…I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.” I nudge her shoulder, grinning, “the first part was pretty cute.”
Y/N peeks up at me between the hair falling in her face, it’s inevitable that she’s blushing. I hope she is, so at least I wouldn’t be the only one. Lifting her confidence and her head, Y/N and I observe one another’s faces for a moment. I’m trying to determine whether or not someone can be so beautiful when they can hardly be seen at all. My head is cloudy, my heart is beating faster with each fleeting moment. I want to touch her, but I remain frozen, not wanting to disturb the calmness between us.
There’s so much I could say to her, and yet I can’t force my mouth to function properly. My womanizer skills are being drained into the night, however I don’t feel the desire to summon them. The few spots where our skin is touching is on fire, however her contact is not needed for my cheeks to burn. It feels adolescent and pure, this sensation fluttering in my chest and coursing through my veins. I recall the emotions but cannot name them, unfamiliar with the simplicity of liking someone solely for their voice and conversation, their figures and shadows.
She parts her lips and my heart is snatched out of my ribcage into my throat, dying to know what’s on that mind of hers. I want to ask her a million things and discover every inch of her thoughts, reveal the darks and lights of her electric character. I’d let the words and sentences turn to nothing, our voices would rise in the air as the sun would elevate across the skyline. All she needs to do is say something, anything.
“I think,” she whispers, “that I need to go.”
A collision of the galaxy resting overhead erupts in my lungs, the stardust is choking me. My jaw goes slack, breathing heavy, and I can’t move. Y/N stands up, her figure looks like an angel in the dark, my eyes examining every inch. Something in her thoughts causes her to hesitate, and I pray she’ll change her mind, sit down with me. Holding my breath as she turns away, I lurch forward, my heart propelling me to chase after her, my conscious repressing me in the sand.
In a matter of heartbeats, she’s gone. I can hear her laugh in my head, swimming circles in my pool of thoughts and it seems every other now-unimportant memory is drowning out. No matter how much I replay my new favorite song in my head, it’s no comparison to hearing her sing it in person.
Straying up the beach towards the storm of strobe lighting, I see the pretty people dancing and sliding on one another’s bodies, drenched in hard liquor and sweat. From my gaze, I cannot see Y/N in the mess of swaying hips and crashing lips, and some part of me feels alleviated to know she isn’t caught up in the party-scene. She’s too pure for the cruelties of competing men and women, I’d never want her neon spirit to fade.
Side-eyes and confused stares follow my figure, alone, up to the pathway towards my suite. Blondie pulls away from her new-man for a slight second before being hustled to the beat once more, the fake-tanned behemoth she called a replacement surely whispering dirty things in her ear to entice her. Normally the contest to see who could land the hottest girl and eventually become the most drunk for the evening would lure me in, however tonight I find myself humming as my silver boots walk down the stone street.
Camera crews follow me up to my door, asking about who the lucky lady is tonight. They prod and poke at me until I finally give in, turning around and answering, “I think I’m pretty lucky.” Grinning as I step into the suite, I shut the door behind me, hearing the chatter of paparazzi fighting over who would publish their article first.
I wash my face in the bathroom sink, staring at the reflection of a hollowed man. The idea Y/N had of me now as a person was disgracefully true, and how she used to view me as someone she idolized. Me, the person she formerly adored, now washed up and clinging onto every sense of relief from the painful reality that I’m not in the limelight for musicality and heart anymore. It sickens every fiber of my being, and I grip the sides of the countertop, closing my eyes to allay myself from facing who I’ve aged into any longer.
For the first night in so many months, I climb into bed alone. There’s no one to fill the space beside me, no pretty head to peacefully sleep beside me into the morning hours, when I’d be out the door in a flash. This fear of mine of remaining forlorn and abandoned mangles my chest, ripping a hole in my heart. I grip the sheets as I pull them over top of me, knowing without looking that my knuckles are white.
The waves dance along the shoreline only a quarter mile away from my cottage, taking me back to lying in the sand with the stars above my head. I hear Y/N’s voice in my head, envision her shadows and linear structure. This vacation was designed to wrangle me down to earth, and yet her etherealness has me floating towards the stars. Seeing her again is the only thing I’m wishing for tonight, and I’m determined to prove to at least one decent person that I am not, as she put it, a douche. Y/N’s the only decent person on this island, and I hardly even know her.
My heart skips a beat simply saying her name in my head. I whisper it aloud, liking how it rolls off my tongue so easily, similar to all conversations with her. The syllables taste so sweet, I can only imagine the music her voice would produce if she said my name. Affection drenches my mind, leaving it soapy and desiring to talk to Y/N all the time. From how completely astonishing her figure was, I can’t begin to create the image of her beauty in the daylight. She’d send me into cardiac arrest with one of those witty glances.
Old emotions that feel so familiar surge into my heart, and I blush, praying to get a second chance at what I have been searching so long to find. Whatever Y/N’s true impression of me may be now, I decide it necessary to guide her back to that place where she saw my honest self, no matter the cost.
I will wait for you to love me again.
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
ellievsbear
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
