uptown girl
when an uptown girl meets a rockstar at a dive bar
no warnings for this story
You don’t even like live music. It’s too loud, too sweaty, too unpredictable.
But here you are, in the middle of a dive bar that smells like beer-soaked leather and regret, because your friend wanted a “real night out,” and you… well, you didn’t have the energy to argue. You’re still in your dress from dinner. The hem kisses your thighs when you sit, legs crossed, back straight, and comically overdressed for the battered booth. A few heads turn when you walk in, but it’s nothing new. You’re used to stares.
He’s onstage. Worn denim, boots scuffed like they’ve lived through things he doesn’t talk about, guitar slung over his shoulder like it belongs there more than he does. The lights catch the sharp lines of his jaw, the loose curl of his hair, and the cigarette barely hanging from his lips before he pulls it out and tosses it aside. He looks like trouble. The kind that leaves bruises you like to press, just to remember.
And he’s looking right at you.