Chapter Text
Billy Hargrove
The Nifty Fifty Diner
Hawkins, Indiana.
The neon burns into my goddamn eyes from across the parking lot. Pink and gold, flickerin’ against the chrome edges of the diner. It’d be someone’s idea of heaven if heaven served fries ‘til midnight. For all I know, it could turn into my idea of hell if Eddie says one thing outta line. Fuck, I could be the one to do it. This is uncharted territory I'm walkin' into.
I'm gonna walk into this place to grab some fries with a guy I should’ve been dunkin’ in toilets right about now. Keg Kings royalty don't sit with freaks. They sure as shit don't say they can come with 'cause the kid brother of a girl I wanna screw commanded it.
I don’t do group hangs unless someone’s passin’ me a bottle, a joint or pullin’ off their shirt.
Jesus, I’ve never even met the family of a girl I liked before. And I use the term liked real fuckin’ loosely, ‘cause usually it just means I wanted to get into their pants and be gone before I'm invited to their family's Sunday church or some shit like that. Hell, even 'usually' ain't right.
I never do this shit. But look at me now - makin' bets with Nightingale to get her outside the library, bribin' her kid brother with a milkshake so I can sit across a table from her and goddamn talk.
Talk? Christ on a bike, listen to yourself, Hargrove.
You're cooked, pal.
Real fuckin' well done.
I park the Camaro out front and kill the engine. Eddie’s goddamn vibrating in the passenger seat. Clearly, he’s never been allowed on fuckin’ day release from his shitty trailer before. The goblin bolts the second the door’s unlocked, flingin’ himself across the lot like a bat outta hell, beelinin’ to Zack who’s jumpin' outta Sierra’s car in the next bay over. The diner’s sign reflects in her eyes when she glances back to make sure Zack’s zipped up.
Christ, even under those shit diner lights, she looks like somethin’ outta a forbidden dream.
She crouches down to help Zack to zip up his jacket as Eddie bounces on over. She murmurs somethin’, probably just “wait, Eddie”, real cool and offhand.
He skids to a stop.
Eddie Munson - human pinball machine, patron saint of chaos, sworn enemy of authority - just… waits. ‘Bastard rocks back on his heels, hands shoved in his jacket pockets with zero theatrics or arguments. Now, I don’t believe in magic and all that shit, but I’m startin’ to think every man in this cornfield hell, whether they know it or not, is under her fuckin’ spell, even Munson.
Hell, especially Munson.
It ain’t the kind of control or power you chase with fists or fire. She says a word, and somehow the most ungovernable bastard in Hawkins hits pause. Same with the assholes who talk shit behind her back, who call her stuck-up, say she thinks she’s better than the rest of us. They’re the same sorry sons of bitches sneakin’ glances when she walks past. Actin’ like they wouldn’t beg for a smile if she ever spared ‘em one.
It drives ‘em fuckin’ nuts.
She’s loved and loathed in the same breath. Listened to and ignored. Respected like royalty in one breath, disrespected like dirt in the next. Envy and desire so tangled you can’t tell where the hate ends and the want begins.
She walks like she don’t hear a damn word of it.
What kinda of gravity she got?
And why the hell’s it startin’ to pull me in too?
Jesus Christ, I need fries. All I've had to eat is soggy cereal this morning 'cause Susan burnt the last pieces of toast and mystery meat that might’ve been beef 'round the same time of my conception.
Starvation’s drivin’ me goddamn mad.
But hell, 'least Munson's quiet for once.
I let out a low laugh, cock my head toward her with that familiar burn of amusement simmerin’ in my blood.
“She got you house-trained now, Munson?” I call out.
Eddie throws up two middle fingers without lookin’ back.
Sierra zips Zack’s jacket the rest of the way up, checks his shoes, as if the fact she mind-tricked the most chaotic bastard in Hawkins into instant obedience ain’t phased her.
“Can I get a big boy burger, Sisi?” Zack asks, full of hope and baby teeth.
“If you get a big boy burger, you won’t have room for your milkshake.” Sierra replies, brushin’ a stray ringlet from his forehead.
Zack goes dead serious, visibly weighing his life priorities.
“But I wanna have a milkshake…” Zack sighs, the world clearly endin’ in slow motion.
“Then it’s one big boy burger or milkshake with a smaller burger” Sierra gently explains. “So, you can either have the best of both worlds, or one thing. Otherwise, you’ll feel sick, and that won’t be a nice way to end the day, will it?”
He frowns deeper. The kid thinks. Like, really thinks. And Christ, Sierra just waits patiently for his answer - not talkin’ down to him. She’s lettin’ him decide. Jesus, if that’d be me and Him, that conversation would’ve lasted all about three seconds.
“You want a milkshake?” He would’ve snapped. “Too bad. You eat what I goddamn pay for and you shut up about it.”
And if I’d kept pushin’? If I’d said I wanted somethin’ different?
There’d be no debate. Just a hand at the back of my neck, a shove into a booth, maybe a hot whisper in my ear about how I’m an ungrateful little shit and He’s not wastin’ money on a picky bastard who don’t do what he’s told.
I swallow down the knot risin’ in my throat and push my hands deep into my jacket pockets, hopin’ the cold outside can explain the heat behind my eyes.
“Puke’s nasty” Zack finally mutters.
“Then what do you think you should have?” she prompts, gentle but expectant.
“Milkshake and smaller burger” Zack answers.
“Good choice,” she smiles, squeezin’ his shoulder.
I can’t take my damn eyes off ‘em. The kid’s lookin’ up at her like she hung the moon in diner neon and tied it with a cherry straw. It’s like he’s never known a world where she wasn’t there to help him choose the right thing without demandin’ it, without fear.
It’s the whole damn picture. The casual, easy warmth. The care that ain’t performative. The way she crouches down so she’s eye-level, talkin’ to him like he’s a person and not just a task. She knows exactly how to handle him without barkin’ orders. Shit, I didn’t know this kinda thing was even real. Thought it was bullshit people put in movies so they could sell you popcorn and dreams. Maybe some people really do grow up with someone who kneels to look ‘em in the eye and gives a damn what they want for dinner.
“May we proceed?” Eddie mutters, arms gesturin’ to the diner like he’s about to lead us into the promised land.
I drag myself back to Earth and walk on over towards them, still feelin’ that weird tightness in my chest.
Sierra straightens, dusts off her knees and levels with Eddie.
“As long as you don’t run” she dryly orders.
“Yessss,” Eddie hisses all victorious and grabs Zack’s hand. “Come, my tiny squire! The feast awaits!”
Zack giggles, already matching Eddie’s chaotic energy step for step as they skip toward the door. I swear I hear Eddie shout something about claiming the jukebox in the name of rock and roll.
Christ, we’re gonna be in for a night.
Sierra sighs, tucks her hair behind one ear, and falls into step beside me.
“We’re about to give Munson more sugar,” she mutters, deadpan. “God help us all.”
I glance sideways, watch her expression settle somewhere between fond and deep regret.
“Bold of you to assume he’s not already a walkin’ bag of Space Dust” I murmur back.
That earns me the barest smirk. But shit, I’ll take it. Even if I’m still not totally sure what the hell to do with it.
I reach the door first and swing it open for her. She steps inside, grace in motion as always. I move to step ahead, outta reflex more than anything. It ain’t somethin’ I usually think about. You walk into a place, you scan, you steer, you find the path, you pull out her chair, and all that shit. That’s just what you do.
But before I even get the chance, Sierra’s already at the host desk and smilin’ politely at the waitress from across the room.
Huh, guess I’ll just… chill.
“Found ‘em yet?” I murmur, leanin’ in a little.
I feel this ripple under my fingers, a split second of tension, gone near as fast as it hits. Takes me a second to realise what it is. Shit, I didn’t even realize I’d rested my hand on the small of her back. Good work, dumbass. Now you’re standin’ here suddenly aware of everything again - the weight of my hand, the warmth of her through the fabric. Somethin’ unsaid between us. The fact that I crossed some line I didn’t even see ‘til I was already standin’ on the other side.
Am I comin’ on too strong?
I mean, shit, we were flirtin’ like crazy at the lake. She didn’t seem bothered when I stood close, didn’t withdraw when I leaned in. Hell, she smirked and tossed cigarettes like she was tryna set the air between us on fire.
So what’s the problem?
Is it ‘cause we’re here? Somewhere public? Somewhere she might be seen with me like that?
Maybe there ain’t one. Maybe she just wasn't expectin' it.
Either way, my pulse is poundin' louder than the fryers.
Fuck, I miss the good ol’ days when I didn’t overthink this shit.
I clear my throat and drop my hand. Keep my fuckin’ mouth shut and let her lead.
“Table for two?” the waitress asks when she reaches the desk.
“Actually, we’re with someone.” Sierra answers.
The waitress glances over her shoulder, then turns back with a knowing smile.
“Those two over there?”
She nods towards a booth in the corner where a couple’s giggling like they’re fresh off prom night. Sierra follows her gaze and lets out a patient, but totally done, sigh.
“No,” she says, cool and clear. “We’re with them.”
The waitress cranes her neck, follows the line of sight and immediately starts gawpin’.
Eddie’s in the booth, dramatically and loudly arguin’ with Zack over the superiority of chocolate versus strawberry milkshakes. Zack’s scowlin’ up at him, pink-faced and indignant, shoutin’ something about how strawberry’s the king of milkshakes. There’s gonna be a straw swordfight goin’ down over a spilled sugar packet imminently, the pair of fuckin’ idiots.
“Yeah,” I deadpan. “We let ‘em out once a week. Keeps the town’s pest control bill low.”
Sierra huffs a laugh. I don’t give it a shit how small it is, it’s a pressure valve lettin’ off just enough for my chest to unknot a little.
Thank fuck, I’m in the clear.
Wait, you don’t let a girl say when you’re in the -
Goddamn it, piss off, Hargrove. Just take the win and sit your ass down.
We follow the waitress toward the booth near the back. Only good decision Munson’s made tonight - if anyone walks in here to see Hawkins resident Freak sittin’ with the Ice Queen and King of Trouble then I’m gonna have a real fuckin’ issue on my hands.
Sierra gives me a nudge with her elbow, casual as hell.
“Bet you five bucks he ends up doing something incredibly stupid,” she mutters under her breath.
“Define stupid” I murmur back. “Like, salt-in-the-sugar-dispenser stupid or jumps-over-the-counter-to-eat-bacon-with-his-hands stupid?”
“Both,” she replies, that little glint of mischief lightin’ up those gold flecks in her eyes.
“Alright” I snort. My head tilts down, hers lifts just enough. The gap between us closes slightly as we lean in. She’s so fuckin’ short I can barely hear her. “If he eats anything that’s not food - paper straw, salt sachet, you name it - I win.”
“If he tries to flirt with the waitress and uses the phrase ‘my fair maiden,’ or whatever medevial shit he usually comes out with, I win.” she fires back.
We shake on it, her hand small and warm in mine. The warmth lingers just a beat too long before she slips her fingers free and turns toward the booth.
“Hey,” Eddie says suddenly, eyes narrowin’ like a bloodhound on a scent trail, “what the hell was that?”
“No idea what you’re talking about” Sierra sighs, sittin’ next to Zack.
“Don’t give me that,” Eddie grumbles, shootin’ her a look, then swingin’ it back to me like he’s interrogatin’ both sides of a conspiracy. “You two were whisperin’. Then you shook hands. That’s collusion, sweetheart. I know cahoots when I see ‘em.”
He’s already sprawled out across our booth seat - fuckin’ peachy. I gotta babysit his scrawny ass tonight. I shove his feet off the vinyl without ceremony, sneerin’ as I brush off the dried dirt he’s left scattered in my spot.
“Ever heard of a rag and soap before, Munson?” I growl.
“It’s merely the natural state of man,” Eddie declares, totally unfazed, stickin’ a crayon from the kids coloring behind his ear like it’s a damn cigarette. “Anyway, don’t distract me. I saw all that - The lean-in. The whisperin’. The handshake. The hell are you two up to?”
“Just friendly wagers,” Sierra says sweetly, that practiced composure in full effect - but there’s a waver in her voice, somethin’ far too amused to be innocent.
“Uh-huh,” Eddie mutters, narrowing his eyes. “You’re smilin’ too much. He’s smirkin’ too hard. I don’t like it. You two think I can’t feel the slander in this booth? It’s radiating”
“You’ve finally lost your last marble, Munson” I drawl, stretchin’ my legs under the table and bumpin’ his on purpose. “Go back to coloring in your pancake”
“You guys are in cahoots,” Eddie accuses, pointing at us with a fork. “Cahoots, I say!”
Sierra and I catch each other’s eyes. She rolls hers so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. Before we can goddamn help ourselves, her laugh mingles with mine. She laughs all light and sweet, and mine rips out rough as hell. Mismatched as fuck, but hell if it ain’t my favorite sound in the goddamn room.
Even Eddie clocks it.
“Not in cahoots, my ass” he says, a smug grin widenin’ on his lips. “I’ll allow it this once”
Sierra shakes her head, still smiling, still breathin’ through the tail end of her laugh. I’m still smirkin’, one arm stretched out along the top of the seats, fingers drummin’ against the vinyl restlessly, but I keep my face easy. My body leans back, but everything inside me leans forward. Toward her. Toward that smile. Toward the thought of what else I could pull out of her if I wanted.
Her gaze meets mine, tuned to the same frequency whether we meant it to be or not.
Goddamn, she looks fuckin’ unreal sittin’ there - hair fallin’ in soft waves, freckles dusted across her nose like someone spilled cinnamon there on purpose. Green eyes glowin’, not shy, not scared, watchin’ me watch her.
I’ve made her smile. Made her roll her eyes. Made her laugh.
I wanna see more.
I wanna see those pretty freckles drownin’ under crimson. Wanna be the reason she bites her lip and looks away. Wanna know she’s thinkin’ about me even when she pretends she isn’t.
I give her a lazy wink.
Her eyes stay down.
But I can see the way she bites the inside of her lip.
It’s subtle as hell.
She’s tryna act normal. She’s tryna not let it show.
Fuck, that little press of her teeth against soft flesh… like she needs to get ahold of herself - her grin, her blush, hell, a sound. Whatever it is, it’s mine. I know it. I feel it like a goddamn live wire between us.
She looks up once, eyes draggin’ up past those long lashes to lock onto mine. Oh yeah, baby… those freckles are gone.
Fuckin’ bingo.
My blood shifts gear so fast I go a little lightheaded for a second. Shit, my body’s already halfway down a different road, the kind you don’t walk in broad daylight. I watch her look away like her life depends on it, back to Zack’s coloring, as if starin’ hard enough at anythin’ but me’ll undo what just passed between us.
Too late, Princess. I saw everything.
That’s gonna live in my goddamn head rent-free.
Every fuckin’ detail, branded behind my eyes. The way her plump lips curved before she caught herself. That quick catch of breath. The way her teeth pressed in, tryna fight it, tryna to smother whatever the hell I lit up inside her. Keep the rest of it from spillin’ out.
That moment’s gonna circle back later, late as hell, when I’m lyin’ in bed starin’ at the ceiling, bored and restless and keyed up for no reason at all. It’ll come back at the worst times. During dinner. In the shower. Middle of a conversation I’m not listening to anymore because I’m too busy replayin’ it all, frame by fuckin’ frame.
Wonder how else she looks? When it’s not a wink but my hand on her thigh, not a glance across the booth but my mouth right at her ear, sayin’ the sort of shit that’d make her forget where she is. When her lip’s between my teeth instead of hers.
How quickly that smile would split if I had her alone. If I had her underneath me, all her quips swallowed by the sound of skin against skin and her moans muffled into my shoulder. That same mouth gaspin’ as I drag my hand down her belly and slide inside her while she’s still grinnin’ like that.
All from a wink…
All from pushin’ her a little, tuggin’ on the thread to see if she’d pull back.
But fuck me, she tugged back harder.
“Do you like the fries I drawed?” Zack beams, slicin’ through the haze and slappin’ reality back into place.
Oh shit, I forgot there was a kid present.
And there’s me sittin’ with blood rushin’ to every wrong goddamn place, and a problem I cannot stand up with. ‘Cause apparently all it takes is a lip bite and a smile to knock my brain clean outta my skull and pitch a tent in this fuckin’ booth.
Smooth as ever, Sierra clears her throat and turns to the kid.
“Well, look at that masterpiece,” she says, noddin’ toward the green-and-orange abomination Zack’s scribbled all over the coloring page. “Very avant-garde”
Alright, cut the shit, Hargrove.
Behave your damn self.
Don’t look at her.
Do not look at her.
Not her eyes. Not her mouth. Especially not her fuckin’ mouth. And for the love of God, don’t even glance at her tits. Just -
But the way she’s smilin’ at Zack right now…
Nope.
Christ, and where that necklace is…
Nope.
But -
I said no, you absolute feral bastard.
Goddamnit - focus.
I grab the menu and aggressively slide it to Eddie, so hard it nearly takes out the ketchup bottle.
“Pick somethin’, Munson,” I snap. “Fast.”
Eddie raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by the sheer force of my menu delivery.
“You alright, Big Boy?” he drawls suggestively, head cocked like he knows exactly what the fuck is goin’ on under this table. “Feelin’ a little… tense?”
No, Munson. I’m not goddamn alright. I need an ice bath. I need someone to blast me with a fire extinguisher and a slap in the face. I need to walk outta this booth and straight into the fuckin’ walk-in freezer and stay there until I’ve repented for every thought I’ve had in the last three minutes.
But do I admit that?
Hell no, I just grit my teeth and stare the fucker down.
“Fine, fine,” he groans, flippin’ open the menu, not even tryna hide the smirk. “Somebody needs to get laid.”
Yeah, Eddie… no fuckin’ shit.
I suck in a breath through my nose, tryna meditate my dick back into submission, and slide the menu across to Sierra without even lookin’ at her.
“Go wild, Princess,” I say hoarsely.
Her fingers brush mine.
“Thank you” she says.
This is it.
This is the day Billy Hargrove lost to a menu pass and a murmur.
This ain’t Hargrove.
Hargrove don't get flustered. Hargrove don't go gooey in the head or the fuckin’ heart ‘cause some girl says thank you and brushes his fingers. Hargrove sure as shit don’t sit here mentally bangin’ his head against the table and sit with freaks and princesses and short stack little kids.
But here I am.
Fuming, flushed, fantasizing, and furiously fucked.
Immediately, Zack starts pointing at the menu like we’re all his personal butlers.
“I want the burger AND the pancakes AND the milkshake AND the fries - and the pie - and - ”
“Hold your horses, little man” Sierra laughs, scoochin’ closer to him. “You can pick two - one small thing and one sweet thing. We’re not rolling you out of here.”
“But I have room!” Zack insists, slappin’ his tiny hand over his stomach like he’s presentin’ hard evidence.
One arched brow later and it’s all over for the dude. Kid groans like she just denied him oxygen, but surrenders.
Meanwhile’s Eddie’s upside-down reading the specials. I snatch it outta his hands and turn it up the right-side up.
“How kind of you, Muscles,” Eddie muses, absolutely not letting that name go.
I grunt in response.
"Zack, you’re having the kids’ burger and the strawberry milkshake, right?" Sierra asks, already flagging down the waitress with a kind smile and polite nod. “And Eddie, what are we thinking? The BLT or the stack of pancakes you made prolonged eye contact with?”
“I want both,” Eddie declares without shame. “I deserve both. I saved this man’s ass in a library today.”
“You enabled a five-year-old’s rebellion and encouraged a grown man’s tantrum,” she says dryly. “BLT and pancakes it is”
“Oh, whoa, whoa,” I cut in, holdin’ up a hand. “Let’s get one thing straight - I did not throw a tantrum.”
Eddie spins his head around so fast it’s like somone yelled free drugs.
“Says the huffer and puffer over here,” Eddie grins.
“I was thinkin’” I grunt.
“About what?” Eddie pries with that insufferable goddamn smirk.
I wasn’t thinkin’ about shit. Totally wasn’t thinkin’ about how good Sierra’s look sittin’ in my lap with that lip all bitten and pink, freckles glowing under sweat and my hands gripping her hips so tight she’d have to mark me back just to get even. About the sounds she’d make if I put my mouth on the inside of her thigh and stayed there ‘cause one wink wasn’t nearly enough and she wants more and more and -
“Googly eyes” Zack stage-whispers.
Eddie slowly straightens and flashes me that shit-eatin’ grin.
“Oh?” he says, way too delighted. “Oh...”
I shoot him a look colder than Him on whiskey, face hotter than a fried fuckin’ egg.
“The eyebrow raise,” he breathes. “The smirk. The giggles - ohhh, it all makes sense now.”
“I will genuinely put your head through the jukebox,” I growl.
“Googly eyes…” he repeats, savorin’ it like a goddamn fine wine.
“Say it one more time, Munson.” I hiss.
“You’re toast, Hargrove” he drawls. “Extra cooked with a hint of spice. Hargrove à la mode.”
Zack just takes a big-ass slurp from his juice bottle, as pleased as a pig in shit.
Sierra, still sittin’ all pretty and aloof, doesn't even react.
“Noooo, it was Sisi givin’ the googly eyes!” Zack exclaims.
But she sure is now.
The patented Nightingale death glare is out in full force.
“The legendary Death Glare of the Nightingale Queen” Eddie murmurs reverently. I’ve heard of this. I didn’t think I’d live to see it.”
And just as Sierra’s about to start smacking heads together, the waitress sidles up to our table in her red and white pinstripe dress and apron. Blonde’s tryin’ real hard not to trip over her own hormones. Poor thing’s already blushin’ and she hasn’t even whipped out the notepad yet.
Christ, she’s my usual type too. Big hair, big lashes, decent rack squeezed into that red and white pinstripe, fabric beggin’ for mercy.
“Y’all ready to order?” she chirps, turnin’ her attention back to me with a grin that says she’d happily write her number in mustard if I asked.
Wanna know the kicker?
I don’t feel shit about Big Tits.
Not even a hint of the old impulse that used to kick in automatic the second a girl like her smiled at me sideways. If it were a month ago, I’d already be midway through eye-fuckin’ her and askin’ if she got off at ten.
I’m startin’ to think I’ve been goddamn castrated. Emotionally, spiritually, hormonally - the whole shebang.
Or maybe it’s just that my usual type don’t hit the same now that she’s sittin’ across from me. All calm and cruel in that ice-queen way of hers, pretendin’ not to notice the waitress’s eyes flickin’ to my arms like I’m the special on the fuckin’ menu. That’s what really fucks me up. It’s the fact that I want her attention so bad, it’s like itchin’ under my skin. I want her lookin’ at me the way that waitress just did. Hell, I want her lookin’ at me like I’m ruinin’ her day. I want the bite, the spark, the fire. I want the chaos.
I want her.
Jesus Christ, this is bad. This is so bad.
I flash Big Tits a smile that used to get me free fries and laid by closin’ time.
“Yeah,” I say, leanin’ back into the booth, givin’ her the full Hargrove act. “We’re ready”
“Why everyone doin’ googly eyes at him?” Zack whisper-yells to Eddie.
Eddie wheezes and thumps the table with his fist. Bastard sounds like he’s gonna pass out.
“I love this kid,” he chokes. “Can I keep him, Si?”
“Only if you feed him and walk him twice a day.” Sierra mutters back.
I point my thumb at Zack without even lookin’ at him.
“Kid’s burger. No onions. Strawberry milkshake. Extra napkins”
I slide my gaze to Eddie.
“Alright, Munson, pick one. BLT or pancakes. This ain’t a custody battle.”
He gasps like I’ve asked him to choose a favorite limb.
“You’re takin’ away my freedoms!” he exclaims
“You got fifteen seconds before I choose for you,” I say. “And it’ll be the healthier option outta spite.”
“Pancakes” Eddie huffs, jabbing an accusatory finger my way. “But keep the bacon - tell the B he loved the LT”
“He’s dramatic,” I mutter, already turnin’ back to Big Tits and ignore Munson havin’ his farewell moment with double carbs. “We’re workin’ on it.”
She lets out this cutesy giggle, bitin’ her lower lip.
The smallest sound echoes from across the table.
There it fuckin’ is.
Well, well, well… that’s new.
Oh, I heard that scoff alright. Heard it loud and fuckin’ clear. Smouldering satisfaction settles deep inside me. Not surprise - no, I clocked it the second it happened - but confirmation. Proof that she’s not as untouchable as she wants everyone to think.
I nudge her foot with mine under the table.
“Go on, Princess” I say smoothly, my foot hoverin’ over hers. “What you havin’?”
Big Tits stiffens, pen pausin’ over the pad. Her eyes flick from me to Sierra and back again, quick math happenin’ behind them. Princess lands different when it’s aimed. When it’s specific. When it clearly doesn’t belong to her.
She knows it.
I know it.
Hell, Sierra knows it too.
Sierra don’t even give her the courtesy of a glance.
“Fries,” she says, sweet as fuckin’ pie, then turns and gives Big Tits a small smile. “Please”
Big Tits nods a little too fast, scribblin’ it down like she suddenly remembered she’s at work.
“Uh, yeah. Fries. Got it.”
“Fries? That’s it?” I say. “I got more than a dollar on me, sweets. Go nuts.”
“I’m not that hungry,” she replies, honey and arsenic all in goddamn one.
I tilt my head, watchin’ her through my lashes. That practiced smile’s still sittin’ pretty on her lips, but I know a façade when I see one. And Sierra Nightingale, for all her grace and fuck-you poise, ain't as unreadable as she wants to be.
Not to me.
“Coffee?” I offer.
Before she can answer, Chaos Incarnate himself swoops in.
“Absolutely” he announces, slappin’ the table for emphasis. “One for me too, please and thank you. The strongest bean juice your fine establishment can provide. Black as death metal. Splash of milk if I’m feelin’ adventurous”
Sierra exhales through her nose, weighin’ the pros and cons of murder and tryna pick a weapon that won’t leave a stain.
“I’ll take an Americano” she finally says, rubbin’ her temples. “Milk on the side, please”
“Sure that’s all you want?” I ask, flirtatious enough to melt butter in the damn freezer.
“Fine. A burger too,” she sighs. “Single patty. No tomato.”
“Look like they can’t be trusted, right?” I drawl suggestively.
Sierra’s brows knit, confused as hell, head cockin’ like I just recited one of her diary entries.
I don’t say a word.
Just look at Munson and his danglin’ jaw, and flash him a wicked little smirk.
“He remembered,” he whispers reverently. “Sweet merciful Metallica, the bastard remembered.”
I run a tongue over my bottom lip and return my attention to Big Tits.
“What’d you recommend, sweetheart?” I ask.
“Um… the patty melt’s really popular,” she replies, twistin’ her pen between her fingers. “Most people love it.”
“Yeah?” I ask, just a shade rougher. “You love it?”
She stumbles over her own damn smile.
“Oh yeah. Definitely. It’s, um… really good.” she says a little too chipper and tucks her hair behind her ear twice in the span of one sentence.
Out the corner of my eye, Sierra’s brow lifts like it’s got its own gravitational pull, so fuckin’ cold it might frost the damn maple syrup five tables over.
“Guess you’ve sold me then” I reply.
Big Tits clears her throat and rattles off the full order again before lookin’ at me for the final okay.
“Perfect” I say huskily and wink. “Thanks, doll”
Big Tits lets out this high, shocked little breath that escapes before she can trap it. As her cheeks flare pink, she turns on her heel so fast she damn near takes out another waitress carryin’ a stack of plates. There’s a brief tangle of apologies, some muttered “oh my god”s, and then she skitters off toward the kitchen like she’s afraid standin’ too close to me might knock her up.
A dark chuckle rumbles from across the booth, Munson smirkin’ to himself like the devil taught him manners.
“Do you have any concept of shame, Hargrove?” Sierra mutters, pinchin’ the bridge of her nose.
“Not a single trace, Princess” I answer.
“Was that a magic trick?” Zack asks a soft hush of awe, eyes big as dinner plates.
“Kid,” Eddie grins, throwin’ an arm around him. “What you just saw was advanced-level dark arts. Some say forbidden. Some say illegal”
I swear to God, the kid starts tryin’ to mimic the wink. His whole face contorts like he’s havin’ a stroke - one eye squeezin’ shut, the other flutterin’, tongue stickin’ out a little, as if concentration requires extra facial commitment.
“You’re blinkin’, not winkin’,” I tell him. “There’s a difference.”
Zack, determined as a man on a mission with glory waitin’ for him on the other side, tries again - this time with both eyes, which somehow makes it worse.
“You’ve both corrupted a five year old boy” Sierra remarks flatly, shakin’ her head with theatric disdain. “Terrific”
“I’m gonna use it on Rebecca in my class.” Zack declares proudly.
“No, you absolutely are not.” Sierra sternly says.
“But she shared her gummy worms with me!” the kid cries in self-defense.
“That’s not - ” she starts, then cuts herself off with another groan, thumb and forefinger diggin’ back into her temples. “Oh my God, you’ve created a miniature sociopath.”
“I told you this kid was gifted!” Eddie cackles, hyena to the max.
Shit, I can’t help it. Laughter rumbles outta me, shudders in my shoulders and cramps in the corners of my mouth like my face forgot how to wear anything but scowls and smirks.. It don’t come with strings attached or that twitch in my jaw from holdin’ back too long. Fuck, it catches me off guard.
Ain’t it weird? I used to think feelin’ at ease was a luxury only found in between lightin’ a cigarette and puttin’ it out. A breath, a burn, and then back to business.
When all a sudden, somethin’ happened.
One punk goblin freak with a leather vest and more goddamn rings than fingers invited himself to the table.
One Princess with her razor tongue and glitterin’ green eyes asked me what Billy thought.
And her short stack of a kid brother who waltzed right in and declared war on silence with more curiosity than fear.
And I became the bastard who laughed with them.
Not at 'em.
With them.
Soon enough, plates hit the table in a blur of steam and sizzle. Eddie immediately starts devourin’ his pancakes like he’s been starved for three lifetimes. He takes a bite so big I’m convinced he’s gonna dislocate somethin’.
“Mmph… pigs are only cute when they’re bacon,” he mumbles through a mouthful, eyes rollin’ back into his skull.
Sierra, ever the queen, lifts her Americano with both hands, blows gently over the rim, then takes a delicate sip. Only once it’s passed the Princess Palate Test does she start in on her burger - no tomato, just how she likes it, thanks to yours truly.
Suddenly, more fries arrive and Eddie squeals, absolutely fuckin’ ecstatic. I peer over my patty melt and see Big Tits grinnin’ with enough teeth to sell toothpaste.
See? That’s the Hargrove Special, baby.
I settle in, takin’ the first bite of my melt - cheese, caramelized onions, meat all crisp at the edges - fuck yeah, now this’s a dinner.
Across from me, Zack’s elbow-deep in sauce, makin’ his ketchup sachet talk to a pickle.
Sierra, calm as ever, leans over with a napkin, dabs gently at the corner of Zack’s mouth.
“What’s the pickle called?” she asks.
Zack, eyes wide and full of mischief, breaks into a gummy grin.
“Augustus,” he declares with pride.
Sierra picks up a fry and walks it across the table to Zack’s plate.
“They’ve abandoned me… for Augustus!” she cries in mock betrayal.
Zack bursts out laughin’, ketchup-covered fingers slammin’ onto the table as he grabs the fry, squeezes a red dollop right onto it, and chomps it down with a single bite.
“Augustus is gonna be heartbroken!” she quietly wails. “Good thing we’ve got backups.”
She offers another fry and Zack takes it with the solemnity of a knight acceptin’ a royal decree.
It’s a real fuckin’ sight to see. Watchin’ her like this - relaxed, playful, no audience to impress, no walls, no razor wit deployed as defense - it’s the realest I’ve seen her.
No ballroom mask. No Ice Queen frost.
Just Sierra, sittin’ cross-legged in a goddamn diner booth, makin’ up stories about pickles and feedin’ fries to her kid brother like it's the most natural thing in the world.
And goddamn if she isn’t -
“Sweet Satan,” Eddie groans suddenly, cuttin’ through the moment like the loudest record scratch in history.
Dramatic bastard flops sideways against the wall, syrup glistenin’ on his chin, and hands cradlin’ his full belly as if he’s eight months deep.
“This is how I go” he croaks. “Tell Wayne I loved him. Tell him I died doin’ what I loved”
“Walk it off, Munson,” Sierra says dryly.
“No. No, this is it” Eddie blankly declares, eyes flutterin’ closed, already halfway to Jesus and Jim Morrison. “My final form. I’m a bloated corpse. Don’t look at me, I wanna stay pretty in your minds after death has taken me”
Without warnin', Eddie’s face contorts into somethin’ demonic. One hand grips the edge of the table while the other clutches his gut. His forehead’s creased, mouth puckered, one eye twitchin’ like he’s fightin’ for his goddamn life.
Oh hell no…
“The fuck are you doing?” I hiss, already inchin’ away.
“No sudden movements,” he wheezes, “or I go nuclear.”
His hip tilts. Those pancakes and fries are fuckin’ knockin’ on his asshole’s door, and we’re all goin’ down with him.
“You so much as lift a cheek, Munson, and I swear on all your goddamn albums, I’ll cook your face in the deep fat fryer” I growl.
“It’s not up to me anymore,” he whispers, voice strained and gettin’ on my last damn nerve. “My body’s in charge now.”
“You’re about to die with a fuckin’ boot print on your back,” I snarl, still clutchin’ my fork like I might actually stab him. “You think this is a goddamn game?”
“There’s children present,” Sierra adds in a hushed tone, clearly tryna be the voice of reason. “Don’t you dare go nuclear in this goddamn booth.”
“Do it!” Zack cheers. “I wanna see if his eyes pop out!”
For one harrowing second, it looks like he’s gonna do it.
I’m fully prepared to haul the fucker outta here by the bird nest.
Then, after weighin’ the comedy of it against the very real threat of me goin’ full Hargrove on his ass, Eddie, limp as a noodle and baskin’ in his own idiocy, releases a guttural moan again.
“Not like this,” he groans. “Not when I need to floss still. I got standards”
“Jesus wept,” I mutter, sinkin’ back in the booth, one eye still on the lunatic. “If I smell even a whiff, I’m draggin’ your corpse to the alley myself. “And, you’re not dyin’, you’re digestin’. Shut the fuck up and clench.”
He mimes zippin’ his lips, but the second Big Tits walks by, he groans real loud again, just to fuck with us.
“He’s gonna explode like a balloon, right? BOOM!” Zack roars.
Eddie wheezes out a laugh so hard he nearly sends himself into round two.
Zack’s kickin’ his heels against the vinyl seat, red-cheeked and delighted, like we ain’t inches from a biological fuckin’ disaster.
Fuck me, why the hell’s Munson even here?
Oh yeah, ‘cause the little prince sittin’ across from me gave those big fuckin’ eyes and announced he could. And Sierra didn’t say jackshit about it. Just that serene Ice Queen nod to invite Munson into the round table of my personal hell.
I swear to God, we’re takin’ tutoring to the roof next time.
Pint-sized shit won’t be able to reach the damn ladders.
And Munson? He’ll get distracted halfway up by a shiny rock or somethin’ and forget why he came.
Speaking of the goblin, he’s finally gotten tired. He exhales a loud stream of air, sittin’ forward with a groan so guttural the table behind us should file a goddamn noise complaint. But ‘soon as his eyes land on the jukebox in the corner, someone flips the fuckin’ switch. Flash of chrome, neon, and temptation, and the transformation is instant. The wickedest grin crawls onto his face. Freak’s seen the gates of Valhalla and they’re takin’ song requests.
He conspiratorially flicks a salt sachet to get Zack’s attention.
Finally, the goblin might do me a damn favor tonight.
“Hey, kiddo,” he whispers, eyes glitterin’ with bad ideas. “Think your Uncle Ed can get this whole diner to headbang?”
Zack’s already up before the sentence finishes.
And just like that, the goddamn revolution’s off to wreak havoc.
Eddie snatches a chair from a nearby table with no shame and sets it up in front of the jukebox, and lifts Zack up onto it. Munson don’t strike me as the guy who’s ever lifted a kid before in his life, but somehow, he don’t drop him.
Sierra shakes her head, a soft laugh spillin’ from her mouth.
“Who would’ve thought Eddie Munson would be good with kids?” she murmurs.
I glance over too. Eddie’s throwin’ horns, Zack’s bouncin’ on the chair, adrenaline’s coursin’ through that small body like its the first time.
“Not me,” I say. “But I sure as shit believe it now.”
“I said headbanging songs, kid!” he shouts, throwin’ his hands in the air. “Not cabbage-patchin’ songs!”
Zack pays him no mind - kid’s too deep in the groove, fully committed to his shuffle-hoppin’ thing.
Sierra’s still smilin’, hand wrapped around her coffee, giggles freely fallin’ outta her mouth as she watches him. Nothin’ followed her into this booth. Not the titles. Not the money. Not the bastard who made her and his shadow.
Just a girl, watchin’ her little brother lose his mind to a freak in leather. I wonder if I’m the only guy in this whole goddamn town who’s seen her like this. Not through gossip or that perfect little mask she wears when her last name starts talkin’ for her. Not through that high-society lens that warps everything it touches.
But even now, I don’t fuckin’ know which version’s the phony and which one ain’t.
The Ice Queen with the cold stare and the silver tongue? Or this girl with a coffee cup in hand, laugh slippin’ free, no script, no stage, just freckles and giggles and warmth that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.
Her lashes dip for just a second, not enough that anyone else would catch it. The smile on her mouth shrinks at the corners, as if an unwelcome thought just came a’knockin’ on the front door of her memory and didn’t wait to be let in.
Which mask is she slippin’ on now?
Maybe it’s the one that remembers where she is, who she’s with. Or maybe it’s not a mask at all.
Maybe it’s a version of her I ain’t met yet.
A version she buried so long ago it only comes up when she forgets to guard the grave.
“Kid’s alright, Nightingale,” I say and nod toward Zack and Eddie who’re still causin’ a minor riot by the jukebox. “Must be your doin’”
“Well,” she softly replies, eyes on her brother and thoughts somewhere unknown, “we spend a lot of time together.”
I picture it without tryin’ to - her days shaped around a five-year-old’s needs, her nights probably cut short, the weight of bein’ the grown-up when she shouldn’t have to be.
Christ, most people our age can barely keep a goldfish alive.
“S’kind of a miracle,” I mutter sarcastically, “considerin’ most older siblings lose their shit when the little ones start actin’ up.”
She hums, like she’s heard that before.
Maybe from teachers. Maybe from strangers who think admiration’s a substitute for help.
“He’s just being five,” she simply states. “Some people forget about that since - ”
She stops herself, gives her head a little wobble. I know where that road was leadin’ too though. I’ve heard the shape of that sentence enough times to recognize the cliff before the fall.
So I don’t let her go over it.
“Since what?” I innocently ask.
She exhales through her nose and finally looks at me, head lollin’ to the side, green eyes straight to the point but not unkind.
“Come on,” she scoffs lightly. “You expect me to believe that?”
I lay on my best dumb‑bastard act. The one that’s saved my ass more times than I deserve.
“Believe what?”
She huffs an unimpressed laugh and rolls her eyes.
“I’m not some fragile, porcelain doll, Billy” she says in this matter-of-fact tone. “You don’t have to act like you don’t know”
Her eyes lock on mine. She’s swimming through the blue, hunting for the truth, hunting for that one word that’ll determine whether I’m on her side or whether I’m ditherin’ for a moment too long for her likin’. She ain’t lookin’ for gossip. She’s lookin’ for confirmation. For proof of gravity. For whether the ugly things float or sink.
“If you’re trying to convince me that your side piece hasn’t said anything” she states frankly, “then you better blink, Hargrove, because right now, you’re gawping like a guilty man with no alibi”
She knows how this town works. How rumors don’t come out of nowhere and how secrets don’t stay shrouded unless someone’s willin’ to keep ‘em there.
She’s not askin’ if Sabrina’s talkin’, but if I’m hidin’.
I ain’t fully lying.
Sabrina’s not said shit to me.
But I’m not tellin’ the truth.
I know somethin’ about a mom who ran. I know about the girl left behind.
So, I don’t lie.
But I don’t give her the truth either.
I don’t know what the hell it is in me, but I wanna hear her say it. I want her to put the weight of it between us. No euphemisms, nothin’ varnished - just the bare fuckin’ truth laid out like roadkill. Not for pity. Jesus wept, no. That ain’t the itch scratchin’ under my skin. I don’t want her to cry, or break down, or hear me say, “Me too.” That ain’t what this is.
I just… want her to spit it out.
Say the thing.
Name her.
Maybe it’s just that I wanna see if she’ll do it. If she’ll let the glass crack a little more. I’ve seen her put together. I’ve seen her furious. But this? Whatever this almost-was, whatever sentence she choked back before it surrendered to silence? That’s a different beast. There’s somethin’ about a person when they finally stop wearin’ the fuckin’ costume. When the performance drops and what’s left behind ain’t the front they sold you. You learn what matters by what they won’t say. But you learn more when they do.
And yeah, alright, maybe I’m a selfish prick, ‘cause part of me wants to see her slip. Not ‘cause I wanna see her weak, but ‘cause if someone like her - the one who never falters, never lets anyone see her miss a step - if she can admit to bein’ dragged through the dirt?
Then maybe there’s a goddamn path through it.
Perhaps I just wanna hear someone else say it first.
She scoffs again, a bitter little sound that barely makes it past her throat.
“You’re full of shit, Hargrove”
I rap my fingers steadily against the edge of the table.
Thumb, middle, ring.
A beat.
A warning.
A promise.
“They make a jab about you,” I say, low and even, as I inch forward“and they’re gettin’ their oxygen cut off, Princess.”
“Sure they will,” she mutters, but it ain’t the kinda deflection meant to sting.
No, it’s half-hearted. She’s got one foot off the ledge already and she’s tryina teeter.
She peers over at Zack again with his cheeks flushed, milkshake mustache on his upper lip, completely untouched by wherever her mind’s travellin’ to.
She stares at him for a beat too long.
Slowly - ever so fuckin’ slowly - she draws in air.
And that’s when I know.
I know this is the moment.
I see it flash behind her eyes - real quick, like a strobe light - some memory she’s been tryna scrub off the inside of her skull for years. The weight in her shoulders shifts, gets heavier. The angle of her jaw tightens as she mulls it over.
That’s where her mind goes.
She’s there. Right fuckin’ there.
The day she woke up to the silence.
To that cliff.
God fuckin’ help me, I go down with her.
I’m ten years old and on the carpet in Oceanside, and Her side of the bed’s still made, corners tucked military tight. The sun’s comin’ through the blinds, but it’s got that fucked-up color that feels wrong, feels dead.
I’m thirteen and Harry’s sittin’ next to me on the curb outside school, holdin’ the letter. The one with the Department of Defense seal. The one that starts every with ‘we regret to inform you’.
I’m twelve and watchin’ Michael sob in the backseat of a caseworker’s car, sayin’ goodbye to the people who gave a shit for once in his life, clutchin’ that stuffed elephant he’d throw away the next day.
I’m fifteen, and Zeke’s standin’ in the front doorway, eyes full of tears he won’t let fall, watchin’ his mom’s latest boyfriend drag a duffel bag out into the rain. The guy don’t even look back. Zeke doesn’t either.
I’m seventeen, and I’m in a deadass trailer with a freak I didn’t wanna know. Didn’t wanna talk to. Didn’t even wanna look at. But then he said his mom died when he was six. The pigs came knockin’ for his old man shortly after. In and outta county, in and outta the freak’s life like a door left swingin’ in a windstorm. I ain’t been able to look at Eddie Munson without seein’ the fight he never bragged about.
And once again, I’m seventeen, sittin’ in a booth that smells like burnt coffee and decades of fried food, across from a girl who knows me better than anyone in this goddamn town - maybe better than anyone ever has - seein’ the same thing she is. I’m sat with her by that window, watchin’ the gray turn to white. She’s back there. That morning. That month. That absence. Wonderin’ if her mom was comin’ home. And when she didn’t, what the hell she was supposed to do next.
My San Diego boys and me, we were different houses. Different stories. Different fuckin’ endings.
But always the same goddamn rule:
Don’t talk about it.
Don’t feel it.
Don’t be a pussy.
And lookin’ at her now, fightin’ the quake in her fingers, fightin’ the words that wanna crawl up her throat, all I can think is:
Don’t be a pussy, Nightingale.
Say it.
Sierra takes a sip of her coffee - one of those sips that don’t warm you, just fill your mouth with something bitter enough to focus your thoughts. She sets the cup down slow, her fingers never once betrayin’ her.
“You’re trying to tell me” she starts slowly, gaze still set on Zack. “those pricks you’ve become best friends with have never told you about my mom?”
“‘Told you. They didn’t say shit”
“Nothing about their little theories about who she ran off with?”
There it is.
I shake my head.
I ain’t lyin’. I knew. But I'm not lyin' to her.
“Nothing about the woman who swam back to where she belongs?”
Swam back home?
What the hell does that mean?
I’ve heard that before.
I recognize those words, but not from Sierra. Not from any conversation I’ve ever had with her.
But I know them like I know the sound of a belt gettin’ yanked from a loop.
Dinner tables, back porches, beer breath. Rants no one interrupted.
Said with a smirk. A scoff. A joke.
That... it don’t make sense.
It don’t fit Sierra Nightingale.
But, Anthony Nightingale don’t fit Sierra either.
Those blue eyes? Nowhere in her.
That TV smile. That fake tan. That ‘old sport’ bullshit.
Fuckin’ nowhere.
Sierra’s got wavy honey-dark hair that shines red in the right light. Skin that stays warm even when the sun goes down.
Those lips, those cheekbones, the freckles across her nose…
I remember thinkin’, the first time I saw her old man on TV: those green eyes come from someone else.
Do they come from somewhere else too?
“What’d you mean ‘swam back’?” I blurt out roughly.
Shit, shit, shit…
That wasn’t meant to come out. My mouth jumped the gun, dragged somethin’ up from the bottom of me before I could stomp it back down.
I don’t know why that was the thing that stuck. Don’t know why that word hooked its claws into me and wouldn’t let go.
Sierra finally looks at me.
One eyebrow lifts.
“That’s the part you’re stuck on?” she says lightly - too lightly. “Jesus, Hargrove.”
The part of my brain raised in rooms with locked doors and louder voices starts piecin’ together a puzzle I didn’t even know was missin’. A question I never asked because I didn’t think I had to.
If she’s not like him, and she’s not like them, then what the fuck is she?
“I just - ” I snap under my breath. “That’s a hell of a way to put it, Nightingale.”
“Put what?” she pointedly asks.
The pause stretches. I don’t fill it.
“Your best buds being bigots?”
I look away, mutter it like it’s nothin’, like it don’t matter.
“They’re not my friends.”
She doesn’t miss a beat.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I don’t like the way my gut feels right now.
Feels like I’ve been caught with my hands dirty, lookin’ at someone I thought I understood and realizin’ I missed the most important part.
But then there’s her.
And she ain’t them.
But if that’s what she meant, then she’s not like me, either.
Christ, that’s fuckin’ me up.
‘Cause she is like me. She’s been left. She’s been hurt. She holds her head high 'cause if she don't, someone’s gonna swing. Maybe not a fist, but somethin’ mean.
She’s just like me.
But that don’t help me now.
It don’t settle whatever's churnin' in my gut or unclench my fuckin’ jaw. Don’t make the confusion go down any smoother. Nah, it makes it worse. Now I’m lookin’ at her, and she’s not even lookin’ back, and all I can do is sit in this goddamn booth, suddenly not sure where the line is anymore. I got no business feelin’ that shit.
I’ve done a damn good job stayin’ above it. I’ve lived by the rules - keep your mouth shut, don’t let nobody in, don’t get fuckin’ soft. You feel somethin’, you kill it quick before it starts growin’.
I can’t fuckin’ kill it this time.
I’m tryna strangle the bastard, smother it to death.
It won’t flatline. It won’t fuckin’ die.
All I wanna do is say somethin’, anything, and I don’t even know what.
God-fuckin’-dammit, why’d I push her? Why’d I fuckin’ ask?
Why’d I poke at her silence like it was some kinda game? I wanted to know. I wanted her to say it. She didn’t wanna fuckin’ tell me. Shit, why’d I ever think anything would be clearcut with her?
I should’ve let her sit with it. Should’ve let her keep it bottled. That’s what people like us do. We don’t spill. We don’t confess. We keep it buried ‘til it burns us hollow, and then we fuckin’ smile through the smoke.
But Christ, she ain’t like me… not after this.
Yeah, she is.
No she’s not.
Yeah, she is.
I said no - she’s fuckin’ not.
You see her.
She’s rich.
Doesn’t matter.
She can get anything she wants.
Doesn’t matter.
Her momma fuckin’ swam.
Yours ran.
I gotta stay away from her. He’ll do somethin’.
Then don’t let Him.
I barely hear the dismissive click of her tongue.
“Forget it, Hargrove. I’ll pay up and we can go”
Conversation over.
Decision made.
Ain’t worth the time.
Ain’t worth me.
Fuck…
No, it’s cool.
Let her go.
Let her walk.
Cut the wire.
Kill the moment.
Shut it the fuck down.
Her palm presses to the table. Legs slide out from under the booth.
She’s done this before.
Don’t let her go.
Don’t let her go.
Don’t leave.
Don’t leave.
Don’t fuckin’ leave me
She’s like us.
A made bed.
She’s like us.
Suitcases in the rain.
No them. No me. No I.
A Freak with secrets.
Us.
“Hold up, Si”
My hand shoots across the table, wraps around her forearm just as she’s pullin’ away, the ghost of a pulse I didn’t know I was waitin’ to feel.
She freezes.
And in the breath that follows, I feel everything shift.
In me.
In her.
In the fuckin’ air.
“I said it was on me, Nightingale”
She arches that usual ‘explain yourself’ eyebrow. She expected me to disappear, to vanish when it got uncomfortable.
And yeah, maybe that’s what I would’ve done. A week ago. A day ago. Maybe even a minute ago.
But fuck me, I can’t move.
Those voices - mine, hers, the group of kids who never got to say goodbye - are pinnin’ me down to this seat.
They’re all I can fuckin’ hear.
The whole world holds its fuckin’ breath. Diner hum goes quiet. The sounds keep movin’ around us - plates, silverware, some kid screamin’ about milkshakes - but none of it touches 'em.
I can feel my eyes workin’ against me, sayin’ the one thing that’ll never escape my lips.
Stay.
Slowly, she sits back down.
My fingers stay on her skin.
“They never said anything like that to me” I say low. teeth barely unclenched. “But I can tell you right now - if they ever fuckin’ do?”
But that ain’t the point. The point is they shouldn’t say it to her. She ain’t built like someone who gets to throw punches and walk away clean. She carries herself too careful for that. Whatever picture I was handed of who gets treated like that, sure as hell wasn’t her.
And yet here we are.
Here I am.
She shouldn’t be someone I care about.
But it’s too damn late now.
“They’ll regret it.”
“I can manage myself” she instantly shoots back.
“I know,” I reply, and this time, there’s no smirk. “But I don’t make it a habit of lettin’ people get away with sayin’ shit about people I - “ Nah, you don’t say shit like that, Hargrove. That’s not how this goes. That’s not the move. “ - pretty girls like you”
Her mouth parts in surprise, half a laugh caught in her throat.
“So,” she huffs, eyes narrowin’, but there’s color in her cheeks now and she ain’t sure if she wants to fan it out or feed the flame, “the Big Bad Hargrove cares, does he?”
That heartbeat right there - t hat barely-there smirk on her lips, those green eyes gleamin’ like they already know the answer - I feel it. That one-two beat.
One, two.
One, two.
I’ve felt it once. Once in my entire goddamn life. When I sat down in my bust-up car that final night in San Diego. Zeke, Michael and Harry waving me of like fuckin’ lunatics with their feet in the sand and minds buried in the past. I was fightin’ against the goodbye, fightin’ against the salt in my eyes - fightin’ against the truth.
But when they weren’t in sight, when they were nothin’ but blurs of peach and indigo, I stopped fightin’ it.
Instead, I folded.
That one-two, ain’t the fight.
It’s the fold.
Don’t give her anything she can grab onto and pull.
You’ll only push.
I wanna look away.
Christ, I want to.
I wanna run like I always do when somethin’ inside starts tremblin’ that ain’t rage or instinct or survival. That’s you tryina turn a loaded moment into a joke so you don’t have to stand there naked with it.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Like I’m approachin’ the edge of somethin that’s about to break underneath me, I lean closer.
“Yeah, Princess.”
C'mon, Hargrove.
Get it the fuck outta your system.
Spit it through gritted teeth if that’s what it takes.
“I give a shit about you.”
The Sierra Nightingale - untouchable, unreadable, queen of the fuckin’ poker face - ain’t got a comeback.
Ain’t got nothin’.
And maybe that silence only lasts a second.
But it falls like a goddamn bomb.
I see her throat move, swallowin’ somethin hard.
I ain’t done.
No way in hell.
Once I start, I can’t fuckin’ stop.
I keep my voice low, even, not lookin’ for an audience. This ain’t for the booth. Ain’t for the freak and the kid.
“And if your name’s in their mouths?”
This is just for her.
“Then I’m sure as hell gonna take it out.”
She still ain’t said a word. But her eyes, Jesus Christ, her eyes are tethered on mine like she’s tryin’ to figure out what the hell just happened.
She draws in the tiniest breath, buildin’ up to it.
Don’t let this be for nothin’, Nightingale.
Don’t goddamn do that to me.
“Googly eyes!”
Zack’s voice explodes through the moment like a brick through glass.
I barely register it before he barrels into the side of the booth, grippin’ the table edge with sticky fingers and starin’ at me.
Everything floods in around us.
Cutlery clinkin’. ‘How’s your day been’s richocheting off the walls.
Christ, is that… AC/DC playin’?
“Googly eyes!” he shouts again, this time jabbin’ a finger right at my face.
The spell breaks, but it don’t shatter.
Suddenly, the Sierra I’d been speakin’ to trades places with the other.
“Zack…” she begins to sigh, but that brow of hers furrowed, and not at the kid, and blinks, honeyed waves shakin’ with the movement of her head.
Like she forgot where she was for a second and didn’t like what it meant to remember.
“...can you… get down?”
Zack obeys without question, still buzzin’ from his victory call.
I’m sittin’ there, frozen in that booth, hand still on her arm, heart beatin’ so goddamn loud I’m surprised Zack can’t hear it.
The moment ain’t gone. It’s just… paused.
Set down gentle for a second and neither of us is ready to pick it all the way up just yet.
But it’s there.
It’s fuckin’ there.
I feel it before I move - that prickle in my palm, the quiet warning bell goin’ off.
Easy.
Don’t push.
Don’t take.
My fingers loosen one by one, draggin’ back like I’m releasin’ somethin’ that might spook if I do it too fast. My thumb slips last, ghostin’ over her skin, and Jesus Christ - it’s soft. Not soft like weakness. Soft like it’s been protected, handled carefully even our lives were anything but. I look down at my hand after, like it’s betrayed me.
I don’t know if it’s ‘cause I held on or let go though.
I don’t get it.
How she can be this person?
Ice-cool and warm all at once.
One part grace. One part watchful.
One part rich kid who knows which fork to use.
One part somethin’ else entirely.
Across an ocean.
Across a line.
The ocean is always there. That makes sense. Big Guy Himself put it there. It’s natural. The kinda you expect to be in the way.
But that line… that line’s drawn, not carved.
Surely she’s an exception?
I know the Big Guy above put the ocean there.
But who drew the line?
I get up to pay. I can’t sit like this anymore. Can’t keep my hands on the table knowin’ they held onto somethin’ I wasn’t ready to admit. I gotta move. I gotta do somethin’ with what’s coursing through my veins.
I don’t even know why my brain insists on puttin’ it like that - like there’s gotta be sides, categories, a place to shove her that makes all this easier to swallow. Like I need that line to split her apart so she makes sense.
She shouldn’t be able to be all of it.
And yet she is.
She’s not what they said she’d be.
Not what He said people like her are.
'Cause if she’s the exception…
What if there never was a rule?
I make my way to the counter. Big Tits is already front and centre pretendin’ to stack menus but really just fixin’ her hair, fluffin’ it like there’s a damn camera crew hidin’ behind the pie carousel.
“Ready to settle up, sugar?” she asks.
“Always am, doll” I murmur back.
Fuck, I didn’t wanna say that. God, shut the fuck up, Hargrove. Yes, you did. That’s who you are. But fuckin’... Christ almighty, I wanna gouge out my eyes, cut out my tongue, fry the fuckers alive. You wanted to say that ‘cause you’re a coward tryin’ not to replay the way Sierra goddamn Nightingale looked at you when you said you gave a shit. She’d been waitin’ for someone to say it.
And now you gotta walk around with that look carved into your skull, like it ain’t gonna haunt every fuckin’ breath you take from now on.
“Must be somethin’ in the coffee,” Big Tits giggles, tappin’ the receipt pad. “You boys sure livened the place up.”
I force the smallest smirk and push the cash across the counter.
“Yeah,” I say. “We got that effect.”
She scribbles quick, tossin’ the pen behind her ear, and slips the receipt toward me, lingerin’ just a second too long before her fingers let go.
Big Tit’s has given me her number. Just as predicted.
“Just in case you ever wanna leave a review” she purrs, rouged lips cocked in a smile that’s got more offerin’ in it than any menu item this place could cook up.
I look at her. She’s pretty. She’s got that shine. That willingness.
This - she - could be so easy.
I’d say the right thing.
She’d laugh, toss her hair.
We’d fuck in the back of her car or mine.
I’d make her feel wanted, and she’d make me feel nothin’.
Perfect transaction.
I’m about to come out with somethin’ smooth when my eyes flick down to her name badge.
Francesca.
Fuck, that’s her name.
Not “Big Tits.” Not “doll” or “darlin’.” Not nothin’ I’ve been tellin’ myself she was.
Francesca.
I can’t even see her right.
Someone else is still burnin’ in my periphery.
I need to get the fuck outta this place.
“Have a good night, Francesca,” I say, smooth as ever, flashin’ that same old grin.
She beams like this was the start of our goddamn love story.
But I won’t ever see that broad again.
Not like that.
I turn and walk the hell out, number clutched in my hand, already feelin’ like ash.
Outside, the night’s colder than I remember. The wet asphalt looks like someone spilled fire in technicolor with all the lights glown’ on it. The Camaro’s sittin’ under it, proud and pissed off lookin’, and Sierra’s standin’ beside it, arms folded around herself, Zack holdin’ onto her hand.
“Alright, short stack,” I say, strollin’ up and stickin’ my hand out. “Pleasure doin’ business.”
Zack slaps his palm against mine with way too much enthusiasm.
“Likewise” he states, given’ it a firm squeeze. Well, I say firm, it’s floppy firm. “Next time, I’ll teach you how to do this better. This one’s weak.”
“Guess I gotta practice, huh?” I chuckle, goin’ to light a smoke.
He scampers back to Sierra’s car, shoutin’ a ‘Bye, Bill!’ with the door cuttin’ him off halfway.
And then it’s just me and Sierra.
Standin’ close, but not close enough.
That line’s still there.
Invisible, but hot as hell.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, hand half in my jacket pocket with that receipt crumpled in it, leanin’ into the familiar, into the routine. “This little detour don’t count toward my extra fifteen, by the way. You still owe me, Nightingale”
She gives a breath of a laugh, mouth tugged in a way that’s not quite a smile but not far off.
“I won’t be at school tomorrow” she says, eyes flickin’ up, then away, then back. “I’m helping my dad prep for this annual event”
“Ah, yes - the Economic Forum for Strategic Growth and Community Justice or whatever the fuck it’s called” I mutter with all the reverence of a man discussin’ dogshit on a sidewalk.
“Jesus Christ. That’s way too many syllables for your - ” she gestures vaguely at my head, smirkin’ her ass off “linguistic range.”
“That what we’re callin’ it now?” I shoot back. “Thought it was just my unrefined charm.”
“Unrefined,” she repeats with a little nod. “That’s generous”
“Hey, I know words,” I say, mock offended. “All the important ones.”
“Like?”
“Fuck. Shit. Even better, bullshit. Which reminds me, this event?”
She rolls her eyes, arms tightening round herself as she parts with a soft laugh.
“Means you won’t see me until Monday” she finishes for me. "I'll be too busy trying on dresses and making sure my dad doesn't say 'legacy' more than twice"
“Alright, see you Monday, I guess, Indiana” I sigh, stickin’ both hands in my pocket.
Gettin’ real goddamn cold out here now and I don’t fancy that smoke after all.
“Make good use of that dress, you hear?” I add, already startin’ to turn toward the diner to haul Eddie’s ass out.
What follows ain’t a door slam or engine growlin’ into the night.
No tires peelin’ away to tell me the night’s been closed, chapter finished.
It’s quieter, shyer.
A voice that don’t know if it’s doin’ wrong or right.
“Billy?”
I stop and turn back. My smirk’s already loaded, dialled up to cocky.
“It Monday alrea - ?”
But I don’t even get it out.
‘Cause before I can say another goddamn word, before I can finish hidin’ behind that grin, her arms are around me.
It feels like nothin’ - how light she is against me, she barely weighs a thing. Like the warmth of her against me might just vanish if I breathe too loud. But fuck me, it feels like everything. Her cheek presses just beneath my collarbone and I go so still it’s like my body forgot what it’s meant to do.
I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me like this.
Not for show.
Not with rough backslaps or awkward man-pats.
Not with hands that grip too hard or arms that don’t stay long.
Somethin’ splits in me somewhere between her breath and mine. A seam givin’ out after years of pressure. An old bruise pressin’ back from the inside out. Like every time I shoved a feelin’ down - every scream, every goddamn sob that never made it past my throat - just got exhaled into the space between her and me.
She don’t even know what she’s done.
She don’t even know who she just touched.
Not the name. Not the rep. Not the fists or the scars or the chaos I hurl like fire.
Me.
She touched me.
I don’t know what to fuckin’ do with this.
Do I hug her back?
Maybe I should just give her back a slap. You know, be cool about the whole thing. I didn’t anythin’ special. Just took her out to a diner.
Right?
But, as always, my body knows how to speak before my mind does.
Every instinct I’ve got is barkin’ the same order - don’t.
Instinct don’t mean shit to my muscles. They know somethin’ I don’t. My arms move. I wrap ‘em around her slow at first, unsure. Then tighter. Then tighter. I let myself feel the shape of her back under my hands, the way she fits there in the hollow of me.
Her heart’s beatin’ against mine. And it’s fast. Real fast.
And in that moment - that one moment- there’s no Princess or Hargrove. No whispers in hallways, no bullshit about moms who swam or moms who ran, or freaks or freak-outs. No Uptown Girl. No Downtown Boy.
There’s just this.
Her and me.
Not them. Not me. Not her.
Us.
Sierra pulls away slowly, like she knows if she moves too fast the moment might splinter into pieces neither of us could put back together. The cold rushes in the second she’s not pressed against me anymore, the night waitin’ to crawl back up my skin.
She clears her throat, lookin’ at the ground first, then up at me, those green eyes softer than I’ve ever seen ‘em.
“Thanks for dinner,” she quietly says, arms wrappin’ around herself again. “And for being nice to Zack.”
I nod.
That’s all I can manage.
Still got the echo of her heartbeat thuddin’ in my ribs.
Still got the shape of her back in my palms.
Still got that splittin’ inside me, raw and wide open.
I wanna say a hundred things.
But all that comes out is a breath and the smallest nod.
I don’t let myself look away. I want her to know I heard her. Every word. Every goddamn second of that hug.
I heard it. I felt it. I fuckin’ needed it.
I clear my throat, tilt my chin, and let the words fall out in the usual rhythm we’ve made since day one.
“Later, Indiana.”
She pauses with her hand on the car door and looks back over her shoulder.
“Later, San Diego.”
Then she slips inside.
Zack’s already bouncin’ in his seat, wavin’ at me like he’s tryna get the attention of a plane.
I lift a hand. One nod. No smile.
But she sees it.
I know she sees it.
The car rumbles to life, headlights glowin’ like a sendoff, and then she’s pullin’ out, turnin’ onto the main road, red taillights driftin’ into the dark.
I watch ‘til the glow disappears.
‘Til the silence creeps back in.
‘Til that goddamn green light shines over the lot, waitin’ on me to move on.
Or, maybe, given’ me the go ahead.
Then the door behind me bangs open and Eddie saunters out, stretchin’ out his back.
“Ooooh that feels better,” he groans. “I gave birth, man. Full baby. Enough pounds and ounces to block the shitter for a week. You missed history.”
I glance sideways at him, still watchin’ the road where her car vanished.
Still feelin’ the warmth of her in my arms.
“Didn’t have you down as a guy who needs a receipt,” he says suggestively, noddin’ to the crumpled paper I didn’t realize I’d gotten out my pocket.
I glance down at it. Francesca’s number. Big Tits. Lipstick hearts.
Ink smudges over my thumb. This kinda thing used to be my goal. A sure thing with enough cleavage and lip gloss, they were the easiest way to feel somethin’. Or forget somethin’. Whichever came first.
You smile, they look. You flirt, they giggle. You fuck, they leave. No mess unless I wanted one.
This time, I don't really want one.
Without a word, I pivot and chuck it into the trash can by the door. It hits the metal with a ping and disappears.
“Damn,” Eddie says, quiet but pointed. “She’s gonna cry into her hash browns when she finds out.”
He steps up beside me, reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a little ziplock.
“Now that we are, at last, free from the judgment of children and Princess fucking Nightingale…” He grins, eyes bright and wicked. “Shall we ascend to the realm of green goodness galore?”
I huff through my nose, shake my head. The bastard’s a cartoon. But hey, I guess he’s alright company.
“Sounds like a decent end to the night, Munson.”
He perks up immediately, face damn near glowin’.
“And you’ll tell me what went down when I left you and Her Majesty alone?”
I roll my eyes, heading toward the Camaro.
“Don’t push your luck, Freak.”
He trots after me, buzzin’ his tits off.
“Oh, I won’t have to,” he croons smugly. “Just wait ‘til you’re runnin’ through the fields of greenery, my friend. I’ll shuck you open like an oyster.” He pauses, squinting thoughtfully. “Or a peanut. See where the mood takes you.”
I bark a laugh despite myself, grip the car door, and shove him inside before he can get another metaphor out.
He lands in the seat with a dramatic grunt, legs flyin’.
“Top chauffeur talent too! You both surprise and treat me, Big Boy.”
Christ, I can’t believe this is how my night is endin’.
I fire up the engine when I get in, Restless and Wild by Accept blasts outta the speakers. Immediately, Eddie lets out a noise like a fuckin’ banshee.
“NO. FUCKING. WAY,” he shrieks, clutchin’ the dash with both hands, thrashin’ his body back and forwards - the crazy fuckin’ asshole. “Is that… is that Accept?! You listen to Accept?! Hargrove, you magnificent, sunburnt bastard! You’ve been holdin’ out on me! All this time I thought you were just a Crüe-and-pussy kinda guy!”
I blow smoke out the open window.
“First off, fuck you” I state. “Second, Accept rips.”
Eddie slams both hands onto his knees, head already bangin’ as the solo kicks in.
He’s full of it, animated as hell, and honestly? It’s infectious.
‘Cause despite myself, I join the fucker.
“God, I could kiss you right now,” he howls. “This song’s got flames shootin’ outta its dick!”
The engine roars under us as I press down on the gas, real fuckin’ feral, and the song screams, all snarl and shred, every second of it a punch to the throat and a drag off salvation.
Who woulda thought a Freak and the King of Hawkins High would be doin’ this?
Two fuck-ups in a Camaro, high on grease and guitar solos, hurlin’ into the night like we’ve got somewhere to be and nowhere to go.
I don’t know how the hell I got to this point.
One minute I’m just tryina keep the engine runnin’. Next minute I’m laughin’ with Munson like we didn’t come from opposite sides of the same fuckin’ war.
A line got crossed tonight.
Not just one of 'em either.
A line I was born behind. Raised to guard. Taught to kill over.
No matter how many lines I crossed, no matter how many minutes tick by with the road stretchin’ out in front of me, my head keeps draggin’ me back to the same damn thing.
Her.
She was the line.
She was the kindness.
She was the one thing I wasn’t supposed to get close to and the first thing that ever made me feel like I wasn’t all poison.
She was the person He told me to look past, to look down on, to…
Fuck, to hate.
But I don’t hate her.
No, I…
I can’t say it.
I won’t say it.
Jesus, I don’t even know what it is I’d be saying.
What does it mean if she saw through the spit and the swagger and the goddamn mask and stayed?
Why do I wanna know what she thinks?
Why do I give a shit if she’s proud of me?
Why do I listen?
Why did I let her talk to me like I mattered?
Why do I care if I make her laugh?
Why do I fuckin’ remember it?
Fuck, why do I feel it?
Maybe it ain't about what I was taught. Maybe it’s about what I see.
And what I see…
Is her.
And if I see her - this goddamn whirlwind of a girl with so many sides it makes my head spin - how the hell am I supposed to look away?
But it ain’t just her.
It’s Eddie too.
That chaotic bastard with too much volume and not enough self-preservation.
The one who don’t give two shits about the people who tell him to turn it down.
Guys like Eddie ain’t meant to be sat in my passenger seat. His head’s meant to be shoved into a locker, not headbangin’ with me.
‘Cause if he didn’t shut up, if he didn’t sit still, if he didn’t act right - then he deserved what he got, right?
That’s what they said.
That’s what He said.
That’s what I said.
And now look at me.
Laughin’ with him, runnin’ red lights with him.
Feelin’ more myself with a so-called loser than I ever did with the pricks I was supposed to be like.
They’re treatin’ me like I’m one of ‘em. Not outta fear. Not outta some throne I beat my way onto.
But ‘cause they see somethin’ I don’t.
I’m the King. The Fighter.
Who the hell are they seein?
If I ain’t the king…
If I ain’t the fighter…
If I ain’t the cold son of a bitch who knows how the world works…
Then who the fuck am I?