Chapter Text
The first time Mary sees you, he thinks, This will be fun.
He’s been coming to this shitty diner in this shitty city for a long time now, but he doesn’t recognize you. It’s late—it always is when he drags the guys in for greasy breakfast food and coffee in the hopes of preventing a hangover. He’s still buzzing from the show, ears still ringing and sensitive, and his leg bounces restlessly under the table.
But his gaze is steady on you as you dole out mugs of coffee. Your head is ducked, eyes downcast, and you look like you’d rather be anywhere else but here. Like you’d be happy if the ground opened up and swallowed you whole.
There’s an anxious quirk to your mouth. A stitch of concentration between your brows.
And when you set the last mug down in front of him, you finally seem to feel his eyes on you. You glance up, and shit. Doe eyes. Sweet face. Your cheeks flood with color as you blush, and your lips part like you’re surprised. You stiffen and move as if you’re trying to hide behind the serving tray.
You look at him almost like you expect him to lunge out of the booth and tear into you like a wild animal.
It’s a tempting thought, if he’s honest.
“You new?” he asks.
“No?” you say with a shake of your head.
“It’s usually another girl. Rail-thin, freak that never blinks.”
Across from him, G snorts. “Smooth, Goore.”
“Not being mean. It’s an observation. She’s got big fuckin’ eyes and she’d disappear behind a fuckin’ mic stand.”
He sweeps his gaze over you.
You’re wearing black leggings and a baggy T-shirt emblazoned with the diner’s logo, and it hides your shape. He hates it. He just knows you’re soft. His hands itch with the need to see just how soft.
You blush harder under his scrutiny, fumbling to pull a handful of creamers from your apron pocket. “I’m—uh—covering for her tonight. Are you guys ready to order, or… should I come back?”
He wishes he’d come alone.
He wants to see how flushed he can get you.
But he says instead, “Come back.”
And for a moment, you hold his gaze. He’s impressed. Even after you duck your head again and scurry away, moving like you’re afraid if you don’t get away now, you never will.
“Aw hell,” Emil says, looking over one of the laminated menus, “He’s on the hunt.”
“R-I-P, waitress,” G remarks.
And next to Mary, Adam says, “Should we warn her? Leave her a napkin note?”
Mary snorts and brings his cup to his mouth, knowing the coffee’s still too hot and needing it anyway. He mutters, “Don’t know what the hell you’re all yapping about.” He throws back a gulp that burns all the way down, then soothes his lower lip with his tongue and adds, “Just a bit of fun.”
“You think she’d agree?” Emil asks with a laugh.
Mary flashes a wry grin.
When you come back to take their order, Mary lets the others go first. Watches as your pen darts across the page of your little notebook, scribbling everyone’s orders. Watches as you look at each of them separately, giving them your undivided attention even despite your obvious discomfort. Weird job for someone who looks like they’re scared of their own shadow.
Emil’s a dickhead with too many customizations, so when it’s Mary’s turn, he keeps his order simple.
It’s cute how visibly relieved you are.
And somehow it spurs him on.
He fishes out his pack of cigarettes—makes note that he’s got less than half the pack left—and he holds your gaze as he plucks one free and sticks it in his mouth. You’re confused, wearing that adorable furrow to your brow again, and you don’t say anything at first. You just watch him like you’re not sure if you’re seeing things or not.
It isn’t until he digs out his metal Zippo to light up that you finally react.
“Uh, you can’t…” you say, fidgeting nervously. “I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here.”
“Yeah? Says who?”
You laugh a little. Not like you actually think it’s funny—more like you’re just feeling awkward and embarrassed. Can you blush any harder? You visibly swallow, and he’s impressed all over again when you don’t look away. “My boss…? The guy who owns the place?”
“Where’s he at? He here?” he asks, craning in the booth to look around. The diner is a ghost town, like it always is at this time of night.
“Well… no.”
Fuck, you’re sweet.
“Great. So it can be our little secret, then, right?” he asks, fighting back his grin.
You blink.
He continues to stare at you, cigarette balanced on his lip. He waits to see if you’re going to show some teeth—if you have it in you to snap at him.
But Adam smacks him on the shoulder and says, “Come on, asshole.”
If it were Emil, Mary might smack him back. But he just shoots a sideways look at the other guitarist before his eyes find you again. You look unsure. Curious. He pushes out a dramatic sigh and tucks his lighter back into his pocket, then he slides the unlit cigarette behind one of his ears. He holds up his hands in defense—‘alright, you win.’
You don’t look convinced.
And your mouth opens like you’re about to say something.
He raises his eyebrows in anticipation.
But you wilt and lose whatever nerve that almost sparked in you. Face reddening with a fresh blush, you hurry away to put the order in.
“You’re such a bastard,” Emil says, laughing.
Mary lifts one of his shoulders in a half-shrug. Maybe he is.
You come by the table now and then to refill coffee and check on them, but you pointedly avoid looking at Mary. He watches you, of course—waits for you to look at him so he can catch your eye—but you’re back to keeping your attention locked on what you’re doing. You pour more coffee into his mug and he thanks you, but you only give a small, ‘Mm hmm,’ and keep it moving.
He watches you go. Ignores the way Emil laughs at him.
You have to bring their food in two trips, coming to the table with Adam and G’s plates first. He again watches you, but again, you ignore him—and well, that just won’t do. You leave to get the rest of the food, and Mary plucks the unlit cigarette from behind his ear, quickly shoving it back into his mouth.
Adam sighs something at him. Emil grins deviously.
And with a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re on your way back with the rest of the food, Mary lights up the cigarette. Snaps his Zippo closed and pockets it.
As you come to a stop beside the table, your mouth falls open again. He puffs on the cigarette, and you blink at him. A quick range of expressions flicker over your face: surprise, confusion, annoyance. Satisfaction glows in him as you quickly set the remaining plates down.
“You can’t…” you try again.
He can’t help it. He smirks around the cigarette and takes a long, pointed drag.
Just to see what you’ll do.
At first, he thinks you’re going to shrink yourself. Give up and run away with your tail between your legs. You don’t rock the boat, do you? You live your life with your head down, trying to go unnoticed. It’s how you keep yourself safe. Your gaze drops to the table, brow furrowing again, and he waits for the docile, simpering response he’s sure you’re going to give him.
But you move—and not to run away.
You lean toward him.
Any other girl and he might jerk away—he’s no stranger to pushing buttons and earning himself a slap for the shit he’s said. But maybe you move too fast for him to think about it. Or maybe there’s something about you that keeps him rooted to the spot.
He almost doesn’t even notice it when you pull the cigarette from between his lips.
You let it drop into his coffee cup and the cherry goes out with the softest, briefest hiss.
Emil is euphoric. He throws his head back and laughs uproariously—Mary’s never seen him so tickled. G starts a slow clap for you, wearing a catlike smirk, and Adam elbows Mary in the ribs with a grin. The three of them utter variations of “Ohh” and “That’s what I’m talking about.”
But Mary just watches you.
Because your shoulders square a little. Your chin lifts. Something bright and alive flashes in your eyes, and you almost smile. He feels a pull in him—something sharp and dizzying. Because as much as he’s enjoyed making you blush, he suddenly needs to see you smile. Not the passive little fake one you originally came to the table with, but a real one.
You visibly swallow and give a single nod. And when you meet his gaze again, you say, “You can’t smoke in here.”
With a kind of triumphant finality.
And now he thinks not, This will be fun, but, I'm in trouble.
You’re back at the table a few times throughout their meal, checking on them and refilling mugs as you see fit. You don’t bring him a new cup though. And he doesn’t ask for one, either. He likes the reminder. He likes looking down and seeing the soggy remains of the cigarette floating weakly in the tepid coffee. You’d think it was Christmas for Emil. So far he’s joked, “Man, you’ve barely touched your coffee,” and “What’s the matter? Not thirsty?”
And he even reached for the mug and pretended he was going to take a drink from it himself, only to dramatically act surprised when he saw the cigarette in it.
Mary barely notices. He’s watching you like a hawk.
If you were anyone else, he’d ask you home tonight. Tell you you have a great ass and that he wants to feel your thighs around his head. But that sweet blush on your face and your soft eyes give him the idea that that won’t work. Not on you. And does he really want to put in any extra effort?
Most girls in the scene bore him. They’re desperate. Fake and shallow. All the good ones have already been snatched up. But girls outside the scene don’t usually get it—don’t get him. He comes on too strong. He can be a little… abrasive. His ex said he wasn’t romantic enough—“You gotta be sweet to me, Mare”—but then he found out she was fucking some loser bank teller from the very beginning.
He’s getting older. And he’s just fucking sick of wasting his time.
After you’ve given them the check, he shoves Adam out of the booth so he can get up to pay. Adam follows. Mary frowns—he’d rather get you alone—but he’s already endured enough mockery from the guys tonight, so he doesn’t say anything.
You avoid his gaze as you cash them out, and even as he hands over the cash he and Adam pooled together. He’s tempted to pull it away when you reach for it—just to make you look at him—but he uses his words instead.
“You owe me a cigarette, by the way. Those things aren’t cheap.”
You shoot him a quick glance. Even though you blush basically the minute your gaze touches his, you must still be feeling a little bold. Because you say, “They aren’t good for you, either. Maybe I was doing you a favor.”
“Oh, boy. Never heard that one before,” he says with a snort.
Your eyes find his again—but only briefly. Too fucking briefly.
Emil makes a last joke about the coffee-logged cigarette in Mary’s cup as G dumps a handful of quarters on the table. When Mary gives him a flat look, he shrugs and scoffs out something about using up all his ones at the strip club.
When they slip out into the damp night, Adam chuckles and shakes his head to himself.
“All that and you didn’t even ask her name.”
Shit, Mary thinks. A name might have been nice. Of course, he’d have had to come to a decision on whether or not he felt like wasting his time. He’s still weighing his options.
But as they fracture to go their separate ways, as he walks to his apartment right there on the corner, he can’t stop thinking about you. The warmth in your eyes, the softness of your mouth, the way you’d puffed up when you got one over on him.
The fact that you got one over on him at all.
He’s made up his mind by the time he reaches his building, but he heads inside anyway. Digs through the pockets of all the pairs of jeans scattered on the bedroom floor. Rifles between the lumpy couch cushions. They have got to stop playing gigs for people who pay them in IOUs and booze. When he has a more acceptable tip in hand, he locks up again and heads back to the diner.
It’s raining harder than it was earlier. He’s soaked by the time he walks through the door again, the bell chiming over his head. He shoves his dripping hair back and sweeps his gaze over the empty diner. For just a moment, he worries he took too long. For just a moment, he thinks maybe he missed any chance he might have had.
But then he sees you seated at one of the booth tables, wrapping silverware. You glance up at him, bemused and wide-eyed and fuck.
Waste my time, he thinks.
He strolls toward you, wet boots thudding on the linoleum floor, and you watch him like he’s some kind of wild predator. Like you’re trying to stay totally still and go completely unnoticed. He says, “Never got your name.”
You blink. He can all but see the way your brain cycles through different ways to respond.
And when you say, “That’s because I never gave it,”
He feels that pull in him again.
An idea strikes him. With a little smirk, he fishes the receipt you gave him earlier out of his pocket. Your name is printed along the top of it, and you blush as he reads it aloud. He likes how it feels in his mouth. And he gets the distinct impression that you like the way it sounds coming from him.
The smirk broadens into a grin, and he pulls out the wad of bills he’d collected at home. He moves closer and holds it out to you. “Had to scrounge this up for you.”
You look pleasantly surprised.
Until he adds, “Even if the service left a lot to be desired.”
“Wait, what?” you ask immediately, eyes going wide again. “What could have made it better?”
It’s adorable. Because you have to know you’re good at your job. You have to know he just wants to push.
As he drops the money into your hand, he loops his fingers around your wrist like he’s going to pull you closer. You jolt, your breath hitching, and he swears he feels the jump of your pulse under his touch. He holds your gaze, grin going sharper when you make no move to pull away. It doesn’t even seem to cross your mind to try.
He says, “A smaller top. Or a short skirt. I’m not picky, sweetheart.”
Your blush deepens somehow.
But something hot flares in your eyes.
And it feels like a victory to him.
Releasing your wrist, he gives a low laugh and walks backward toward the door. After a beat, he says, “Mary.”
“Huh?”
“‘S my name,” he says. Duh.
“What kind of name is that?”
He shrugs. “Mine.”
You don’t leave his mind after that. Not as he gets home and strips out of the wet clothes that still smell like the bar. Not as he collapses into bed with an exhausted grunt.
And not even in the morning. He comes into consciousness slowly, a wan image of your face passing through his mind’s eye.
Yeah. He’s in trouble.