Chapter 15Ingrid. Halloween, Five years ago
INGRID. HALLOWEEN, FIVE YEARS AGO
Beck hailed a taxi, the yellow cab pulled up to the curb with a soft hum, its headlights slicing through the evening haze. He opened the door, waiting for her to slide onto the leather seat before following close behind.
As the door clicked shut, he leaned forward, giving the driver his address. Even as the car lurched into motion and merged with the restless flow of traffic, his attention never wavered. His gaze stayed fixed on her, as though she were the only thing that existed in the city around them.
"What?" Ingrid asked, her voice light, but the intensity of him made her pulse stutter.
Beck’s lips curved slightly, but there was no teasing in his expression.
"I just can’t believe you’re real," he murmured, his voice soft, almost awed. "Every time I look at you, I feel like I’m dreaming."
The words wrapped around her, sinking deep into the spaces she hadn’t realized were empty. Warmth unfurled in her chest, spreading outward, making her feel weightless, like she was floating between reality and something far sweeter.
"And I don’t ever want to wake up," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, sending a soft tremor through her.
"Me either," she admitted, leaning in. Their lips met in a kiss that stole her breath. His fingers threaded through her hair, tilting her head, deepening the kiss. The other hand skimmed her thigh, fingertips brushing the hem of her dress.
The boldness of it shocked her, the way she melted into him without hesitation.
She had never felt this before. Intimacy had always been an obligation, something to check off the unspoken list of expectations at the end of an average date.
The few times she’d had sex, it had been brief, a means to an end, leaving her indifferent and unimpressed.
This was wildfire, untamed and consuming. She didn’t just want him. She craved him. His touch wasn’t just physical; it was a spark, igniting something deep she hadn’t known was there.
The taxi weaved through the city, its movements erratic, jolting them forward with each abrupt stop.
Beck pulled away from her, his gaze went to the rearview mirror. She followed his line of sight and caught it. The driver’s stare crawled up her bare legs, lingering far too long on the high slit of her dress.
A flicker of unease skated down her spine, but Beck was already moving. He lunged forward, his fist tangling in the seatbelt by the driver’s shoulder and yanked hard.
The belt snapped tight against the man's neck, jerking him back into the seat with a grunt of shock.
"Look again," Beck growled, low and lethal, "and I’ll snap your fucking neck right here."
The driver gasped, hands flying off the wheel in panic. The cab lurched wildly, veering into the wrong lane. Horns blared. Brakes squealed.
Ingrid slammed against Beck's side, heart hammering.
"Beck!" she cried, nails digging into his arm. "Stop, you're going to kill us!"
But Beck didn’t even blink. His glare stayed locked on the driver through the rearview mirror, burning with a furious, bone-deep violence. His fist twisted the belt tighter, making the driver choke and whimper.
"Apologize," Beck ordered, voice a deadly whisper.
"I-I'm sorry!" the driver stammered, nearly sobbing now as he struggled to breathe.
Only then did Beck release the belt with a snap, sending the man lurching forward over the wheel. The cab swerved again before righting itself.
The ride to the curb felt endless, a suffocating silence filling the space between heartbeats. When the taxi finally screeched to a stop, Beck was already moving. He shoved the door open, then turned back and hurled a wad of bills at the driver’s chest hard enough to make him flinch.
"That’s more than enough." His voice was deceptively even. "Next time, keep your fucking eyes where they belong." He climbed out of the cab without another glance. He turned, extending his hand to Ingrid, his expression softening slightly when their eyes met.
But Ingrid hesitated. Something was wrong. The slight sway of his body. The way his eyelids drooped for a beat too long before he blinked. The whiskey on his breath. The faint slur curling beneath his words. The brutal shift from warmth to violence in a single breath. He was drunk.
She hadn’t noticed it in the dark of the bar, but out here, under the harsh gleam of the streetlights, it was impossible to miss.
Still, when he reached for her, she took his hand almost instinctively. His palm was warm, his grip steady, a cruel lie against the faint sway of his body.
When the night air hit her it felt like a slap, sharp and sobering. She turned to him, heart hammering against her ribs.
"What the hell was that?" Ingrid’s voice shook.
For the first time tonight, she wasn’t sure she knew the man standing in front of her.
"He was leering at you," Beck said, defensive, his words clipped, edged with agitation. He swayed again, and her stomach twisted tighter. How drunk was he?
She had only had two drinks, and she was clear-headed. But Beck’s reactions were slow and unsteady.
"You could’ve killed us," she snapped, disbelief clawing up her throat. "How much have you had to drink?"
Beck tilted his head, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. His words slurred just enough to make her nerves shriek.
"No clue," he said. "Come here, prim."
He reached for her. She stepped back sharply.
This wasn’t just impulsiveness. This was recklessness. Violence without thought. Danger without consequence. A red flag blazed in her mind, impossible to ignore.
"I’ll help you upstairs," she said tightly, arms crossing. "But I’m not sleeping with you. You’re wasted."
"I’m fine," Beck said, his voice softening. "But whatever you want... just come hang out. I like being with you."
The way he said it was sweet, easy, like he hadn’t just threatened to kill someone. She didn’t know how to reconcile that.
Still, she followed him up the narrow stairwell, her mind racing to catch up. He stumbled inside and immediately crashed into something metallic. A sharp, jarring clang split the air. Cymbals toppled, metal scraping loudly across the floor.
Ingrid winced. She groped for the light switch and flipped it on. A harsh fluorescent glow flooded the room. His place was a disaster.
A drum kit lay overturned, instruments scattered across the floor. The couch sagged and old stuffing was bursting from the seams. Every surface was littered with empty beer bottles.
She stood frozen, arms crossed, drinking it all in.
The bottles. The wreckage. It all clicked, the endless refills at the jazz club the other night, the way his glass never stayed empty, the amber liquid vanishing under the dim lights.
And the whispers from her classmates she’d brushed off: late nights, bar-hopping, the kind of drinking that left men reckless.
The way Beck swayed slightly, even now. Was this the aftermath of some wild Halloween party? Or was this who he was?
"Sorry about the mess," Beck said, his voice rough with a hint of shame as he bent to gather the bottles. They clinked loudly as he dropped them into the trash. "Would’ve cleaned up if I knew you were coming."
"It’s not exactly the Ritz," he added, flashing a tired, self-deprecating smile. "But it’s what we’ve got."
"We?" Ingrid asked.
"Yeah," Beck said, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I live with Reef and Finn. My childhood friends and bandmates. Collectively, we make up about... one semi-functioning adult."
He laughed under his breath, the sound low, and something in her chest loosened.
"You met them tonight," he went on. "Sorry about Finn. I swear I didn’t know he was gonna drag you onstage like that."
Despite everything, despite the anger still simmering low in her gut, a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. She hated how easy it still was to soften toward him, to want to.
"He didn’t drag me," she said, her voice quieter now. "I did that all on my own."
Beck gave a short, genuine laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Fair enough," he said. "Still... Finn knew I was seeing someone. When he saw you, he put two and two together and decided to stir the pot. Thought he was being funny. Idiot."
"I’ll show you my room," Beck added, gesturing for her to follow. She followed him, stepping carefully over a tangle of cables in the hallway.
His room was small, its walls bare except for a few band posters and a shelf stuffed with mismatched books. A mattress on a simple frame dominated the space, flanked by a desk drowning in notebooks and sheet music.
"No funny business, I swear. Cross my heart." Beck grinned, tapping his chest.
"Uh-huh." Ingrid shot him a look, crossing her arms. "Your definition of ‘funny business’ and mine might be wildly different."
Beck flopped onto the bed with a groan, sprawling out, one arm slung lazily over his face like he couldn’t be bothered with the world anymore. Ingrid hovered for a moment, torn. Then, with a soft sigh, she knelt beside him and tugged off his boots.
As she straightened, her gaze flickered to where his white T-shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of toned skin above the waistband of his jeans. Not that she was looking. Much. She cleared her throat, needing something, anything, to fill the silence.
"What’s your costume, anyway?" she asked, giving him a once-over. He had on dark jeans, white T-shirt, and a worn-in leather jacket.
"James Dean," Beck said, peeking at her from beneath his arm with a lazy smirk.
Ingrid snorted before she could stop herself. "Of course. You dressed as yourself. That’s barely a costume."
"Hey, I put in effort," he shot back, mock-offended. "I could’ve just said 'hot guy in a leather jacket' and called it a day."
"You do that every day," she deadpanned.
"Exactly." Beck grinned. "Why mess with perfection?"
Against her better judgment, Ingrid felt a smile tug at her lips.
"I don't think you should take the subway this late," Beck said. "I can walk you home if you want to leave."