3. Hendrix
3
HENDRIX
P ress was buzzing tonight. Open mic nights always had this energy, an undercurrent of something electric that made the air feel heavier. People packed into the mismatched chairs and couches, sipping coffee or cheap wine while the low hum of conversation swirled around the room.
It wasn’t like I’d planned on playing tonight. Conrad had been the one to push me.
“You’ve been hiding behind that damn guitar long enough,” he’d said earlier as we sat in the living room of Granny Goodloe’s old house, the one we shared with Holden. “Get on stage. Stop being a coward about it.”
“I’m not hiding,” I shot back, leaning into the worn leather of the couch.
“Bullshit. You write all this music, Hendrix, but you never play it for anyone but us.” He smirked, the kind of smirk that said he was enjoying getting under my skin. “What’s the point if you don’t let the world hear it? I know you’re comfortable playing in front of an audience, but you’ve got a great voice too.”
I’d rolled my eyes, knowing he was baiting me, but it worked anyway. Conrad had this way of pushing me just far enough to make me prove him wrong, like a big brother who couldn’t resist stirring the pot. It was irritating as hell.
He was supposed to come with me tonight, but, in true Conrad fashion, he’d been nowhere to be found. I’d shown up at Press anyway, guitar slung over my shoulder, ready to perform a song of mine just to shut him up.
I leaned against the counter, nursing a coffee that was more room temperature than hot now, deciding what I wanted to play. The air smelled like old books and espresso, and the soft glow of the Edison bulbs above cast shadows over the swirling mural on the back wall. The place felt like home—warm, messy, and full of people trying to make something of themselves.
The door swung open, and that’s when I saw her.
She moved like she owned the room, but not in a showy way—more like she didn’t care if anyone noticed her or not. Her brunette curls framed her face, wild and untamed, and her heather-gray eyes scanned the room with sharp precision. She was all long legs and confidence, wearing a crocheted crop top and jeans that hugged her hips in a way that made me pause mid-sip.
She was trouble, I could tell, the kind that sneaks up on you and leaves you questioning everything.
Before I could stop myself, I studied her movements, noting the way her fingers tapped against her bag, painted with bold strokes of color against the designer leather. She wasn’t like anyone here.
I shifted my attention back to the stage, trying not to think about her too much. But then I saw her talking to Caleb, her voice carrying just enough for me to catch bits and pieces. Something about needing a guitarist, her friend bailing last minute.
I didn’t realize I was moving until Caleb called out to me.
“Yo, Hendrix. You looking to jump in? Moon here needs backup.”
Moon. So that was her name.
Her eyes turned to me then, heather-gray, cool and piercing, and I felt heat unfurling low in my stomach as they lingered just long enough to make my skin prickle.
“I’m singing ‘Moon River,’” she said, holding out a piece of sheet music. “Do you know it?”
I nodded.
Her voice was smooth but edged with uncertainty. “The arrangement’s a little different. Can you handle it?”
Moon River. I almost smiled. Of course, she was singing that. It wasn’t just the name; it was the way she said it, like the song held some kind of secret only she understood.
The first time I had heard the song, it was Audrey Hepburn’s soft, wistful voice, strumming a guitar by a window in Breakfast at Tiffany’s . Classic. Elegant. But then there was Frank Ocean’s cover—raw, haunting, and drenched in a kind of longing that settled under your skin. Moon could go either way, and I wasn’t sure which I wanted more. Would she channel Audrey’s understated grace or Frank’s smoky, aching depth?
I tilted my head, letting a lazy grin tug at my lips. “I think I can manage. If you don’t mind a little improvisation.”
She hesitated, studying me like she was deciding whether or not to trust me. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
When Caleb called us to the stage, the noise in the room quieted to a low murmur. I struck the first chord, the familiar weight of my guitar settling against my chest, and then she started to sing.
Damn.
Her voice wasn’t what I expected—it was sultry, with a little rasp, weathered with experience she looked too young to have. Her confidence grew with every note, and by the time she hit the second verse, I wasn’t even looking at the sheet music anymore.
Our eyes met, and something clicked. It wasn’t just a performance; it was a connection. The kind of spark that didn’t happen often, the kind that made you forget there was an audience at all.
When the last note faded, the room erupted into applause, but I wasn’t listening to them. My eyes stayed on her as she tucked a curl behind her ear, her cheeks flushed from the spotlight.
“Not bad, heartbreaker,” I said, my voice low enough for only her to hear.
She laughed, soft and breathless, and it was like a jolt to my chest. “You weren’t too bad yourself.”
“Just ‘not bad’?” I teased, leaning in. “I think we made magic up there.”
Her eyes held mine, and for a moment, the noise of the room faded.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost shy. “We did.”
And just like that, I was hooked.
I spotted him leaning against the bar, sipping from a short glass of something that probably wasn’t coffee. Conrad. One of my best friends and my housemate.
I hadn’t seen him arrive, but there he was, moving through the room with a quiet ease that drew attention without demanding it. Sandy blonde hair just long enough to curl at the ends, sun-streaked and perpetually windblown. His eyes were a shifting mix of color—like an artist’s palette where blue and green swirled together, with a darker ring catching the edges. A faded long-sleeve tee clung to his frame, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his posture loose and unassuming, oblivious to the way everyone took an extra second to look.
His eyes met mine first, then slid to Moon. He smiled, slow and wicked, like he already knew what she tasted like.
“Decided to show up, huh?” I called out, my tone half teasing, half exasperated. “Could’ve used you earlier.”
“Doesn’t look like you’ve been lonely,” Conrad replied, pushing off the bar and strolling toward us. His gaze landed on Moon, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Hendrix always has a knack for finding trouble.”
“Moon, actually,” she said smoothly, tilting her head with a faint smile.
“Moon,” he repeated, like he was testing the word out, his smirk deepening. “Trouble by any other name.”
“And you must be Hendrix’s backup plan,” she added with some heat of her own.
Conrad chuckled, low and rich, and I felt the weight of his presence as he stopped close, his shoulder brushing mine.
“More like his moral support. But I like to not show up until things get interesting.” His gaze drifted down Moon’s body, taking her in as if she were a painting he couldn’t quite figure out. “And I’m guessing you’re the reason things are interesting tonight.”
Moon tilted her head, returning his scrutiny with a playful smile. “I guess you could say that.”