Behind The Beat

XIV - The Party

Rozalie lingered outside Val's room, her knuckles brushing against the doorframe. She'd been invited in—Val had called her over for a pre-party pep talk about "not looking like a deer in headlights" at social events—but now that she was here, something about crossing that threshold felt strangely daunting.

— You gonna stand out there all night? — Val's teasing voice pulled Rozalie from her thoughts.

— No — Rozalie muttered, stepping inside. The faint scent of jasmine and something musky hit her, a mix of Val's perfume and her guitar case in the corner.

Val was at her dresser, rummaging through a chaotic array of band T-shirts and denim. She held up a ripped tank top with a grin.

— Too casual?

Rozalie smirked.

— Depends. Are we aiming for "effortless rockstar" or "I rolled out of bed five minutes ago"?

Val laughed, tossing the shirt aside.

— You're no help. What about you? What're you wearing? — Rozalie glanced down at her sweater and jeans. — This?

Val turned, giving Rozalie a look that screamed really?

— Oh, no, Rose. That's not happening.

Rozalie barely had time to protest before Val moved to her closet, sifting through hangers.

— Come on, you'll look killer in black.

As Val spoke, she slipped out of her T-shirt and tossed it onto the bed. Rozalie froze. Val, completely unbothered, stood in just her bra as she reached for a different top. She turned toward the wall, still talking about band aesthetics and image, but Rozalie couldn't focus.

Her eyes lingered on the curve of Val's back, the way her muscles shifted beneath her skin. Rozalie's chest tightened, heat creeping up her neck as she quickly averted her gaze, staring hard at a poster on the wall.

What is wrong with me? Rozalie's thoughts spiraled. This wasn't the first time she'd been around Val like this, but tonight, something about the moment felt different—charged.

Val pulled on a sleeveless top and turned back around, oblivious to Rozalie's inner turmoil.

— What do you think? — she asked, holding her arms out.

Rozalie blinked rapidly, trying to steady her voice.

— Uh, yeah. It looks... great.

Val grinned.

— Great? High praise from you.

Rozalie forced a smile, gripping the edge of the dresser for support.

The bar was alive with music and laughter, the low hum of conversations blending with the occasional burst of raucous laughter. Rozalie sat beside Val at their table, the bass from the music thrumming faintly beneath her feet. The dim lighting gave the room a hazy, intimate feel, and she could just make out the other patrons packed into booths and huddled around the bar.

She shifted in her seat, her fingers tracing the condensation on her glass of soda. The others were relaxed, laughing and chatting as if this were second nature. For Rozalie, it still felt like stepping into someone else's life.

She glanced around the room, taking in the posters of long-gone performances plastered on the walls, the faint scuffs on the wooden floors that spoke of years of wild nights. It was charming in its worn-down way, but Rozalie couldn't quite shake her unease.

Beside her, Val leaned back in her chair, her arm resting casually on the edge of the table. She radiated an easy confidence that Rozalie envied, her presence commanding attention even when she wasn't speaking.