Chapter 4Ingrid. July, Five years ago
INGRID. JULY, FIVE YEARS AGO
Just as Ingrid expected, Eden owned the stage like she had personally built it with her bare hands.
She didn’t just perform, she attacked. If charisma were a weapon, she’d be leading a full-scale invasion.
She was a whirlwind of raw energy, belting out lyrics with effortless power as she darted back and forth, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
At one point, she even crawled over her guitarist, who had thrown himself onto the stage floor in what looked like either deep artistic expression or a minor medical emergency, all while flawlessly hitting every note.
The crowd ate it up like it was their last meal, arms raised, bodies bouncing, completely under her spell.
The other bands? Well. "Varied" was putting it kindly.
Some were decent. Others made Ingrid reconsider the entire concept of music.
One band somehow managed to be both off-key and off-rhythm, a true feat of anti-musicianship.
Ingrid admired their confidence, if nothing else.
There's something to be said about a person who sings that badly but does it that loudly.
The reigning champions, The Defectors, took the stage last. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, and Ingrid’s entire body tensed with residual bitterness. Last year’s loss still stung.
She was seconds away from letting out an old-fashioned boo, maybe even launching a tomato if she could find one in time. Miraculously, she held back.
Instead, she turned to her phone as The Defectors launched into their set. She had more important things to focus on, like the masterpiece of a baby pink leotard she had found online. Tasteful cutouts. Just enough flair. It was practically whispering her name.
And then, the drums exploded.
Not just any drumming. This was an act of war.
A controlled demolition. The kind of percussion that made you sit up straight because, suddenly, your heart was beating in sync with it.
The drummer wasn’t just playing, he was declaring dominance.
His sticks blurred as he executed rapid-fire snare hits and erratic-yet-perfectly-timed fills, the rhythm so alive it felt like it might leap off the stage and start throwing punches.
Ingrid felt it .
Drums had always spoken to her. In ballet, the moment the percussion kicked in, it meant something big was coming–a dramatic turn, a powerful leap, the climax of the performance.
And right now, it felt like this drummer was dragging the entire crowd, kicking and screaming, into whatever storm he was conjuring.
Intrigued, she slipped her phone back into her purse and looked up. And froze.
The drummer, the one singlehandedly assaulting the drum kit like it owed him money, was none other than him . The amplifier saboteur.
Her eyes widened. Holy shit, he’s in the band.
She stared, processing the revelation. The same smug, infuriating man who had been cutting cables and invading her personal space was The Defectors’ drummer. And worse? He was good. Disgustingly, unfairly good.
He played like the drums were an extension of his own body, like they had a psychic connection.
Every muscle in his arms flexed with each strike, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.
Sweat beads formed on his forehead, glinting under the stage lights.
His damp hair, now even more tousled, raked off his forehead as he continued to play.
And then, between beats, he twirled his drumsticks in his fingers. Why was that so… hot ? She wanted to deny it, but there it was. Staring her in the face. Distractingly so. Deeply inconvenient.
She gave her head a violent shake, trying to rattle the thoughts loose. Focus . The amplifier saboteur was the drummer for The Defectors.
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. Last year, when Eden’s amp mysteriously malfunctioned and The Defectors just happened to win, she’d written it off as bad luck. But now? Oh, now she knew. This was too much of a coincidence. He had to be responsible.
Slowly, she tapped her manicured nails against the table, already plotting his inevitable demise.
Maybe some good old-fashioned theater-kid revenge?
Dump fake blood over his head Carrie-style during their next performance?
Stage an elaborate trap involving fishing wire, a bucket, and a carefully timed spotlight?
Frame him for a crime? Okay, that last one was a bit much, but she wasn’t not considering it.
Her vengeful musings were interrupted when the band’s lead singer tripped spectacularly over a guitar cord.
The guy barely caught himself, but the stumble sent him into a full-blown rage.
His face twisted in fury as he spun toward the guitarist, who, in response, did the absolute bare minimum: glanced up briefly and went right back to playing.
Clearly, this was not his first time dealing with lead-singer dramatics.
Meanwhile, the drummer, Saboteur Supreme , kept playing. Completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed bored by the meltdown happening three feet away from him.
The final note rang through the venue, and without hesitation, the drummer stood, storming toward the lead singer and leaning in close to whisper something.
The lead singer’s already-twisted expression somehow got worse. Then, with a furious huff, he spun on his heel and stormed offstage.
The rest of the band followed suit, the guitarist sighing like a man who had absolutely had it, while the bassist trudged after them like a disgruntled intern being forced to work overtime.
Ingrid raised an eyebrow. Well, well, well. The Defectors were falling apart. And she loved to see it.
Before she could fully revel in the chaos, the announcer’s voice crackled over the speakers, cutting through the tension. "Uh… well. That was… intense," the announcer said "Let’s hear it for The Defectors?"
The audience responded with a scattered mix of cheers, murmurs, and at least one unenthusiastic woo. Someone in the back attempted a slow clap but gave up halfway through.
Ingrid smirked. Not exactly the triumphant send-off they were probably hoping for.
The judges took an excruciatingly long five-minute break to deliberate–long enough for the audience to aggressively refresh their social media feeds, argue over the best band, and, in one corner, nearly come to blows over whether a hot dog was a sandwich.
Ingrid, however, had other thoughts. Specifically, about him. The drummer. The amplifier-sabotaging menace.
How had she not noticed him at last year’s Battle of the Bands?
He wasn’t exactly the forgettable type. His face should’ve stuck with her because, unfortunately, it was unfairly attractive.
The kind of face that made her want to punch a pillow out of sheer frustration because it belonged to someone with such an objectively terrible personality.
Truly, beauty was wasted on the undeserving.
Then again… she had been a little tipsy last year. Just a little. Okay, moderately wasted. Fine, there was a nonzero chance she had spent half the night enthusiastically complimenting a potted plant, fully convinced it was one of the judges. In her defense, it had a very wise energy.
Not her best moment, but she cut herself some slack; summer break was the only time she let herself have any fun. The rest of the year was a relentless cycle of rehearsals, aching muscles, and the slow, inevitable erosion of her sanity.
Before she could fully relive that deeply unfortunate memory, the announcer finally returned.
"And now, the final two contenders in the Battle of the Bands are..." He paused dramatically, milking the moment for all it was worth.
"Eden," he declared, letting the name hang in the air before continuing, "and The Defectors! Come onto the stage!"
The crowd erupted as both bands made their way up.
The shifting spotlight darted between them, illuminating Eden’s wide, eager grin and the barely contained train wreck that was The Defectors.
Their lead singer had the manic energy of a man one microphone stand away from being escorted out by security, while the amplifier saboteur stood there with his arms crossed.
Ingrid clasped her hands together, resisting the urge to hex The Defectors with mild food poisoning. Nothing too dramatic, just enough to cause some inconvenient gastrointestinal distress.
"The winner is..." The pause was so thick, you could slice it, toast it, and serve it with jam at brunch.
"Eden!"
The venue exploded with cheers.
Ingrid shot out of her seat, whooping like she’d just won the lottery. Onstage, Eden absolutely lost her mind, bouncing wildly and yanking her bandmates into an ecstatic group hug that almost took them all to the ground.
Ingrid couldn't resist sneaking a look at the drummer. Hoping to see his soul leave his body from sheer, crushing defeat. To her utter horror, he was smiling. Actually smiling. And clapping. Meanwhile, The Defectors’ lead singer was staring daggers at Eden, looking one more inconvenience away from drop-kicking a bass amp.
Ingrid raised an eyebrow . That band didn’t need a trophy. They needed couples therapy. Maybe some essential oils. A calming tea.
Shoving through the rowdy crowd, she made it to the side of the stage just as Eden barreled down the steps. Ingrid barely had time to react before she was tackled into a bone-crushing hug.
"I knew you had it! You are so badass, it’s insane!" Ingrid beamed.
"I think I pulled my hamstring, but it was worth it! Pizza on me!" Eden declared, still vibrating with adrenaline.
Ingrid laughed, pulling back, only to freeze as he strolled past. His eyes met hers directly. That damn smirk curled at the edge of his lips.
Without thinking, Ingrid jabbed two fingers toward her eyes, then pointed hard at him, delivering the classic "I’m watching you" warning.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he winked. Again . A completely arrogant, borderline illegal wink. Heat rushed through Ingrid as he turned and walked away, completely unbothered.
Eden, watching the exchange, glanced between Ingrid and Beck with growing concern.
"Uh… what was that?"
"That," Ingrid said, still scowling, "was the guy who sabotaged your amp."
Eden blinked. "Beck? No way. I know him. He’s been around the scene forever. He’s actually a nice guy."
Ingrid scoffed. "Beck. Of course, he has a cool musician name. Not even, like, a normal one. Not a Toby. Or a Brian. No. Beck ." She threw up her hands. "And sure, maybe he seems nice, but so do those documentary serial killers before they get caught."
Eden gave her a look. "Ingrid."
"His cable-cutting says otherwise," she shot back.
Eden frowned, glancing toward Beck’s retreating figure.
"You’re being paranoid. Just leave it. I really don’t think he did anything," Eden said.
Ingrid huffed, crossing her arms.
Eden might have let it go. But Ingrid? Not a chance.
The cut cable was undeniable evidence, even if someone had mysteriously replaced the equipment. And if she ever crossed paths with Beck again, one thing was certain. She’d be watching him. Closely .