The Neon Underground

It was a Friday night. Julian had fallen asleep early, the lingering fatigue of the concussion pulling him under.

Roxy didn't hesitate. She dug into her duffel bag, pulling out her ripped black skinny jeans, a vintage band tee, and her heavy eyeliner. She strapped on her combat boots, slung her beat-up guitar case over her shoulder, and snuck out of the penthouse.

The Neon Underground was exactly what the name implied. It was a gritty, graffiti-covered indie music venue located in a damp, subterranean basement on the wrong side of the tracks. The air inside was thick, smelling of stale beer, sweat, and the sharp ozone of blown amplifiers.

This was her world. This was real.

Roxy pushed through the sweaty, packed crowd, feeling the heavy, comforting thrum of the bass vibrating in her chest. She found Jax and the rest of her band near the stage.

"Look who decided to slum it with the peasants," Jax grinned, tossing a half-empty beer bottle into a trash can. Jax was the lead guitarist—tall, covered in chaotic tattoos, and perpetually vibrating with chaotic energy. He threw his arm around Roxy’s shoulders, pulling her into a tight, familiar side-hug. "Thought your billionaire sugar daddy locked you in a tower for good."

Roxy flinched, shoving Jax’s arm away. "Shut up, Jax. The contract is almost up. I'm just playing the part so we can get into the studio next week."

"Whatever you say, rockstar. Let's get up there and melt some faces."

Roxy climbed onto the small, sticky stage, strapping her guitar across her chest. She stepped up to the microphone, looking out over the sea of dark clothing and pierced faces. She closed her eyes, letting the gritty, cynical anger that defined her music wash over her, burying the confusing, soft feelings she had been experiencing in the penthouse.

She launched into the first song. It was a loud, aggressive anthem about corporate greed and selling your soul. She poured every ounce of her guilt into the vocals, screaming the lyrics until her throat was raw, sweat dripping down her face. Jax was right beside her, their shoulders bumping as they shredded through the chorus, sharing a microphone for the backup vocals.

It was raw. It was authentic.

She opened her eyes during the bridge.

Standing at the very back of the venue, entirely silhouetted by the red exit sign, was a man who did not belong in the Neon Underground.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal topcoat over a dark sweater. He stood completely still, an immovable monolith amidst the thrashing, chaotic crowd.

Julian.

Roxy’s fingers slipped on the fretboard, hitting a discordant note. Her heart stopped.

Julian wasn't smiling. The soft, doting amnesiac she had left sleeping in the penthouse was nowhere to be found. His posture was rigidly tense, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle feathering from across the room. His stormy gray eyes were locked onto her, but they weren't warm.

They were burning with a dark, intense, terrifyingly primal possessiveness. And his gaze wasn't just on her. It flicked to Jax, who was currently leaning into Roxy’s space, sharing the microphone, his tattooed arm brushing against hers.

Julian’s hands slowly curled into fists at his sides.

Roxy finished the set in a blind panic. She barely registered the cheers of the crowd. She unplugged her guitar, her hands shaking, and bolted off the side of the stage, pushing her way through the narrow, sticker-covered hallway toward the cramped dressing room.

She needed to pack her gear. She needed to figure out an excuse.

She threw her guitar case onto the battered velvet sofa. Before she could turn around, the dressing room door was shoved open, hitting the wall with a loud, violent *crack*.