Page 8 of One Last Encore

"Are you ready?"

Eden's eyes lit up with the kind of reckless determination that usually ended with someone bleeding. "Born ready. ‘The Defectors’ are going down."

Ah, The Defectors. The band that had snatched victory from Eden’s hands last year. The wound still festered. Not because of pride. Well, okay, a little because of pride but mostly because Eden had already spent the $500 prize money in her head on demo recordings... and approximately forty-seven slices of dollar pizza. Ingrid was pretty sure Eden still muttered "rigged" in her sleep.

"They only won because your amp committed treason mid-set," Ingrid said, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, well, I triple-checked everything tonight," Eden said, rolling her shoulders like she was about to step into a boxing ring.

"Good. Then it's already in the bag."

Eden hadit. That rare, magnetic energy that made people stop and stare. Ingrid knew it wasn’t just best friend bias, Eden was born for this. And this year, assuming her equipment didn’t pull another Shakespearean betrayal, The Defectors were toast.

"I’m hitting the bathroom real quick before you go full rock goddess," Ingrid said, knocking back the last of her drink and setting the glass on the bar. "Don’t start a mosh pit without me."

She weaved through the dimly lit space toward the back, dodging groups of sweaty concertgoers.

With a quick, discreet glance in the mirror, she smoothed her short skirt and adjusted the tight sleeves of her fitted off-the-shoulder top. She heard a muttered, frustrated "Fuck."

Ingrid's ears perked up. She turned toward the sound, spotting a crouched figure hunched over an orange amplifier. Long fingers adorned with silver rings gripped a cut cable, and her stomach immediately dropped.

Wait a damn minute.She knew that amp. The same one she and Eden had covered in stickers two summers ago, including a peeling alien head and a very faded ‘Sex Pistols’ logo.

Was this dude messing with Eden’s equipment?

Fueled by a mix of protective rage and a vodka soda, Ingrid marched toward the hunched figure, her heels tapping against the sticky floor with the kind of determination usually reserved for storming into a Sephora sale.

"Kick rocks. I’m in the middle of something," muttered a deep voice without even looking up.

Oh, hell no. The sheer audacity of his response sent a surge of irritation through her. Did he think she was just going to scuttle away like a scared little mouse? Please. The only thing she was scuttling toward was a potential assault charge.

Resisting the very tempting urge to kick him into the amp, Ingrid tapped the man's firm shoulder, regretfully noting how solid it felt beneath her light pink-painted nail.

He flinched, then rose in one smooth motion, the cut cable still in hand.

Tall. Broad. Tattoos. The works.

Then he turned around. Denim-blue eyes met hers. The same ones that had winked at her earlier like some smug bastard who'd never been punished for anything in his life.

Up close, he was even more ridiculously attractive, with that rugged, bad-boy charm that practically screamed will absolutely ruin your life and leave you crying into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.He looked like the kind of mistake your therapist warns you about. He looked like heartbreak on legs. And he was stupidly her type.

"This isn’t your equipment. What the hell are you doing with it?" Ingrid snapped, jabbing a finger toward the amp.

The man didn’t even flinch. Just looked from the cut cable back to her, slow and infuriatingly casual. Even with her heels adding a few inches of righteous height, he still towered like a very punchable Redwood tree.

A slow, sardonic smirk tugged at his lips as his eyes dragged over her, heat prickling across her skin.

"Don’t worry about it," he said, his voice a lazy drawl, gravelly and dripping with so much unapologetic arrogance it could’ve been bottled and sold as Eau de Douchebag.

"I am actually extremely worried about it, asshole," Ingrid bit out, arms crossing so tightly she was in danger of spraining a rib from spite.

"I’ve got it covered," he said, like that was a real answer. Before she could demand an actual answer, he had the audacity to give her a slow once-over. Not even pretending to be subtle. His eyes lingered like they had nowhere else to be. He paused at her heels like they personally offended his Converse-wearing soul.

"Lost, princess?" he mused, voice dripping with mischief. "Should I make an announcement for your parents to come fetch you? You don’t belong in a dive like this, sweetheart. Your stilettos might get beer on them." He frowned, as if this was a real tragedy.

Ingrid exhaled sharply through her nose. Oh, he thinks he’s funny.

"No, but Icouldcall 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."

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