The wind is blowing violently around him when Ace pulls his hood up, wrapping his arms around himself tightly.
The dusky night light is just starting to graze over Old Bullworth Vale, the thin cape of snow seems to cover everything—even the ocean. Navy blue and uninviting, all he can really hear at this point is the waves crashing in on each other, and the engines of the cars on the road right beside him.
It's fucking freezing, and his cigarette's almost out.
He tosses it onto the concrete sidewalk and smashes it out, irritated as the glowing embers fizzle into the blue-gray of the snow below him. He reeks of tobacco, he knows he does, and the movie doesn't even start for one hour.
Unknowing of what to do next, Ace takes a bold step into the street and begins walking across it, headed to the movie theater. He avoids an olive green sedan—ugly shit, really—and absently flicks off the lady in the drivers' seat. It's too cold for this bullshit, he thinks to himself, already halfway across the street. He doesn't care much for Old Bullworth Vale and all its' preppy rich kids who think they're tough, and he doesn't have time to get hit by some bitch in a car.
Finally arriving by the theater, he takes a look at the schedule and confirms what he already knows—Janitor Massacre will be on in about fifty-seven or so minutes. From the box office, the attendant eyes him rather annoyed.
"I already told you, kid, you can't just stand around here with nothing to do. That's loitering, and I'll call the cops."
Ace eyes him for a moment, considering what to say to him. The attendant looks ridiculous in his little red uniform and dumb cap, he looks like a bellhop at some pretentious, over-priced hotel. So different from himself, really, with the ends of his hair dyed electric green, black rings pierced into his face at three different locations, and heavy, black tattoos underneath his red and black striped sweatshirt. He looks like a punk, Ace guesses, at least according to his dumb appearance-orientated boys, but that doesn't mean he's just gonna loiter all over the place because he's "a punk".
"I got somethin' to do," Ace argues, voice strong, "I'm waitin' for my movie."
Still, the attendant shakes his head. "Get outta here, I want you out of my sight until that clock right there reads seven right on the dot," he commands, pointing to the dull black office clock on the wall behind him.
Man, adults were so fuckin' lame.
Ace sticks his hands into his sweatshirt pocket, battling the urge to get into a fight with the attendant. He's still sore from that basement concert last night, and anyway, he really wants to see this flick. He steps away just as a shrill scream comes up from behind him.
"One hour?! Don't you know who I am?!"
Ace turns as if on cue, already recognizing this voice. There, right at the box office window, stands Pinky Gauthier in her fucking baby pink winter getup. He'd never admit it out loud but, those jeans looked absolutely enticing on her.
"Excuse me, what are you looking at?"
His hazel eyes snap up to meet hers, and of course there she is, skinny pink arms crossed over her mid-sized chest, pink boot-covered foot tapping on the snow in expectation.
"Fuck if I know," Ace sneers, irritated.
Yeah, she's hot, but he's not gonna go out of his way and let her boss him up and down as if he were another one of those fucking whipped prep boys.
She stops for a moment, brown eyes clouding over in confusion. Ace picks it up almost immediately, and he knows what she's pondering in an instant. Why isn't he bowing down to her? She's heard from her friends about Ace Griffith—he's a major flirt, why's he being such a jerk?
"Are you waiting to see this movie, too?" Pinky asks, gesturing over to the Janitor Massacre sign. Ace eyes it for a moment, before eyeing her once again, and gives a curt nod.
Pinky sizes him up before touching her left elbow with her right hand, suddenly nervous. "Well, I think we're the only ones waiting to see it… you wanna watch it together?"
He crosses his arms over his chest, considering it. "Yeah," he says after a minute, "why not?"
Ace eyes his watch from behind Pinky's head as he kisses her, eyes opened. There's only fifteen minutes left until Janitor Massacre starts, so if he wants to catch the beginning of it he'd better wrap things up fast.
He breaks apart from her, her breathing still heavy, lips just slightly bruised from Ace's harsher ones. Pinky's breath comes out in small white puffs as she tries to catch up to it, the winter air around them making her cheeks rosy. It's colder up here on the lookout, but Ace had insisted on it—no cops to boss them around, no preps to try and start shit with him.
"Gotta jet. Movie's gonna start," he explains, standing and dusting the snow on his sweatshirt off of him. He looks out in the direction of the ocean, noticing the sun's almost hidden entirely behind the mountains. Shit, he'd have to run if he wanted to see this movie.
"Wait," Pinky says, her breathing finally slowing, "I… I thought maybe we could skip the movie, maybe get some ice cream instead?"
Her brown eyes are hopeful, and they almost make Ace chuckle by the innocence in them. She's excited as hell, she's never experienced being picked up by someone from the other side of the social spectrum, taken to the lookout, and made out with for about half an hour. She's entirely captivated by the idea of a forbidden romance with Jason Griffith, the punk boy, the rebel, the kid who gets arrested for getting into fights at the underground concerts Bullworth hosts. Pinky Gauthier, daughter of the wealthy and princess of the estate, falling in love with Ace Griffith, son of the damned and king of the trash. Marrying him and becoming Pinky Griffith, queen to his punk and metal kingdom.
It's all petty and stupid, really, and it makes him want to laugh his ass off.
"I paid sixteen bucks for these tickets," he replies, uninterested and already beginning to walk away, a small smile on his lips. He adjusts his lip ring, it's crooked from the make-out session, and kind of hurts like a bitch right now, anyway.
"But…" Pinky mumbles quietly, already a good deal of distance between him. She watches as he retreats, heading off in the direction of the town and away from her. She doesn't know what this means, is he playing hard to get? But then again, something about Ace Griffith just doesn't strike her as the type of guy who plays hard to get.
"You're just a player!" she realizes aloud, screaming it at him with all the hurt and fury mixed into her voice.
But still, as he walks away, dips out, disappears—he keeps smiling.