Page 52 of One Last Encore

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.

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