Chapter 2: The First Note of Seduction
The Roxy smelled of ancient beer and new sweat, a thick, living fog that coated the back of the throat. Maria’s choker, a simple black band, was already a faint pressure against her skin as she pushed through the murmuring crowd, Maryna’s hand a warm anchor in hers.
Maryna had chosen a white semi-transparent cropped V-neck tee, the iconic “The Strokes” logo stretched across her chest, the black bra beneath visible as a soft shadow through the fabric. It ended just above the waist of her fitted high-waisted black mini skirt, revealing a strip of toned midriff that gleamed under the pulsating neon. Her chunky lace-up combat boots were scuffed and sure on the sticky floor. Maria, in her fitted green lace-up crop top and frayed denim skirt, her own boots thudding in sync, cut a cleaner line through the chaos—the bold graphic on her chest, the choker a declaration of intent.
“Let’s just enjoy the concert!” Maria shouted over the pre-show drone of guitars being tuned, her light eyes scanning the approaching stage.
“No talk of mechanics or pacts?” Maryna yelled back, a sly grin touching her lips as she adjusted her top.
“Not until after,” Maria agreed, though the pact hummed between them, a third presence.
They bought two overpriced beers in cold, sweating cans, the metallic tang cutting through the olfactory soup. Finding a spot near the front, just off-center, they leaned against the barrier. The metal was cold and vibrated with a deep, incoming frequency.
“To practice,” Maryna said, clinking her can against Maria’s, a private joke that made them both snort-laugh into their beers.
Then the lights died. A collective roar tore up from the floor, a physical wave that shoved them against the barricade. When the stage exploded into light, it was a wall of sound that hit first—a crashing, jagged riff that bypassed the ears and went straight to the ribs. Maria felt it in her molars. The crowd became a single, heaving organism.
And there he was. Rick. The lead singer. He stalked to the mic stand, all lean danger in a worn leather jacket, his sweat already glistening at the temples under the harsh white spotlight. He didn’t speak, just gripped the mic, and launched into the vocal—a raw, yearning snarl that seemed to peel layers off the walls.
The girls were swallowed. They drank their beers, shouted lyrics they’d screamed in Maria’s bedroom into each other’s ears, their bodies moving instinctively to the rhythm. The show was good. Better than good. It was a wire pulled taut from the stage to their spines. Maria forgot the plan, forgot the pact, lost in the glorious noise. She caught Maryna’s eye during a quieter bassline, and they shared a look of pure, unadulterated joy—this was why they were here, before any of the rest of it.
But as the set built towards its climax, something shifted. The music became a predatory grind. Rick shed his jacket. His shirt, plastered to his chest, darkened with sweat. He worked the crowd like a physical lover, leaning out over the barrier, his hips rolling against the mic stand in a slow, unmistakable rhythm. A bead of sweat flew from his hairline, catching the red light as it arced down into the seething mass below.
Maria’s gaze locked onto him, the playful intent hardening into a sharp, wanting focus. Her choker felt suddenly tighter, a conscious constriction. She glanced at Maryna, ready to share a joke about his theatricality.
Maryna wasn’t laughing. She was watching, utterly still amidst the chaos. The white of her shirt seemed to glow in the strobe lights, the black bra underneath now a stark, promised secret. Her lips were slightly parted, her expression one of raw absorption. The hem of her skirt had ridden up a fraction on her thigh from the press of the crowd.
A new, heavier song began—a pounding, relentless thing. Rick crouched at the edge of the stage, directly in front of them, close enough for Maria to see the tension in the cords of his neck. He screamed a line about cheap desire.
In that exact moment, Maria mouthed the words ‘I call dibs,’ a silent, instinctive claim thrown at the figure on the stage.
She turned her head to see if Maryna had caught the moment, and her blood went still.
Maryna, her eyes fixed on Rick’s straining form, was mouthing the exact same words. A perfect, silent echo. Their eyes met over the thrashing bodies between them. The shared joy of minutes before curdled into a flash of cold, naked rivalry. The pact was no longer a future joke. It was here, in the sweat-drenched air, and it had only one obvious prize.
The final chord rang out, feedback screaming. Rick vanished into the darkness at the back of the stage, leaving only the ringing in their ears and the silent, understanding hanging between them.