Chapter Text
Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge
Got a big plan, this mindset maybe its right
At the right place and right time, maybe tonight
And the whisper or handshake sending a sign
Wanna make out and kiss hard, wait never mind
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪ ༘⋆✮
Belly
The energy in the VIP section is electric, a sharp contrast to the mild annoyance prickling at the back of my neck. Beside me, Taylor is practically bouncing up and down, her hands gripped tight around the railing as she scans the stage with the predatory focus of a woman who knows exactly what’s coming.
"Belly, stop looking like you’re waiting for a root canal," she yells over the pre-show hum of the crowd. "I spent six months sucking up to his management for these passes. Just look at the stage and try to enjoy the view."
I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. "I’ve seen the posters, Taylor. He looks like every other guy who thinks a leather jacket and a brooding stare are a personality. He’s going to spend the whole night smirking and breaking hearts."
Taylor just grins, unbothered. "Oh, he’ll break them, alright. But you’ll thank me for the heartbreak."
Then, the house lights plunge into total darkness.
The roar of the crowd comes as a wall of sound that vibrates right through the soles of my shoes and settles deep in my chest. Heavy, distorted bass starts to thrum—a slow, rhythmic pulse that feels like a warning. Shadows move on stage, silhouettes of the band taking their places, but the center remains a void.
A single spotlight cuts through the haze, and there he is.
Conrad Fucking Fisher.
He’s hunched over a battered Fender Telecaster, his head down as he coaxes a screaming, melodic wail from the strings. For a second, I can only see the sharp line of his jaw and the messy dark hair falling over his forehead—the kind of thick, effortless waves that look like they were meant for tangling fingers in and pulling back.
Then he steps into the full glare of the lights, and my breath simply hitches in my throat.
He isn't just a rock star; he’s a magnet. His eyes are a piercing, crystalline green, catching every reflection of the stage lights until they seem to glow with a life of their own. He looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days, a dark shadow of stubble tracing his jawline and making him look rugged, exhausted, and dangerous all at once.
He tilts his head back to reach the mic, and my gaze follows the hard, strained line of his neck. It’s thick and veiny, pulsing with the effort of the song. He’s wearing an open V-neck shirt made of a black, gossamer material that’s almost entirely see-through. It leaves nothing to the imagination, showcasing the sprawling ink that covers his chest—dark, intricate tattoos that disappear beneath the waist of his low-slung jeans.
His hands move with a devastating, fluid precision. His fingers are long and slender, adorned with heavy silver rings that catch the light as they dance across the fretboard.
I came here expecting a fuckboy. I didn’t expect to feel like the air had been sucked out of the room. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from the bass, but from the realisation that I can't look away.
Conrad is a force of nature under the lights, lost in the bridge of a song that sounds like a fever dream. His head is thrown back, the thick cords of his neck strained as he hits a rasping high note, his long fingers blurring against the neck of his guitar.
He looks exactly like the person Taylor described, and everything I feared—untouchable, arrogant, and devastatingly beautiful.
Then, as the song crashes into a heavy, rhythmic breakdown, he levels his head. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of a ring-clad hand and scans the front row.
His green eyes move like a searchlight, skimming over the screaming faces and the flashing phones until they hit the VIP barrier. Until they hit me.
The shift is instantaneous. The practiced, rock-star smolder falters, replaced by a sharp, focused intensity that cuts right through my defenses. He doesn't look away. Instead, he leans into the mic, his gaze locked onto mine with such deliberate intent that the thousands of people between us seem to vanish.
A slow, predatory smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth—the dark stubble shadowing a look that is far too knowing. He shifts his stance, his sheer shirt clinging to the tattoos on his chest as he steps closer to the edge of the stage, looming over the railing.
He plays the next chord without looking at the guitar, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s a challenge. It’s "fuckboy" energy turned up to a lethal frequency, and for the first time, I realise Taylor was wrong.
He isn't just breaking hearts tonight. He’s hunting.
✩°｡⋆⸜ ♪ ༘⋆✮
Conrad
The adrenaline is a familiar high, coursing through my veins like liquid fire. Every time I hit the stage, it’s the same—the roar of the crowd, the heat of the spots, the weight of the Telecaster against my hip. I’m vibrating with it, lost in the distortion and the sweat.
But mid-chorus, something shifts.
It’s a low hum, a static that doesn't belong to the amps. I reach up with my left hand and adjust my in-ear monitor, thinking the mix is peaking or there’s some interference from the soundboard. But the buzzing doesn't stop. It isn't in my ears—it’s deeper. It’s a rhythmic, magnetic pull centered right in my sternum, tugging at me, demanding I look.
I keep playing, my fingers moving on autopilot, while my eyes start to roam. I scan the sea of blurred faces, the swaying arms, the neon glow of phone screens.
Then, the searchlight in my chest snaps into place.
She’s standing right at the VIP barrier, framed by the chaos but looking like the only still thing in the room. The moment our eyes lock, the air leaves my lungs in a silent rush. The magnetic hum in my chest flares into a roar.
Her face is a revelation—soft skin flushed from the heat of the arena, dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She isn't screaming like the others; she’s just looking at me, her expression a mix of guarded curiosity and something that looks dangerously like defiance. Her eyes are wide, dark, and deep enough to drown in, tracking my every move with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I feel a sharp, heavy thrum in my lower belly. My grip on the guitar neck tightens, my knuckles white under the silver of my rings. I’ve had thousands of women look at me like I’m a god, but the way she’s looking at me... it feels like she’s seeing through the leather, the ink, and the ego to the parts of me I usually keep locked in the green room.
I can't look away. I don't want to. I lean into the microphone, my voice dropping an octave, singing the lyrics directly into the space between us. A reckless, desperate need takes root in my gut, override the script of the show.
I don’t know who she is, and I don’t care who she’s with. The vibration in my chest is a command I can't ignore.
I have to get her backstage. I’m not letting that face disappear into the night when the house lights come up.
The final chord of the bridge rings out, a wall of feedback that vibrates through my bones. I’m breathing hard, sweat slicking my skin, and the adrenaline is a jagged, electric hum under my ribs. Usually, this is where I’d close my eyes and let the roar of the crowd wash over me.
But I can't look away from the girl at the barrier.
She’s still there, her face a pale, defiant moon in the sea of chaos. She hasn't moved, hasn't cheered. She’s just watching me with those dark, questioning eyes, and the magnetic pull in my chest is becoming a physical ache. I need to know what she tastes like; I need to know why she looks at me like she’s already figured out my worst secrets.
I step back from the mic, the guitar slung low against my hip. I catch Mike’s eye, my head of security, who’s already positioned at the edge of the stage, his arms crossed over his chest. He knows my rhythms, knows when I’m hunting.
I don't make it subtle.
I point a ring-clad finger directly at her. I don’t smile. I don’t give her the rock-star wink. I just lock eyes with her, a silent, heavy promise passing between us, and then I jerk my thumb back toward the stage door.
Get her.
Mike nods once, his massive frame already shifting through the gap in the speakers to reach the VIP line.
I turn back to the band, signaling the drummer for the final count-in of the next song. The lights shift to a deep, bruised purple, and I lean into the microphone, my voice a low, gravelly rasp that feels like it’s vibrating right against her skin.
"This one is for the girl who thinks she knows me," I mutter, the words intended only for her.
I strike the opening riff, but my mind is already in the dressing room. I can already feel the shift in the air, the way the temperature is going to skyrocket the second she walks through that door.
Forty more minutes. I just have to get through forty more minutes before I find out who she is.