The air inside The Hideout hung thick with stale beer, smoke, and the lingering ozone of overdriven amps. Mona could still feel the post show hum vibrating in her bones—that specific kind of adrenaline that only came from forty-five minutes of wrangling a four-string bass in front of a crowd. She leaned her Fender against a stack of crates backstage and wiped a streak of sweat from her brow. Her ears still buzzed with the ghost of the final chord, but as she stepped into the main bar to claim a well earned drink, that’s when she saw her. Ollie—bathed in the amber glow of a flickering Budweiser sign.
Mona didn’t know her well, but she recognized the look: the “polite but trapped” expression every girl in Hawkins had perfected. A guy loomed over her, one arm braced on the rail like he owned the place, his body boxing her in. His voice was too loud, his grin too confident, his face too close.
Mona didn’t hesitate. Her boots hit the sticky floor with steady intent. Before the guy could finish whatever mediocre sentence he was mid-way through, Mona slipped a leather-clad arm around Ollie’s shoulders and pulled her close. "There you are—I’ve been looking everywhere for you," she said, her tone slicing through the noise like a blade. Then she turned that same edge on him, eyes cold and flat. "She’s with me. Step off—you’re making her uncomfortable."
/@cynicalkilljoy
