Insomnia // Shawn Mendes

// part iv

{ A longer chapter. This one is kind of rough and all over the place, but not every chapter is going to be polished. Vote, comment and enjoy. }

The songs featured in this chapter:

As We Are Now // Saint Raymond

Silent // Tori Kelly

Right There // Ariana Grande (acoustic verison)

♥ ♥ ♥

shawn // part iv

She is waiting for me in front of a dark and narrow building, leaning against a graffitied wall with her guitar case slung over one shoulder. She wears a black skirt which exposes her long, slender legs, a pair of black pumps and scalloped tux top. My stomach churns at the sight of her.

"I thought you'd bailed on me for a moment," she greets me with a grin.

"Never," I scoff, shooting one back at her.

She beckons for me to follow her up the steps towards the dark building. It looks like a warehouse from the outside, but as I step through the door I'm surprised to be greeted with a large space scattered with small tables and stools instead of chairs, a bar along one side of it and a small stage at the far end.

"Welcome to The Ice House. One of the only bars in New York that permits underage drinking and live music," she introduces me, making a vague gesture around the room. "The party doesn't start for another half-hour, but performers get free drinks and I thought we could take advantage of that."

"You drink?" I raise an eyebrow at her. Her petite frame and innocent features don't hint that she's the kind of girl who spends her Saturday evenings drinking alcohol. "How old are you?"

She shrugs in way that probably means yes, but could also mean no. "Sixteen."

I gulp. I hadn't assumed that she was older than me. Nor that she drinks. This girl is full of surprises.

She saunters over to the bar and slips onto one of the stools. A bartender approaches her immediately, flicking her bleached blonde locks over her shoulder with a manicured hand. She greets Jasmine with a bright smile.

"The usual?"

Jasmine nods. "And whatever he wants."

The bartender looks at me expectantly and I fumble over my words. "Er...a lemonade please."

"Coming right up," the bartender replies.

I sink onto the stool beside Jasmine and glance at her uncertainly. She answers my question without me having to verbalize it.

"You know, I find a tiny bit of alcohol helps with the nerves," she explains. "It's kind of become a habit."

"How long have you been performing here?"

"For about six months – two months before my dad-" she cuts herself off and stares at the floor, her brown hair shadowing her face. I don't push her to continue. Instead, an uncomfortable silence stretches between us, so thick it could suffocate me.

The bartender nudges two glasses across the counter and I smile to thank her. Jasmine's glass contains a clear liquid identical to mine, with a lemon floating above a generous portion of ice. She sips it tentatively and glances at me, her eyes suddenly much brighter and her expression clearer and more open.

I'm still kind of confused. I wandered into an insignificant music shop yesterday afternoon in order to purchase some guitar picks but ended up meeting this small but deeply intriguing girl and agreeing to accompany her to a gig the following evening. Spontaneous isn't one of my most predominant characteristics, but I like it.