chapter one #2
Shit.
She has seen my post. I had completely forgotten.
Earlier this week, Heidi had asked me to go out with her tonight, and I had declined, feeding her some excuse because, at the time, I had been convinced I wouldn’t have the energy to go anywhere after work.
Yet here I am. And she has caught me.
My chest tightens as I stare at her text, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, my mind scrambling for a response that won’t set her off.
Heidi is one of my best friends, but she can be… difficult.
Remember when I said I have a hard time saying no to people?
Heidi is one of the main reasons why. I hear Set It Off’s lyrics in my head.
People pleasing is never good for your health.
She has a way of making me feel guilty whenever I don’t do what she wants.
She isn’t the most understanding person, and she tends to take things personally, even though it never is.
If I say no, if I make plans that don’t involve her, there is always this underlying tension, a punishment of passive-aggressive silence or clipped responses.
So over the years, I’ve learned the easiest route is to just… go along with whatever she wants.
Or, when I really don’t want to, lie.
Not in a malicious way, but in an “I just don’t have the energy to deal with this argument” way.
And now, thanks to my own stupid Instagram post, I have backed myself into a corner.
I exhale, fingers finally tapping out a response.
Me: It’s for work, so I promise I didn’t blow you off on purpose!
Kind of the truth.
Hopefully, it will be enough to satisfy her, because after the day I’ve had, the week I’ve had, I do not have the energy to deal with a fight.
It’s 4:00 p.m. on Saturday when I slip in through the back door of The Riot Room, the gritty, neon-lit concert venue where I occasionally pick up shifts on weekends or after suffering through my soul-crushing corporate job. The extra income is nice, but that’s not why I do it.
I do it for the music.
Live music has always been my escape, the one thing that can pull me out of my head, no matter how bad my week has been. So even though the work here can be hard, chaotic, and loud, it’s worth it.
I don’t have a specific job here. I do whatever needs doing. Some nights I’m bartending, other nights I’m hauling equipment onto the stage, checking IDs at the door, selling merch, or helping with sound check. You name it, I’ve done it.
This Saturday night, I’m behind the bar.
Reign, the owner, is one of the coolest people I’ve ever met.
I met him two years ago at a show I was attending. At some point during the night, we struck up a conversation at the bar, the kind of natural back-and-forth that only happens when you’re buzzed on good music and cheap drinks.
Somewhere between talking about our favorite bands and the best live performances we’d ever seen, he paused, tilted his head, and studied me for a moment before saying:
“You should work here.”
I blinked. “What?”
“I can see it,” he said with a knowing grin, nodding toward the stage. “The way your eyes light up when you talk about music. You love this shit.”
And he was right. And a week later, I was behind the bar, and the rest is history.
His thin dreadlocks fall past his lower back, some adorned with gold and silver cuffs, catching the glow of the stage lights like hidden treasures.
His face is pierced in multiple places, his nails always painted some obnoxiously bright color that complements his tawny skin.
Tonight, it’s an electric blue that somehow suits him perfectly.
He bought The Riot Room a decade ago, resurrecting it from the mess the previous owner had left behind. It’s a small venue, not the kind to host stadium headliners, but over the years, it’s drawn some iconic acts, making a name for itself in the underground scene.
There’s a lingering undertone of sweat and cigarette smoke, remnants of last night’s crowd, mixing with the sharp tang of disinfectant.
I make my way over to the bar, my long pony tail swaying as I walk. I see Reign polishing a pint glass, his cinnamon eyes sparkle as he catches sight of me.
Immediately, he breaks into song, singing Ramona by Beck in perfect pitch as I slide behind the bar.
He pulls me into a swaying hug, still singing as my laughter rumbles against his chest.
“How are you, my lovely?” he asks, finally letting me go.
I exhale, the weight of the week still pressing against my shoulders.
“I’ve been better,” I admit, rolling my neck, “but I’m happy to be here tonight. Excited to see Hellwake.”
Hellwake is tonight’s headliner—a punk band from Pittsburgh that’s been blowing up fast. Their song Party Animal went viral a few months ago, launching them into overnight success.
I’ve listened to their entire album, and while the recorded versions are decent, I’m curious to see if they can deliver a live performance.
Reign smirks, placing the now-polished glass onto the shelf behind him.
“Oh, trust me. You’re in for a show,” he says with a wink.
I grab a rag and begin wiping down the bar, helping Reign prepare for the show, when I hear the loud groan of the garage door opening.
Four heavily tattooed figures start hauling in equipment, their movements quick and purposeful.
None of them match the usual vibe of Hellwake, so I glance at Reign and ask, “Are those the openers?”
He looks over at the group, one man struggling to move some speakers on a dolly, and nods.
“Yep, that’s them. They’re called Atlas Obsidian. Solid band. Had a good following years ago, took a hiatus and are now back on the scene. The lead singer’s got some serious talent.”
I narrow my eyes, watching as they move to set up on stage. My attention zeroes in on one band member in particular.
And, damn.
He wears a dark cut-off t-shirt that I’m not sure can even be classified as a shirt with how tattered it is. The fabric hangs off his muscular frame, exposing lean, sculpted sides and chest. His dark hair has that ‘just out of the shower’ style, damp waves falling over his alluring features.
He has that look, the kind musicians carry—the ones who don’t just perform, but make people feel something, even when they’re completely silent.
I should look away. But I don’t.
Every inch of his exposed skin, except his face, is a canvas of ink, a stunning display of mostly American traditional style tattoos.
Magnificent wings stretch across his collarbones, the feathers edged in deep crimson.
His arms are a collage of gothic and traditional imagery: towering castles, grim reapers, and scorpions stretch over his biceps, while a snarling panther prowls beneath them.
Webs stretch across his elbows, and I can see that at least one of his hands is adorned with a ghostly skull and his fingers marked with words I can’t make out from this distance.
Even his neck is claimed, dark roses wrap around his jaw like a collar, a stark contrast against his olive skin.
His face is serious, almost solemn, but his features are soft and handsome, inviting in a way that doesn’t match the weight he carries.
And then, he looks up.
His gaze locks onto mine, his amber eyes smoldering and searing.
Shit.
I snap my eyes away so fast I probably look suspicious.
Great job, totally subtle.
I scrub at an invisible spot on the counter, as if it suddenly requires deep sanitizing.
As the men continue unloading equipment and setting up for soundcheck, I can’t help but steal more glances. The other three band members are laughing and joking, their easy camaraderie filling the room with a lightness that makes the tension in my shoulders loosen just a little.
But the mysterious, pensive stranger? He doesn’t engage much.
He works alongside them, but he’s separate, distant, like someone who exists on the outskirts of everything, even when he’s right in the middle of it.
There’s something about him that makes me want to know more.