The Dirtbag

“Why the hell would he be here? This is a band rehearsal.”

The words snapped out of you before the door even finished swinging shut behind her. Your voice echoed in the lot, sharper than your drumsticks ever were.

Because yeah—what the fuck was she talking about?

Jen wasn’t part of this world. Not your band. Not your music. Not the hours of sweat and screaming matches and cracked sticks and empty Red Bulls piled up like a damn shrine to your grind.

He was just some skater boy who crashed into your lap two days ago and flirted like his life depended on it. And now suddenly there’s an ex at your space—talking like he belonged here?

You spun on your heel, storming into the garage. Mark paused mid-chord. Seth raised an eyebrow. Ryan was sprawled on a beat-up couch like a hungover Greek god, chewing on a toothpick and watching everyone like a therapist who didn’t get paid.

“Yooo—Moon, you good?” Seth asked.

You didn’t answer right away. Just slammed your stick bag down.

“Any of you invite someone here?”

Mark shook his head, still fiddling with his amp.

“Not unless she plays better than you.”

“She?” Ryan perked up. “Who’s she?”

You exhaled hard. Palms flexing. Thoughts racing. You weren’t about drama. Not in your space. But this wasn’t nothing. This felt planted.

And deep down… a part of you hated that your first instinct was to text him.

To ask:

“What the hell is Alina talking about?”

But you didn’t hit send.

Not yet.

You didn’t text him.

You didn’t need to.

You saved it. Pocketed that storm until it could really do damage.

And then Friday night came.

The gig.

Black Stones was already two songs in, the crowd thick with sweat and smoke and bodies pressing in too close, just how you liked it. You were in your zone, pounding out the rhythm like your hands were born to destroy.

But your mind?

Somewhere else.

He was in the crowd.

Skateboard tucked under one arm, hair a little messier than last time, a hopeful smile pulling at his lips the second your eyes met.

And you?

You didn’t smile back.

Not until after the set, when you were backstage, towel slung around your neck, drink in one hand, bandmates buzzing around in the haze of adrenaline.

That’s when he came back. Leaned in the doorway like he belonged there. Like you hadn’t been spinning in chaos ever since that girl dropped his name like a lit match.

You took one slow sip of your drink. Then walked up to him.

Close. Real close.

And you said, loud enough for your band to hear:

“Your ex? Alina?”

You watched the flicker in his eyes. Oh, he wasn’t expecting that.

“She’s hella pretty. Killer eyeliner, too. If she’s looking for you… maybe you should just get back with her instead of wasting your time on a dirtbag drummer with anger issues and a short fuse.”

Then you smiled.

The cruel kind.

“Pretty sure she doesn’t wear her broken headphones like battle scars either.”

You brushed past him like you hadn’t just gut-punched him with your words. Like he hadn’t just started something he didn’t know how to finish.

[ siim ]

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