Chapter Text
The bass in Molly’s didn’t just vibrate the floorboards; it rattled the fillings in your teeth.
It was a Saturday night in Woodstock, Vermont, which meant half the town was crammed into the only joint that mattered. The air was a thick, hazy soup of synthetic vape smoke, the smell of stale beer, and the electric ozone tang of over-clocked amps. On stage, a local chromecore band called The Maple Bleeders was shredding through a set, their guitarist literally sparking every time he hit a power chord.
I leaned back against the bar, my elbows resting on the sticky mahogany surface, swirling the ice in my glass. I was wearing my armor: red flannel with the sleeves rolled up to show the ink on my forearms, my dad’s old dog tags, and my mom’s silver rings clinking against the glass. And, of course, the aviators.
Yeah, I was wearing sunglasses inside at 11:00 PM. I knew I looked like a douchebag. I didn’t care. The Top Gun shades were the only thing separating my eyes from the rest of the world. They were a barrier. Behind the dark tint, nobody could see that I was tired. Nobody could see that I’d spent the morning crying in the shower because a song came on the radio that reminded me of her.
"You look like a statue, V. Drink the damn whiskey or give it back."
I looked up. Rita was standing there, wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days. My big sister looked like a goddess of the dive bar underworld. She was five-nine, built like a brick house, and commanded respect from every drunk, merc, and corpo-wannabe in the room.
"I’m savoring it, Rita," I said, my voice barely audible over the screaming vocalist. "It’s called class. You should try it."
Rita snorted, tossing the rag over her shoulder. "Class? You’re wearing a backwards baseball cap and sunglasses in a dark room. You look like you’re about to drop a mixtape in 1990." She reached over the bar, her expression softening just a fraction, and tapped the rim of my sunglasses. "You okay, kid? You’ve been staring at the neon beer sign for twenty minutes."
"I’m peachy," I lied, flashing a grin that showcased my dimples. It was my best weapon. The 'Valerie Wheeler Charm.' It usually worked on everyone. "Just waiting for the mosh pit to open up so I can break a rib."
"Don’t you dare," Rita warned, though she was already moving to serve a guy with a cybernetic jaw who was waving a credit chip. "I’m not explaining to Vanessa why you’re in a cast again."
Vanessa.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. My lock screen was a picture of the three of us—Me, Rita, and Nessie—taken last Christmas. Vanessa was smiling so big her eyes were squinted shut. My North Star.
To: Nessie (11:02 PM)
U good? Doors locked?
From: Nessie (11:03 PM)
Omg yes V. I’m watching a horror holo. Stop mom-ing me. Have fun. Don’t get arrested.
I chuckled, feeling the knot in my chest loosen just a little. She was safe. Rita was running the show. That meant I was technically off the clock. I down the rest of the whiskey, the burn settling warm and heavy in my stomach, and pushed off the bar.
"I’m going for a smoke," I yelled to Rita. She just gave me a thumbs up without looking, effortlessly pouring two beers at once.
I waded through the crowd. It was a sea of bodies—local farm kids in grease-stained coveralls, rich tourists from Night City rocking designer thermal-wear, and the usual Woodstock weirdos. I bumped shoulders, exchanged high-fives, and nodded at people I’d known since kindergarten.
"Hey V! looking fly!"
"Yo Valerie, you catch the game?"
I played the part. I was Valerie Wheeler. Captain of the track team, the girl who could draw anything, the life of the party. I laughed, I winked, I slapped backs. But inside, I felt like I was drifting in deep space. It was that hollow ache, the one that hit you when you were surrounded by people but felt completely invisible.
I needed air. I needed weed.
I pushed toward the back exit, the heavy steel door vibrating from the noise. I shouldered it open and stepped out into the cool Vermont night.
The alley behind Molly’s was quiet, lit only by a flickering blue service light and the distant glow of the town center. It smelled like rain and wet pavement. I pulled my pack of smokes from my flannel pocket, fished out a pre-roll, and stuck it between my lips.
I patted my pockets. Shit. No lighter.
"Fuck me," I muttered, patting my jeans, then my jacket. I had a joint, a desire to get high, and absolutely no way to spark it. Typical.
"Need a light?"
The voice came from the shadows to my left. It was smooth, smoky, with just a hint of a scratch to it. Like velvet dragged over gravel.
I froze, then turned my head.
She was leaning against the brick wall, half-hidden in the darkness until she stepped forward into the pool of blue light. And I swear to god, for a second, my brain just stopped processing data. It was like a system failure.
She was… magnetic. That was the only word for it.
She was shorter than me, maybe five-six, but she held herself like she was ten feet tall. She was wearing a distressed leather jacket over a band tee that had been ripped and pinned back together. But it was the hair that got me. Long, vivid purple hair, shaved on one side in a brutal, beautiful undercut, the rest falling in intricate braids over her shoulder.
She had hazel-blue eyes that looked like they could see right through my cheap sunglasses. And she was looking at me with a smirk that could start a war.
"Cat got your tongue?" she asked, her eyebrow cocking up. She held up a silver Zippo, flipping the lid open with a satisfying clink. The flame danced in the dark.
I swallowed, forcing my reboot. "I… uh. Yeah. Please."
Smooth, Valerie. Real smooth.
She stepped closer. The air between us suddenly felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. She smelled like vanilla, old books, and high-grade ganja. It was intoxicating.
She brought the flame to the end of my joint. I had to lean down, just a little, to meet her. I took a drag, the cherry glowing bright orange, and held the smoke in my lungs before exhaling a long, thick cloud into the night air.
"Thanks," I said, my voice dropping an octave. I took off my sunglasses. It felt wrong to wear them in front of her. I wanted to see her clearly. "You saved my life."
"I doubt that," she teased, snapping the lighter shut. She didn’t step back. She stayed right there, in my personal space. I didn’t want her to move. "But a tragedy was definitely averted. I’m Emily."
"Valerie," I said, extending a hand. "But everyone calls me V."
She took my hand. Her skin was warm, her grip firm but soft. I noticed the silver rings on her fingers—skulls, bands, little occult symbols. Just like mine.
"Valerie," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. She made it sound like a secret. "You look like you were escaping something in there, V."
I let out a breathless laugh, leaning back against the damp brick wall. "Is it that obvious? Just the noise. And the… everything. Sometimes you just need to breathe, you know?"
Emily nodded, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket. She lit one with a practiced ease. "I feel that. I love the music, but the crowd? It’s a lot of energy to process. Especially when you’re new."
"New?" I looked at her, really looked at her. "I thought I didn’t recognize you. Woodstock is a small town. I know everyone’s face, usually. You just move here?"
"Chicago," she said, blowing a stream of smoke toward the sky. "Needed a change of scenery. Less concrete, more trees. Less… bullshit."
"We have plenty of trees," I said, taking another hit of the joint and offering it to her. It was an intimate gesture, sharing a smoke with a stranger in an alley. "And slightly less bullshit. Depends on the day."
She took the joint, her fingers brushing against mine. The contact sent a literal jolt of electricity up my arm. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Holy shit.
"I like trees," she said softly, taking a hit. She passed it back, her eyes locking onto mine. They were intense, intelligent, and a little bit sad. "And I like this town so far. It’s quiet. People leave you alone if you want them to."
"But you’re at a punk show on a Saturday night," I challenged, a playful grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. "That’s not exactly isolation."
"A girl can be lonely and still want to scream along to a bass line," she countered, her smirk returning. "Besides, I heard the bartender makes a killer Old Fashioned."
"My sister," I said proudly. "Rita. She’s the best."
"Runs in the family then?" Emily asked, her eyes dropping to my lips for a split second before flicking back up.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Was she flirting? Or was I just desperate?
"What runs in the family?" I asked, my voice husky.
"Good taste," she said.
I felt a blush creep up my neck, hot and fierce. I covered it by taking a long drag. This girl was dangerous. She had that Chicago edge, that big-city confidence that made me feel like a clumsy farm girl, even though I was the one leaning against the wall looking like a moody James Dean.
"So, Emily from Chicago," I said, trying to regain some ground. "What do you do when you aren't saving damsels in distress with your lighter?"
"I work at the Bijou," she said. "The movie theater on Main."
My eyes lit up. "No way. I live at that place. How have I not seen you?"
"I work the projection booth mostly," she said. "I like it up there. Watching the stories play out, seeing people’s reactions. It’s… safe. Plus, I’m a total film geek. Ask me anything about 20th-century horror, I dare you."
I laughed, shifting my weight so I was facing her fully. "Okay, hotshot. Best slasher villain. Go."
"Easy," she said without hesitation. "Ghostface. Because he’s human. He’s clumsy. He falls over couches and gets punched in the face. It makes him scarier because he’s real. Michael Myers is just a shark on legs. Ghostface is your boyfriend who snapped."
I stared at her. I think I fell in love a little bit right there in the alleyway, amidst the smell of garbage and rain.
"Marry me," I blurted out before I could stop myself.
Emily laughed, a bright, genuine sound that cut through the muffled thumping of the bass from inside. "Buy me a drink first, cowboy."
"I can do that," I said, pushing off the wall. I didn't want this conversation to end. I didn't want to go back inside and lose her in the crowd. "But fair warning, my sister will probably interrogate you. She’s protective."
"I can handle big sisters," Emily said, stomping out her cigarette. She looked at me, her expression turning serious for a moment. "You got a little… something."
She reached out, her thumb brushing against my lower lip. I stopped breathing. Her touch was electric, feather-light. She wiped away a speck of ash, but her hand lingered there for a second longer than necessary. Her eyes were dark, dilated.
The tension was thick enough to choke on. If I leaned in, just six inches, I could taste her. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to press her up against the brick wall and kiss the sarcasm right out of her mouth.
But I froze. The ghost of the past, the fear of being hurt again, locked my muscles.
Emily seemed to sense the hesitation. She pulled her hand back slowly, but the heat remained.
"Shall we?" she asked, her voice soft.
"Yeah," I breathed out. "Let's go."
I opened the door for her, and she slipped past me back into the noise of the bar. As she walked by, I caught that scent again—vanilla and mystery.
I put my sunglasses back on, not to hide the tears this time, but to hide the fact that I was staring at her ass in those tight black jeans.
Don’t screw this up, Valerie, I told myself. Do not screw this up.
I followed her into the purple haze, the music swallowing us whole. For the first time in months, the loneliness didn’t feel quite so heavy. I had a target. I had a mission.
Buy Emily a drink. Make Emily laugh. And maybe, just maybe, figure out why a girl with sad eyes and a fast bike ended up in Woodstock, Vermont.
I caught up to her at the bar, sliding in next to her as she leaned over the counter to flag Rita down.
"Hey Rita!" I shouted over the noise. "Two shots of tequila! The good stuff!"
Rita looked at me, then at Emily, then back at me. A slow, knowing grin spread across her face. She winked.
Yeah. Tonight was going to be interesting.
Rita slammed two shot glasses onto the bar with the precision of a sniper. The amber liquid didn’t even ripple.
"Tequila," Rita announced, her voice cutting through the thrum of the bass. "On the house. Because I haven’t seen V smile like that since she discovered she could torrent horror movies for free."
I felt my face heat up instantly. "Rita, shut up," I groaned, grabbing a lime wedge. "You’re ruining my mysterious vibe."
"Your mysterious vibe expired when you wore pajamas to the grocery store last Tuesday," Rita shot back, but she was grinning. She turned her gaze to Emily, her eyes narrowing in that scanning, protective big-sister way. It was like getting x-rayed by a security drone. "I’m Rita. I run this zoo. If anyone gives you shit, tell me. If she gives you shit"—she pointed a thumb at me—"tell me, and I’ll embarrass her with baby pictures."
Emily didn’t flinch. She leaned her elbows on the bar, looking effortless and cool in a way that made my stomach do gymnastics. "Nice to meet you, Rita. I’m Emily. And don't worry, I think I can handle her. She’s mostly just flannel and hot air."
I gasped, feigning offense. "Excuse me? I am a delight."
"You’re a dork," Emily corrected, clinking her glass against mine. "Cheers, dork."
"Cheers, Hollywood," I retorted.
We threw back the shots. The tequila burned a glorious path down my throat, tasting like bad decisions and good times. I slammed the glass down, shuddering as the warmth hit my stomach. When I looked over, Emily was licking salt off her thumb, her eyes locked on mine.
Jesus Christ.
The way her tongue moved… precise, slow. My brain short-circuited again. I needed to say something cool. Say something witty.
"So," I choked out, my voice cracking slightly. "You want another?"
"I want to get out of here," Emily said, leaning in close so I could hear her over the band’s breakdown. "It’s too loud to talk. And I want to know more about this 'art on the side' thing you mentioned."
I hadn’t mentioned it. Had I? Maybe I mumbled it in the alley. Or maybe she was just that good at reading people.
"You got a car?" she asked.
"Nah. I walked. I live like two miles out. The exercise keeps my ass in check."
Emily smirked, her eyes dropping to scan my body approvingly. "It’s working. Come on. I’ll give you a ride."
We stepped out the front door of Molly’s, leaving the wall of noise behind us. The air on Main Street was crisp and cold, the kind of Vermont chill that nips at your nose. The town looked surreal at night—colonial brick buildings bathed in the soft glow of LED streetlamps, the covered bridge in the distance lit up with neon purple strips.
"Over here," Emily said, jerking her head toward the curb.
Parked in the 'EV Only' spot was the sickest bike I had ever seen. It was a beast—a customized Yaiba Kusanagi, but stripped down and painted a matte black with iridescent purple detailing that shimmered like oil on water. It looked fast, dangerous, and expensive.
"Holy shit," I breathed, walking around it. "This is yours?"
"Built it myself," Emily said, pride coloring her voice. She fished a key fob from her pocket. The bike chirped, and the under-glow lights flared to life, casting a violet halo on the asphalt. "She’s got a turbo mod and a recalibrated suspension for these bumpy-ass country roads. Hop on."
She swung a leg over the seat, the leather of her pants creaking. She looked like an anime protagonist. She grabbed a spare helmet from a storage compartment—matte black with cat ears on top.
"Serious?" I asked, holding up the helmet.
"Don't be a hater, V. It’s aerodynamic."
I slid the helmet on. It smelled like her—vanilla and shampoo. I climbed onto the bike behind her, the seat vibrating as she revved the engine. The sound was a low, guttural growl that resonated right in my crotch.
"Hold on tight," she yelled over her shoulder. "I don’t drive slow."
I didn’t need to be told twice. I wrapped my arms around her waist, pressing my chest against her back. She felt solid, warm. My hands rested on her stomach, just above the belt of her jeans. I could feel her abs tense as she kicked the bike into gear.
We peeled out of the spot, the tires screeching against the pavement.
The ride was a blur of wind and neon. We tore down Route 4, the trees whipping past us like jagged shadows. Woodstock at night was beautiful, a mix of old-world darkness and new-world light, but I barely saw it. I was too focused on the feeling of Emily’s body against mine.
I tightened my grip, my fingers splaying over her leather jacket. I leaned my head forward, resting my chin on her shoulder. I could see her speedometer in the reflection of her mirrors—we were doing ninety.
It felt like flying. It felt like freedom. For the first time since my parents died, since that other person left, I didn’t feel heavy. I felt weightless.
She took the turns with a terrifying grace, leaning the bike so low my sneakers almost scraped the asphalt. I trusted her. I didn’t know why, but I trusted her completely.
We pulled up to my house way too soon. It was a big, drafty Victorian that my parents had bought twenty years ago, now retrofitted with solar shingles and smart-glass windows that were currently dark.
Emily killed the engine. The silence that rushed back in was deafening.
I hopped off, my legs feeling a little jelly-like, and pulled the helmet off. My hair was probably a mess, static-charged and wild. I handed the helmet back to her.
"Nice ride," I said, breathless.
Emily stayed on the bike, kicking the kickstand down but leaving the engine idling in silent mode. She took off her own helmet, shaking out that glorious purple hair. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, her eyes bright.
"Nice passenger," she countered. "You hold on tight. I like that."
The sexual tension slammed into me like a freight train. It was heavy, thick, palpable. Standing there on my gravel driveway, under the floodlight of the garage, I felt exposed.
"So," I said, scuffing my boot against a rock. "This is me."
"This is you," she repeated. She looked at the house. "Big place for three girls."
"It’s… yeah. It’s a lot. But it’s home." I looked at her, suddenly desperate to keep her there. "Do you… do you want to come in? We have leftover pizza. And I think Vanessa is asleep, so we can raid the good snacks."
Emily bit her lip, looking at the front door, then back at me. She looked torn.
"I can't," she said, and my heart sank. But then she smiled, soft and genuine. "I have an early shift at the theater tomorrow. Matinee of The Lost Boys. If I don't prep the reels tonight, the projector glitches out."
"Right," I said, trying to mask my disappointment. "Work. The bane of existence."
"But," she said, leaning forward over the handlebars. "I’m off at six."
"Six," I repeated. "Six is a good number."
"Meet me there?" she asked. "I can show you the booth. Maybe we can watch a movie after hours? I have the keys."
"Are you asking me on a date, Emily?" I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the mailbox, trying to regain my composure.
"I’m asking you to watch a movie," she teased, revving the engine slightly. "If it turns into a date, that’s entirely up to your behavior."
"I’ll be on my best behavior," I lied.
"I hope not," she said.
She winked. Actually winked. Then she slammed the visor of her helmet down, kicked the bike into gear, and spun around in a tight circle, gravel spraying behind her. She tore off down the road, a streak of purple light vanishing into the dark.
I stood there for a full minute, just staring at the empty road, my heart pounding a rhythm against my ribs. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
"Holy shit," I whispered to the trees.
I turned and walked up the porch steps, unlocking the front door. The house was quiet. The hallway light was left on—Rita’s doing—casting a warm yellow glow on the family photos lining the wall.
I crept up the stairs, avoiding the third step that always squeaked. I peeked into Vanessa’s room. She was passed out, tangled in her blankets, her holo-projector still humming softly, displaying a rotating image of a nebula. I tiptoed in, turned it off, and gently pulled the duvet up over her shoulder.
"Night, Nessie," I whispered.
I went to my room—the attic space I’d claimed years ago. It was a chaotic sanctuary. Sketches taped to the slanted walls, stacks of old DVDs, clothes piled on the chair. My drafting table sat by the window, covered in charcoal dust and pencils.
I flopped onto my bed, not bothering to take off my shoes yet. I pulled out my phone.
To: Rita (11:45 PM)
I’m home. Alive. She’s real, right? I didn’t hallucinate her?
From: Rita (11:46 PM)
She’s real. And she rides a Kusanagi. Don’t screw this up, V. Also, you owe me for the tequila.
I grinned at the ceiling. I rolled over, hugging my pillow, smelling the faint trace of vanilla on my flannel where she’d touched me.
My chest still ached. The old wound was still there, the scar tissue from the one who left without a goodbye. But tonight, for the first time in a long time, the ache felt… manageable. It felt smaller.
I closed my eyes, picturing hazel-blue eyes and a purple undercut.
"Six o'clock," I mumbled to the empty room.
I sat up, suddenly restless. I couldn't sleep. Not yet. The energy from the ride was still buzzing under my skin. I walked over to my drafting table and clicked on the lamp. The stark white light illuminated a blank sheet of paper.
I picked up a piece of charcoal.
I didn’t think about what I was doing. I just let my hand move. The curve of a jawline. The sharp, aggressive line of a shaved undercut. The softness of lips that had smirked at me in an alleyway.
I sketched until my fingers were black with dust and the moon was high in the sky. When I finally stopped, Emily stared back at me from the paper. It wasn't perfect—I couldn't quite capture the spark in her eyes—but it was close.
I wrote Velocity in the corner, small and messy.
I stripped out of my clothes, tossing the flannel onto the pile, and crawled under my covers. As I drifted off, I wasn't crying. I was planning what to wear to a movie theater.
The next morning, the house was a war zone of pancakes and panic.
"V! Have you seen my neural-link charger?" Vanessa screamed from the living room.
I stumbled down the stairs, wearing an oversized t-shirt and boxers, my hair a bird's nest. "It’s plugged into the toaster, Nessie. Where you left it."
"Why was it in the toaster?"
"Because you were trying to make 'smart toast' yesterday, remember? And you shorted out the kitchen."
Vanessa ran past me, grabbing the charger. She looked frantic. "Right. Okay. I’m late for the holo-meet with my study group. You’re the best, V! Love you!"
"Love you too, gremlin," I yawned, heading for the coffee pot.
The kitchen was sunny and bright, conflicting with my slight tequila hangover. I poured a mug of black coffee—synthesized bean sludge, but it did the trick—and leaned against the counter.
The house felt empty without Rita. She slept until noon on Sundays. It was just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Vanessa arguing about calculus in the other room.
I looked at the clock. 10:00 AM.
Eight hours until six.
I needed to kill time. I needed to not obsess.
I decided to do what I always did when I was anxious: run.
I chugged the coffee, threw on my running gear—thermal leggings, a tank top, and my beat-up sneakers—and headed out.
I ran the perimeter of the property, then pushed further, into the woods behind our house. The trees here were old growth, massive maples and oaks that had stood since before the Collapse, before the Corps took over everything. The air smelled of damp earth and pine needles.
I pushed my body hard, feeling the burn in my lungs, the slap of my feet against the dirt path. Left, right, left, right. It was meditative. It was the only time my brain shut up.
But today, the rhythm was different.
Em-i-ly. Em-i-ly.
I sprinted up the final hill, cresting the ridge that overlooked the town. I stopped, hands on my knees, gasping for air. From here, Woodstock looked like a toy village. I could see the river winding through it, silver in the sunlight. I could see the spire of the church.
And I could see the marquee of the Bijou Theater on Main Street.
Even from here, I could see the letters being changed by a tiny figure on a ladder.
THE LOST BOYS - MATINEE
TONIGHT: SPECIAL SCREENING
I smiled, sweat dripping down my nose.
"Okay," I said to myself, wiping my face with my shirt. "Game on."
I ran back down the hill, faster this time. I had to shower. I had to figure out what the hell "movie date casual" looked like. And I had to make sure I didn't smell like weed and desperation when I walked into that lobby.
When I got back inside, Vanessa was in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. She looked up, milk dripping from her chin.
"You’re in a good mood," she observed, eyeing me suspiciously. "You’re sweating, but you’re smiling. Usually, you look like you want to murder the sun after a run."
"I met someone," I said, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.
Vanessa dropped her spoon. It clattered loudly against the ceramic bowl. "Shut up. No way. Who?"
"Her name is Emily," I said, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. "She works at the theater. She rides a bike."
"Is she hot?"
"Vanessa! You’re fifteen!"
"So? I have eyes, V. Is she hot?"
I sighed, leaning my head back against the cool metal of the fridge. "Yeah, Nessie. She’s really hot."
Vanessa pumped a fist in the air. "Yes! Finally! You’re going to stop moping around listening to sad indie rock!"
"I do not mope!"
"You mope. You are the Mayor of Mope City. You have the key to the city. It’s sad." She stood up, looking unexpectedly serious. "V, you deserve this. Okay? Mom and Dad would want you to be happy. Rita wants you to be happy. I want you to be happy."
I felt a lump form in my throat. I walked over and ruffled her blonde braids, ignoring her protests.
"Thanks, kid," I whispered. "Now, help me pick out an outfit. I have a date at six."
Vanessa’s eyes went wide. "Code Red! To the closet! We have work to do!"
She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the stairs. For a second, looking at her determination, I felt that fierce protectiveness surge up again. I would die for this kid. I would kill for this kid.
But maybe, just maybe, it was okay to do something for myself for once.
I let her drag me upstairs, laughter bubbling up in my chest.
Six o'clock couldn't come fast enough.