Chapter 3Ingrid. July, Five years ago
INGRID. JULY, FIVE YEARS AGO
Ingrid lifted her vodka soda from the bar, the glass making a faint ripping sound as it fought to be freed from the sticky, grimy surface. She grimaced. Of course. The bar was so disgusting it practically had suction power, like a booze-hungry leech attaching itself to her drink.
It was the first Tuesday in July, and here she was, trapped in this hellhole five blocks from Juilliard.
Eden definitely owed her. Big time. Like, name-her-firstborn-after-Ingrid kind of owing.
The only reason Ingrid was even in this dilapidated dive bar was to support her best friend at the annual Battle of the Bands.
And yet, she wasn’t sure if she’d make it out alive. She might need a tetanus shot or, at the very least, a hazmat team to wipe off whatever was stuck to her heels.
She shifted her weight, cringing as the bottom of her heel made a faint schlurrrp when it peeled away from the floor. Fantastic. The floor was like the bar–an unholy combination of spilled drinks, questionable substances, and shattered dreams.
She mentally vowed to burn these shoes when she got home.
The overwhelming urge to turn on her heel and bolt straight to civilization was almost too much to resist. But no. She was here for Eden. Eden, Eden, Eden. That’s what she kept telling herself, over and over, like a mantra to stave off the panic.
Because Eden wasn’t just a friend. She was family. When Eden’s mom passed and her relationship with her insufferable father spiraled into chaos, she moved in with Ingrid’s family at sixteen. Since then, they'd been inseparable.
And honestly? If Ingrid could survive sharing a bathroom with a grief-stricken, punk-rock-obsessed teenager, she could survive this disgusting, beer-sticky hellscape. Probably.
Now, both twenty-one, Ingrid and Eden had spent the last three years together at Juilliard. Ingrid in the dance program, Eden in vocal studies.
Ingrid’s choice to attend Juilliard had been a bit unconventional for a ballerina.
Most went straight into a company right out of high school, or even earlier if they were really ambitious or gluttons for punishment.
But Ingrid wanted a somewhat normal college experience or at least as normal as it got when you spent most of your waking hours in a leotard, sweating through rehearsals.
Plus, she liked exploring other dance styles, choreographing her own pieces, and having actual creative freedom. Ballet companies didn’t always love that. Juilliard did. Her mother, predictably, did not.
Not that it mattered. Ingrid could have cured cancer, and her mother still would have sighed dramatically and asked if she really had to wear that lab coat.
She cradled her drink, tracing the condensation on the glass as she scanned the dimly lit bar for Eden. Her eyes flicked over the usual suspects: a man in leather chaps, a group of wide-eyed tourists who looked like they’d wandered in by mistake and were now questioning everything, and– Oh .
Her gaze landed on a tall, lean figure a few seats away.
The kind of guy who probably did wake up looking that good but also definitely used at least two hair products to achieve it.
Tousled light-brown hair, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a slightly crooked nose like he’d been punched in the face at some point but somehow come out hotter because of it.
His blue eyes locked onto hers, sharp and assessing, and a weird, unwelcome tightening formed in her chest.
A dark-haired girl had her fingers on his chest, clearly vying for his attention. But did he look at her? Nope. He was still looking at Ingrid. And then, the bastard winked. Unbelievable .
Ingrid rolled her eyes and flicked her long blonde ponytail over her shoulder in the universal sign for not interested, please go away forever. His lips curled into a smirk.
"Indy!"
Ingrid turned just in time to see Eden striding over, all oversized Metallica tee, combat boots that looked capable of violence, and smudged eyeliner perfection.
They were style opposites. Ingrid thrived on structure, heels, and designer polish.
Eden looked like she’d fallen face-first into a thrift shop and emerged cooler than everyone else alive.
"Hey! Did the bouncer help with the gear?
" Ingrid asked. Normally, she played roadie, pretending she knew the difference between a guitar amp and a speaker.
But tonight, by some miracle, Eden had sweet-talked a bouncer into doing the heavy lifting.
Thank God. Ingrid was not about to haul amps in stilettos unless someone wanted a live demonstration of a femur snapping.
"Yep! Turns out he had a soft spot for people with the upper body strength of a cooked noodle," Eden said, dramatically letting her arms dangle like limp spaghetti.
"Cheers to that, my linguini-limbed queen," Ingrid said, raising her drink in salute.
Eden flexed, revealing a tiny, trembling bicep. "Fear me. I am power."
"Absolutely terrifying. Your arms strike fear into the hearts of men everywhere," Ingrid smirked.
"Damn right they do."
"Are you ready?"
Eden's eyes lit up with the kind of reckless determination that usually ended with someone bleeding. "Born ready. ‘The Defectors’ are going down."
Ah, The Defectors. The band that had snatched victory from Eden’s hands last year.
The wound still festered. Not because of pride.
Well, okay, a little because of pride but mostly because Eden had already spent the $500 prize money in her head on demo recordings.
.. and approximately forty-seven slices of dollar pizza.
Ingrid was pretty sure Eden still muttered "rigged" in her sleep.
"They only won because your amp committed treason mid-set," Ingrid said, crossing her arms.
"Yeah, well, I triple-checked everything tonight," Eden said, rolling her shoulders like she was about to step into a boxing ring.
"Good. Then it's already in the bag."
Eden had it . That rare, magnetic energy that made people stop and stare. Ingrid knew it wasn’t just best friend bias, Eden was born for this. And this year, assuming her equipment didn’t pull another Shakespearean betrayal, The Defectors were toast.
"I’m hitting the bathroom real quick before you go full rock goddess," Ingrid said, knocking back the last of her drink and setting the glass on the bar. "Don’t start a mosh pit without me."
She weaved through the dimly lit space toward the back, dodging groups of sweaty concertgoers.
With a quick, discreet glance in the mirror, she smoothed her short skirt and adjusted the tight sleeves of her fitted off-the-shoulder top. She heard a muttered, frustrated "Fuck."
Ingrid's ears perked up. She turned toward the sound, spotting a crouched figure hunched over an orange amplifier. Long fingers adorned with silver rings gripped a cut cable, and her stomach immediately dropped.
Wait a damn minute . She knew that amp. The same one she and Eden had covered in stickers two summers ago, including a peeling alien head and a very faded ‘Sex Pistols’ logo.
Was this dude messing with Eden’s equipment?
Fueled by a mix of protective rage and a vodka soda, Ingrid marched toward the hunched figure, her heels tapping against the sticky floor with the kind of determination usually reserved for storming into a Sephora sale.
"Kick rocks. I’m in the middle of something," muttered a deep voice without even looking up.
Oh, hell no. The sheer audacity of his response sent a surge of irritation through her. Did he think she was just going to scuttle away like a scared little mouse? Please. The only thing she was scuttling toward was a potential assault charge.
Resisting the very tempting urge to kick him into the amp, Ingrid tapped the man's firm shoulder, regretfully noting how solid it felt beneath her light pink-painted nail.
He flinched, then rose in one smooth motion, the cut cable still in hand.
Tall. Broad. Tattoos. The works.
Then he turned around. Denim-blue eyes met hers. The same ones that had winked at her earlier like some smug bastard who'd never been punished for anything in his life.
Up close, he was even more ridiculously attractive, with that rugged, bad-boy charm that practically screamed will absolutely ruin your life and leave you crying into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
He looked like the kind of mistake your therapist warns you about.
He looked like heartbreak on legs. And he was stupidly her type.
"This isn’t your equipment. What the hell are you doing with it?" Ingrid snapped, jabbing a finger toward the amp.
The man didn’t even flinch. Just looked from the cut cable back to her, slow and infuriatingly casual. Even with her heels adding a few inches of righteous height, he still towered like a very punchable Redwood tree.
A slow, sardonic smirk tugged at his lips as his eyes dragged over her, heat prickling across her skin.
"Don’t worry about it," he said, his voice a lazy drawl, gravelly and dripping with so much unapologetic arrogance it could’ve been bottled and sold as Eau de Douchebag.
"I am actually extremely worried about it, asshole," Ingrid bit out, arms crossing so tightly she was in danger of spraining a rib from spite.
"I’ve got it covered," he said, like that was a real answer.
Before she could demand an actual answer, he had the audacity to give her a slow once-over.
Not even pretending to be subtle. His eyes lingered like they had nowhere else to be.
He paused at her heels like they personally offended his Converse-wearing soul.
"Lost, princess?" he mused, voice dripping with mischief. "Should I make an announcement for your parents to come fetch you? You don’t belong in a dive like this, sweetheart. Your stilettos might get beer on them." He frowned, as if this was a real tragedy.
Ingrid exhaled sharply through her nose. Oh, he thinks he’s funny.