Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

The Monster (part 2)

"Thanks, man." You reluctantly plant the wad of cash you'd saved in the mechanic's hand and in exchange, he returns the keys to your Chevy.

It's honestly a miracle Robin's dad was able to get your truck towed on such short notice... but then again, that's what dads are supposed to do, right? You wouldn't know, you're scorned to accept.

Earlier, you'd agreed to meet Nancy and Jonathan in town after they've finished stocking up for a literal monster hunt. Only after suiting up to the eyeballs with as much surplus gear misfit teens would be allowed to buy, you can figure out the next steps.

Pulling up to the curb on the main street, you scan the area for your two friends. It feels odd to call them that, but nice. After all, what else do you call people you'll for sure die alongside, at the hands of a faceless creature? Yeah, friends feels about right.

They're nowhere to be seen yet, so you climb out the driver's seat and wander round to perch on the hood. Crossing your arms, you anxiously check your watch.

Where are they? How long does it take to purchase a few bear traps?

You chuckle to yourself.

What kind of stupid question is that?

However, waiting for them gives you a few quiet moments to reflect...

Nancy and Jonathan are now your friends.

You.

They're friends with you.

Mean, rude, damaged you.

The idea that something bad might happen to them doesn't bear thinking about, and yet, that's something you'll have to face up to sooner than you'd like.

Your restlessness has to be put to the side momentarily, as your attention peels to the sign above the movie theatre, not because you're particularly bothered about catching the latest flick, All The Right Moves, but because something else piques your interest.

There, crudely spray-painted over the billboard are huge, scrawled, red letters that read: starring Nancy THE SLUT Wheeler.

"The fuck?"

You spring from where you're sat and begin crossing the street to get a better look. You shield your eyes from the sun, and you see it crystal clear; the crimson SLUT looks like it's been sprayed over a few times in malice. Having had plenty of experience being called that, you feel a bad taste in your mouth.

Who did this?

You're loathe to think you already know.

"Excuse me, young lady?" The elderly manager of the cinema is stomping out the building making a beeline towards you, his face purpling in anger.

"Uh, yes sir?"

You straighten up to try and look presentable, not like some punk-ass who enjoys a bit of vandalism.

"Do you know who did this?" He shakes his finger at his beloved sign and turns back to face you with a vein pulsating from his temple.

You tut, "Yeah, I might."

But your ears prick to the sound of a commotion echoing from a nearby alleyway, the distinct noise of skin smacking against skin, and a mixture of jeering and shrieking.

"Jonathan, stop! Stop, you're going to hurt him!" Rings out most distinctly, accompanied by the faint hum of police sirens.

Apologising to the old man, you kick off on your heels, dashing towards the Chevy. Turning the key in the ignition, it chugs to life. Next thing, you're wheeling off the curb, across the road with a skrrrrrt of the tires.