TOP OF THE ROCK

☆ | 4.0

☆

OUT OF 8 MILLION PEOPLE in the city, Blue chose the eight of them. They were one one millionth of New York City—crammed into the boiler room of a seedy venue in Bushwick. It felt like urban decay, the slow death of punk music and acid trips, gracing them with the perfect run-down location to meet discreetly.

A construction of cobwebs descended down the corners of the wall like wiry frames, glittering in the light of a single flickering bulb; they fluttered with each slight motion or word or breath. Somehow, the webs didn't break, but simply vibrated, cascading daintily over a collection of charcoal black pipes that clanked and sputtered beneath the thundering bass of a punk show above them. All the sounds bled together, unraveling into the late night... and drowned out by the upbeat lyrics of Jingle Bell Rock.

Her head was throbbing.

"Why the fuck are you playing Jingle Bell Rock?"

"Becauuuuse I knew everyone would hate it."

"Turn it off."

"Aw, come on, it's a Christmas classic!"

"Now."

"No."

Each sharp response ricocheted off her as she sat silently, caught between the endless argument of six strangers. Her eyes screwed shut; her teeth ground together impatiently. Where the fuck was Blue? At least she could tolerate him. These assholes were impossible. If they weren't staring blankly at her, they were bickering like a bunch of ten-year-olds. How in the hell was she supposed to survive the next three weeks?

"Here."

Slowly, so fucking slowly, she opened her eyes and twisted, only to find ink roping around tan skin—tattoos tracing a path to long fingers... holding a slow-burning joint.

When she took it, her gaze wandered down his body, silently appreciating the way his lean muscles stretched the fabric of his dark band tee. Something about him screamed punk, and briefly, she wondered if Blue had picked him out of the crowd upstairs right before this fucking meeting. But then she lingered on the scuffed, torn skater shoes. Vans.

A grin tugged at her lips. He was how she was going to survive the next three weeks. "Thanks."

"I don't know if it will help," he rasped, tearing her gaze to his sheepish expression as he tugged the grey beanie off his head. "But it's something."

They were all something. That was the tragedy of it.

"It's a great song!"

"No, it isn't."

"Haven't you seen Mean Girls?"

Frustration clogged her throat. "Just turn it off," she interrupted them, "so everyone will be fucking quiet."

"What a bright time, it's the right time..."

That asshole across the room smirked at her, and she knew in that moment... that they were going to have a problem.

"...to rock the night away."

One inhale, one inch, one exhale.

With a defiant glare, she tipped her chin up to take in the baggy clothes and the clunky headphones hanging around his neck. Dark brown eyes clashed with hers. "If you don't turn it off, I will kill you."

His brows rose with barely concealed annoyance. Fuck him.

Cocking her head to the side, she extended the joint to him in an unspoken offer—a deceptively calculated surrender. Maybe she didn't know him, but she knew herself well enough to remember that violence had never gotten her very far in life. It was silence that scared people.