wrong type, right damn girl ✮ tommy lee x oc
summery: Tommy shows up to rehearsal ready to rip. Just another Friday night with the band and whatever chaos follows. But the night hits different. Not louder. Not wilder. Just... sharper. Something gets under his skin, and for once, it’s not the music. It’s got a black mullet and a laugh he can’t unhear.
warnings: alcohol, dru6s, s3x (unprotected), strong language, emotional angst, toxic dynamics.
The cramped rehearsal studio reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and cheap beer, a perfect den for four scrawny misfits chasing a dream louder than their battered instruments. Nikki barked orders between cigarette puffs, like a wolf leading his pack.
“Vince, can you please focus for two fuckin' seconds?” he snapped, his eyes drifting toward the doorway.
“Relax, man” Vince grinned, tossing a wink at the girls hanging by the door. “Gotta give the fans a show, right?”
He just tightened his grip on his guitar, eyes sharp and unamused. When Vince’s distraction crossed the line, Nikki’s patience snapped.
“They’re not here to watch you play dress-up.”
Before Vince could protest, Mick stepped forward, grabbed the nearest girl’s arm, and practically shoved her toward the door.
“What the hell, Mick?!” Vince said, his cocky smile faltering.
“Not now, Vince.” Mick’s voice was low but deadly serious.
“Sorry ladies, private session tonight!" the girls stumbled out, the door slamming shut behind them.
The noise of the door closing faded, replaced by the raw pulse of the drums. Tommy’s sticks hit the skins with reckless energy, each beat a release, a fight against the chaos swirling inside him.
The moment his sticks struck the drumhead, something shifted.
The scattered mess of four lost souls suddenly snapped into focus.
When they played, they were something else.
The noise wasn’t just noise anymore.
Nikki’s bass lines locked tight with Mick’s jagged guitar riffs, Vince’s voice slicing through the room like a blade. Tommy’s drums weren’t just keeping time; they were the heartbeat, the glue holding it all together.
In those moments, they were more than just a band, they were a pack. Each note, each rhythm, a conversation. They weren’t perfect, but when the music took over, it felt like they were made for this. Made for each other. Like they’d been searching for one another, the missing pieces finally found.
And maybe, just maybe, this was the only thing that made sense.
The rest of rehearsal tore through the evening like a goddamn freight train. Tight, loud, unrelenting. Every beat, every scream, every screeching riff hit like a shared heartbeat. Like they were built to be each other’s shadow.
The final chord rang out, hanging in the air like smoke. They let it breathe. Then...
“All right, enough,” Vince said, already halfway to the door. “It’s friday. We going out or what?”
Tommy leaned back on his stool, twirling a drumstick between his fingers, trying not to look too eager.
“Where?” Mick grunted, wiping down his guitar.
Vince turned, eyes lit. “Whiskey, obviously. The girls, the booze, the music. What are we gonna do, sit around here like fucking losers?”
Tommy hesitated, just for a second.
It had been a week since the Roxy. A week since she looked at him like he was gum on her boot. Since he tried to flirt like an idiot, and got iced out like he was some nobody off the street.
He thought about throwing the Roxy into the mix. Casual, like, “hey, maybe we check it out again, see what bands are playing.”
But the words never left his mouth.
What the fuck am I doing? he thought, jaw tight as he stood up. Getting all twisted over a girl who doesn’t give a single shit about me?
He was Tommy. Fuckin’. Lee. Girls threw themselves at him nightly! And here he was, obsessing over the one who didn’t. Classic romantic shit, for fuck' sake.
“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket. “Let’s go.”
But as they filed out of the studio, every step toward the Whiskey felt like one in the wrong direction.
_
The neon lights of the Whiskey a Go Go spilled across the sidewalk in jagged streaks of red, catching the dented hood of Mick’s old car as the guys tumbled out, loud, amped, and already riding the chaos like a wave.
“Now this,” Vince declared, arms wide like a preacher on stage, “is what friday nights are fucking made for.”
“Pretty sure that’s cocaine and bad decisions,” Nikki muttered, flicking his cigarette to the curb.
Inside, the place was already pulsing.
Guitars screamed from the stage, smoke curled into the air like restless spirits, and bodies moved in a messy, sweaty rhythm that reeked of youth and too much cheap perfume.
Tommy followed behind, hands shoved in the pockets of his ripped jeans, eyes scanning the crowd before he could stop himself.
He told himself he wasn’t looking for anyone.
Mick snagged a drink like a ghost, silent, sudden, efficient, like always, while Vince disappeared into a knot of girls before anyone could blink.
Tommy and Nikki elbowed their way to the bar. The music was loud enough to rattle your teeth, but that was half the charm.
“Two whiskeys, and whatever’s cold” Nikki shouted to the bartender, slapping some crumpled bills on the sticky counter. The guy nodded, unfazed.
Drinks in hand, they leaned back against the bar for half a second before Nikki’s attention locked onto a tall brunette in fishnets and a vintage Bowie tee. Within moments, he was leaning in, that shit-eating grin of his doing half the work.
Tommy watched him work for a beat, amused. Same old Nikki.
“Gonna give you some space to spit your game,” Tommy muttered, not that Nikki heard him.
He turned on his heel, dodging a couple making out, and made his way toward the pit in front of the stage. The floor vibrated under his boots, and the band onstage hit him like a brick wall.
The crowd pulsed like a heartbeat gone mad, bodies slamming together under strobe lights and cheap beer haze. Sweat, noise, chaos. Perfect.
Just drinks. Just noise. Just losing himself in the mess.
Because just as Tommy tipped his head back and let that fleeting sense of peace settle into his bones - he saw her.
She wasn’t behind a bar, she wasn’t polishing glasses or pretending not to hate everyone around her.
Tonight, she was off the clock and right there at the fucking Whiskey, laughing with a small group of friends like the whole world didn’t shift slightly just by her being in it.
And she looked... different.
Her signature mullet was still there, wild and unapologetic, but she’d actually put effort into herself tonight. Thick black eyeliner, a dark cherry lip, chains and rings and some kind of sheer top layered over a tight tank that left little to the imagination. Her short jeans looked painted on. Her boots screamed “don’t touch me unless you’re brave enough to bleed.”
She didn’t look like the girl who rolled her eyes at him last week. She didn’t look like someone who hated the scene.
She looked like she belonged to it.
And that.
That pissed him off more than it should’ve.
What the hell was this? She had fed him that “rockstars are a walking cliché” bullshit, told him she didn’t play into the whole act, and now she was out here, all dressed up like the fucking poster child for it?
He clenched his jaw, knocking back the rest of his drink like it could wash the irritation out of his system. Spoiler: it didn’t.
Here he was.
Glued to the sight of the one who didn’t even look in his direction.
She didn’t even glance his way.
And that should’ve been fine... hell, better even. Wasn’t that what he wanted? No drama. No strings. Just drinks, noise, chaos.
But instead, Tommy stood there like a fucking idiot, frozen in the middle of the pit as bodies crashed around him, wondering if this was karma biting him in the ass for every girl he’d forgotten the name of five minutes after zippering up.
He forced himself to look away, but it lasted all of three seconds.
Because then she laughed again, head tilted back, eyes sparkling like she hadn’t spent the last few weeks looking at him like he wasn’t the smudge on a glass she kept polishing, hoping it would finally disappear.
Who was that guy next to her?
Too close.
Way too close.
Too basic.
Laughing at whatever she’d said like he had a right.
Tommy’s hand tightened around the empty cup until the plastic gave a weak crunch. Fuck this.
He wasn’t jealous.
No way.
He barely knew her.
She didn’t owe him shit.
So why did his chest feel tight, like he’d swallowed a live wire?
Why did he suddenly want to get her attention more than he wanted another drink?
Just as Tommy was about to drown in his own head, Nikki yanked him by the arm like he was collecting a debt.
“What’s going on here?” Nikki barked, eyes sharp, though that crooked smirk was already tugging at his lips, the kind that said you better snap the fuck out of it.
Tommy blinked, then shook his head, pissed at himself for zoning out. “Nothing. Just... fuck it.”
Nikki chuckled, low and rough. “That’s what I wanna hear. It’s Friday. Time to drink like we’re not waking up.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, just dragged Tommy through the crowd, past the flashing lights and grinding bodies. Their usual corner at the bar was already swarmed, girls orbiting like sleek predators, all legs and lipstick, eyes gleaming with every flavor of bad idea.
Vince was soaking up the attention, grinning like a damn king. Tommy? He grabbed a bottle, slammed it back, and said screw it to all the noise in his head.
Nikki elbowed him. “Quit spacing out, man. Drink up. Tonight’s ours.”
Tommy grinned, spit out a little Jack, and raised his bottle.
Hours later, Tommy had already "erased" Hannah from his mind.
The crowd was thick, the noise louder, and their eyes never met. Instead, he was tangled up with the usual blonde with a wild laugh that cut through the chaos like a siren.
She was loud, she was easy, and tonight Tommy didn’t give a damn.
No drama.
No strings.
Just one more night to lose himself in the mess of flashing lights and drunken faces.
They shuffled through the sticky line for the bathroom, with random songs playing in the background, barely noticed amid the chatter and clinking bottles. Tommy took a long drag from his bottle, letting the burn roll down his throat.
“So,” the blonde said, flicking her hair and flashing a crooked smile, “you play in a band or something?”. Obviously fuckin' clueless girl.
Tommy grinned, feeling the familiar rush of cocky charm. “Yeah, something like that. We make noise, smash some strings, get people to lose their shit.”
She laughed. “Sounds like a wild ride. You think you’ll make it big?”
He shrugged, the weight of whatever was bothering him earlier dissolving into the haze of booze and music. “Maybe. Doesn’t really matter tonight.”
The conversation drifted into easy territory: favorite songs, last night’s party, dumb jokes about groupies and bad tattoos. Tommy let it roll over him like the roar of the crowd outside. No promises, no plans, just the reckless freedom of a night with nothing to lose.
As they edged closer to the door, Tommy caught Nikki’s eye across the room. Nikki was already five drinks deep, laughing with some girls, the spark in his eyes daring Tommy to finally let go.
And maybe tonight, Tommy thought, he just would.
But as Tommy glanced over toward Nikki, something made him pause.
Nikki was deep in conversation with a tall brunette... a friend of Hannah’s. Tommy couldn’t see her face clearly from this angle, but then he caught sight of a little jet-black curl peeking just behind the girl’s shoulder.
It was that unmistakable mullet Hannah always wore, even if he couldn’t see her face.
For a moment, everything else blurred. The noise, the crowd, the blonde’s laugh. As Tommy locked onto that small detail, caught between disbelief and a faint spark of hope.
“Hey, are you listening to me?!” the blonde snapped, breaking through his daze.
Tommy blinked and forced a grin. "Yeah, yeah, I’m listening. Just a little drunk," he lied smoothly, even though his eyes kept darting back, searching for that curl he’d caught sight of earlier.
But the brunette and Nikki were gone now, swallowed by the crowd, and the little jet-black curl had disappeared with them.
Still, Tommy’s mind refused to let go. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked back, hoping to catch another glimpse, but it was like chasing a ghost in the noise and chaos of the night.
Suddently, Tommy and the blonde stumbled into the bathroom like it was the only place that made sense in the madness of the night. They wasted no time: clothes got messy, lips got bruised, and the world outside faded into a blur. Tommy’s body went through the motions, but his mind was nowhere near by, tangled up in thoughts that had nothing to do with the girl in front of him.
When it was over, the blonde smoothed down her ridiculously tight dress, checking herself out in the cracked mirror like she was ready to headline the night. She slipped out of the girls’ bathroom with a confident sway, unaware of the chaos she’d just started.
Meanwhile, Hannah had joined the line for the bathroom, completely unaware that Tommy was still inside. Spotting the door swing open, she thought it was free and slipped inside without hesitation.
Only to find Tommy, half undressed and caught mid-exit. His zipper down, belt undone, hair a mess, standing there with his shirt half off.
She froze for a moment, then gave a mockin' grin, eyes glinting with mischief and a hint of disappointment.
She raised her hands, like saying “Okay, sorry for crashing whatever this is.”
Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Tommy standing there, half-naked and speechless.
Tommy cursed under his breath, fumbling to zip up his pants and buckle his belt as fast as he could. Shirt half on, hair still wild, he pushed open the bathroom door and took off after her.
She spun around sharply, eyes blazing.
“What the fuck do you want from me? You don’t owe me an explanation for your shitty pig behavior, rockstar”
Tommy froze for a second, caught off guard by the bluntness. She didn’t wait for a reply, turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd like a snake.
He stared after her, heart pounding like a fist in his chest, but the words in his head were all tangled, slipping away like smoke through his fingers.
He wanted to say something.
Anything.
But the booze had fogged his mouth and dulled his thoughts.
Before he could gather himself, Vince appeared beside him, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“Dude, I gotta say, that was some killer move back there! Didn’t know you had it in you!”
Tommy blinked, confusion and embarrassment flooding his face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Vince laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “The bathroom, man! You totally owned it.”
Tommy groaned, the last thing he needed was Vince’s clueless hype right now. But the music was calling again, and the night wasn’t over yet.
He let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face like it could wipe away the booze, the shame, the lingering echo of Hannah’s voice. Then he dropped down onto the bench beside their usual table, now nearly empty, abandoned in favor of the chaos around them.
Only Mick was still there, nursing a beer, eyes flicking up as Tommy sat. He raised a brow, not saying a word.
Heartbroken Tommy? Not exactly new.
He fell hard, fast, and often, but usually it didn’t stick for long.
But this quiet? This wrecked? That was rare.
Tommy didn’t bother explaining. He grabbed a half-finished bottle from the table, stared into it like maybe it held the answer to anything at all, then leaned back with a sigh that felt like it came from somewhere way deeper than his chest.
Around him, the party raged on, lights flashing, people screaming, drinks spilling.
But for once, Tommy didn’t feel like playing along.
He took a drink. It didn’t help, but it didn’t hurt either.
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