The Twist Before the Beat

You smirked—full of sin, eyes sparkling under those messy curls—and slid something into my palm like you were slipping me a secret.

Not just a paper.

A ticket.

A free pass to the kind of night people whisper about after.

To Black Stones, live. No strings, no rules, just noise, sweat, and maybe something more.

My fingers closed around it like it was a key to a locked room I didn’t know I wanted to break into.

“Make sure the playlist you send won’t be lame,” you said, cocking your head, that smug little grin pulling at the corner of your mouth.

God. You were unreal.

I stared down at the ticket, then back at you—eyes flicking between the ink on my hand and the smirk on your lips like I couldn’t decide what I liked more.

“Lame? Never,” I said, stepping back, but still watching you like you might vanish if I blinked. “You’ll press play and forget every guy who tried to hit on you with a Nirvana tee and no soul behind it.”

And then I grinned.

“See you Friday night, Moon. Hope you're ready to have someone crash your afterparty on purpose this time.”

I turned, board in hand, pulse in my ears, already thinking about the playlist that’d keep you up at 2am wondering what the hell you just invited into your world.

*POV CHANGED*

Two days later.

It was late. Too late. The sky was inky black, cracked with stars, the kind of night where secrets bleed out of alleys and into open streets.

You were outside your band’s usual rehearsal spot—an old garage behind Ryan’s cousin’s tattoo studio. You could hear Seth and Mark inside, half-arguing over riffs again. The usual. You lit a cigarette you wouldn’t finish, pacing the lot, phone in hand.

No text from Jen.

But you hadn’t blocked him. That was already saying something.

Then—headlights.

A car rolled up slow, engine humming like a warning. The driver didn’t get out. Just stayed inside, watching. You narrowed your eyes.

Then the door opened.

Out stepped a girl—maybe your age, maybe older. Tight leather jacket, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, and this strut like she owned the ground she walked on. And she wasn’t looking at you.

She was looking past you.

At the garage.

At the sound of the Black Stones getting louder.

“Is Jen here?” she asked.

Your chest froze.

“Who’s asking?” you shot back, voice low.

She tilted her head, unimpressed. Took a few slow steps forward.

“Ex-girlfriend. Temporary. Maybe not. Depends if he’s still playing games.”

She smiled.

A real pretty, venom-laced smile.

“You must be the drummer.”

She said it like she already knew everything about you.