Chapter 3Ingrid. July, Five years ago #2
"No, but I could call the zoo and let them know one of their lesser apes wandered off," she said sweetly. "You know, the kind that thinks winking is flirting and deodorant is optional."
His smirk widened. Fantastic. She’d only made it worse . Irritating him was the goal, not feeding his smug, annoyingly symmetrical face.
Honestly, this man belonged in a very specific kind of zoo. One where the only exhibit signs said "DO NOT ENGAGE: Responds positively to sarcasm."
"Nah," he said with an easy shrug, like her insult barely grazed him. "I’m never lost. I’m always right where I should be."
Then, with a flick of his eyes, he pinned her with a look so sharp and teasing it practically curled at the edges.
"You, on the other hand, are out of your depth."
Ingrid clenched her jaw, arms crossed so tightly she was one eye twitch away from launching a stiletto.
She debated kicking him into the nearest speaker, but with her luck, he’d just land in a pose, arms folded, smirk intact, like he’d meant to be hurled.
So instead, Ingrid folded her arms and braced herself, already anticipating whatever nonsense he’d spew next.
"Let me guess," he drawled, tilting his head as if he were analyzing her. "Community service gig? What was the crime? Public indecency?
He tapped his chin like this was a true mystery that needed solving. "Nah, you’re too prim for that. You scream honor student with repressed rage."
Ingrid raised an eyebrow. Oh, fantastic. He was one of those guys–half-flirt, half-menace, and fully deserving of a swift kick to the shin.
Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, he snapped his fingers.
"Oh! Crashed Mommy’s Beamer, didn’t you?" he grinned. "Now you’re slumming it with us peasants to atone. How noble."
Seriously, where did this guy get off? He was actively messing with her best friend's equipment and still had the nerve to mock her like he was the victim here?
He’d taken one look at her and decided she was some spoiled little princess who only stepped foot in a dive bar for quirky rich girl reasons. And okay, fine, she was wearing heels in a venue where the floor was legally classified as a biohazard but still.
"Wow," she said flatly. "Nailed it. I’m here for charity. Starting with you. Step one: reintroduce you to soap. Step two: burn that shirt."
It was an exaggeration, unfortunately. He didn’t actually look dirty. No, the universe had gifted him with that perfectly disheveled look, like he’d just rolled out of bed and somehow still smelled expensive. Annoying.
Ingrid wrinkled her nose and shot him her most withering you disgust me glare, the one that normally sent grown men fleeing for their lives. He only beamed at her. Clearly, something was broken inside him.
"Wow," he mused, tilting his head. "Imagining me in the shower already? Kinda fast, don’t you think?"
Before she could throttle him, he leaned in.
Too close. The kind of too close that should be illegal outside of personal relationships and CPR training.
His breath was warm and teasing as it brushed against her skin.
And just like that, her brain did the worst thing imaginable.
It betrayed her. Against her will, she was picturing him in the shower, water streaming down his tattooed torso, droplets running over the ink, steam curling around his broad shoulders– Nope.
Her face burned. And of course, he noticed. The second her cheeks flushed, his smirk turned downright criminal.
"You might want to join me," he murmured, voice low, rich, and designed specifically to ruin lives. He leaned in just a fraction more, his lips hovering near her ear. "Just to make sure I clean behind my ears," he whispered.
Her pulse quickened, equal parts fury and something far, far more annoying. Because, sure, she was mad. Livid, even. But she was also dangerously close to getting caught up in his game instead of calling the shots herself, and that was simply unacceptable.
"Jail," she whispered, their faces just inches apart.
His brows lifted slightly, eyes flickering with something–surprise? Amusement? The crushing realization that he had finally met his match? Hard to say.
Before he could respond, she leaned in just a fraction closer, her voice dripping with disdain. "I’d rather go to a high-security prison than ever touch you, saboteur."
His mouth twitched, the beginnings of some insufferable retort forming but Ingrid struck first. She yanked the cut cable from his hand, careful not to brush his skin. The cable slipped free with a firm tug, and for a split second, he just… stared at her.
His throat bobbed with a quick swallow. His eyes flickered to hers, and for a brief moment, the usual cocky glint was absent, replaced with something almost…
curious. Maybe even a little soft. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
His expression hardened slightly, his posture relaxing into that too-cool-to-care stance once more.
"The fact that you don’t know the difference between jail and prison," he mused, "really shows you wouldn’t last a minute in either, princess."
His smirk deepened, like he was genuinely enjoying himself. "They don’t have Pilates or acai bowls in prison, you know."
Ingrid gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me?"
First of all, she didn’t even do Pilates. Second of all, who didn’t enjoy a good acai bowl every now and then? That wasn’t a crime. That was self-care.
Her retort was locked and loaded, but instead of firing it off, she found herself distracted.
By his eyes. They weren’t just blue. Up close, they had flecks of warm brown, like sun-dappled water.
A completely useless observation that she absolutely did not need to be making right now.
She was leaning in so close that the tips of her heels were practically touching his beat-up Converse.
How the hell had they ended up this close?
The realization sent a fresh bolt of irritation through her, and she immediately took a step back, reclaiming her space. Rolling her eyes, she mentally shook off whatever dark magic had just happened and refocused.
He was sabotaging Eden. She should not be looking into his eyes. She should not be noticing anything about his eyes.
"Well," she declared, regaining her composure, "you’re headed straight to prison once I report you for…" She made a dramatic show of holding up the severed cable. "Destruction of property!"
There. Checkmate, asshole. She savored the moment, waiting for him to finally look rattled. Instead? He barely blinked.
"Knock yourself out," he replied smoothly, flashing a lazy smirk that only made her want to throw the entire amplifier at his stupid, attractive face.
Ingrid shot him one last withering look before turning on her heel, her blood still simmering with irritation.
She could feel his eyes burning into her back as she swayed away, her heart still hammering from the confrontation. She needed to purge this entire interaction from her brain immediately before she started questioning why her body reacted like she’d just been in a damn action movie car chase.
Her steps were brisk as she scanned the room for Eden, who was still posted up at the bar, completely oblivious to the criminal activity that had just unfolded backstage.
Ingrid made a beeline for her, desperate to shake off the memory of him and return to something resembling sanity.
"A strange man is messing with your gear!" Ingrid exclaimed, her voice a mix of panic and righteous indignation. She thrust the severed cable toward Eden like it was a crime scene photo.
Eden blinked at the cable in Ingrid’s hand, then at Ingrid’s face.
"A man was messing with my gear?" she repeated.
"Yes!" Ingrid waved the severed cable again for emphasis, nearly smacking a passing bartender. "Some six-foot-something menace with audacity in his veins was back there, full-on tampering with your amp like he was about to monologue about world domination!"
Eden slammed her drink down so hard the ice rattled. "Absolutely not."
"Thank you! That’s the appropriate reaction!"
Eden straightened, cracking her knuckles. "Did you get a good look at him? Was he some sweaty, tech-bro reject? A washed-up roadie looking for revenge?"
Ingrid opened her mouth, then hesitated. Because no, he had not been sweaty. Or washed-up. Or even remotely tech-bro-adjacent.
He had been… well. Smug. Irritatingly good-looking. Covered in tattoos. The kind of guy who looked like he smoked expensive cigarettes and played guitar in a band that exclusively performed emotionally devastating songs.
Eden caught the pause immediately and narrowed her eyes. "Oh my God."
"What?" Ingrid said, far too quickly.
Eden squinted at her like a detective piecing together a case. "Was he hot?"
"Not the point," Ingrid hissed.
"That’s a yes."
"It is not a yes!"
Eden folded her arms. "Did he, or did he not, look like someone who could ruin your life in under ten minutes?"
That was... disturbingly accurate. Ingrid made a strangled sound of frustration. "Focus on the task at hand."
"I’m just asking the real questions," Eden said. "More importantly, where is this guy? Because if he thinks he’s getting away with messing with my set, I’m about to go full ‘angry chihuahua’ on his ass."
"Come with me!" Ingrid grabbed Eden’s wrist and started pulling her toward the back of the bar, practically vibrating with urgency.
"Wait! What am I supposed to do? Fend him off with my noodle arms?" Eden yelped, stumbling after her.
"I don’t know! Kick him behind the knees and I’ll citizen’s arrest him once he’s down!" Ingrid hissed.
"Do I look like I have the core strength for a full takedown?"
"Do I look like I have the patience to deal with another interaction with him alone?"
Eden groaned. "Fine, but if I get arrested, you’re bailing me out."
"Deal."
But as they skidded to a stop near the amplifier, Ingrid froze.
There was brand-new, perfectly intact one, neatly plugged in like nothing had ever happened. And the guy was gone. Like he had evaporated into thin air, or been abducted by aliens who specialize in inconveniencing her.
Ingrid’s head whipped around, wild-eyed. "No. No, no, no. He was just here! Thirty seconds ago!" She frantically scanned the room, her brain struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Please tell me I did not just hallucinate a six-foot petty criminal."
She thrust the severed cable toward Eden. "Do you see this? This was real, right?"
Eden squinted at it, then shrugged. "Yep. You’re not crazy."
"Then where the hell did he go?" Ingrid gestured wildly around the empty space where he had stood moments ago.
Eden crouched next to the amp, inspecting it. Then she picked up her guitar and strummed a few notes. A chord progression. A full damn riff. Everything played perfectly.
She frowned. "Okay, but why would someone sabotage the gear… only to come back and fix it?" she mused, like she was solving a riddle from a wizard instead of dealing with real-world nonsense.
"You think he had a change of heart mid-crime? Grew a conscience? Decided to dabble in electrical repair?" Ingrid asked, arms flailing.
Eden pursed her lips. "Or… maybe we’re in a haunted venue and the ghost of an incredibly inconsistent criminal is screwing with us."
Ingrid threw up her hands. "Great. Either we were gaslit by a living human or pranked by a dead one. Neither option is comforting!"
Eden plucked another note, nodding in approval as the amp hummed to life. "Well, whatever happened, at least the sound is working now."
Ingrid gawked at her. "That’s it? You’re just accepting this? Like mystery men who commit half-crimes and then disappear into the void are a normal Tuesday?"
Eden shrugged. "I mean… it is our Tuesday."
Ingrid opened her mouth to argue but then she really thought about it. And, unfortunately, Eden had a point. It was Tuesday.
Eden turned back to her guitar like nothing had happened, while Ingrid stood there, staring at the empty space where the guy had been, feeling deeply unsettled and maybe just a little bit impressed.