The Velvet Underbelly wasn’t the kind of club that people stumbled upon by accident. Nestled between a perpetually closed laundromat and a taco stand that only seemed to sell hot dogs, it was the type of place that oozed charm if your definition of charm included sticky floors and a faint whiff of regret. Lena loved it. She loved the grimy walls plastered with band stickers, the way the bathroom door never quite closed all the way, and, most of all, the music that rattled her ribcage like a loose snare drum.
It was a Thursday night, and Lena had squeezed herself into her favorite ripped fishnets and a leather jacket that smelled vaguely like spilled beer and triumph. She’d just finished screaming along to the last set when she spotted him.
He wasn’t her type. Too tall, too clean—his jeans didn’t even have a single artful tear. His hair was cut neatly, like he hadn’t spent a single moment contemplating the merits of dyeing it black or shaving it off entirely. And yet, there he was, leaning against the bar like he belonged, his eyes darting around the room with a mixture of amusement and confusion.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, sliding into the barstool next to him. She wasn’t sure why she spoke to him, maybe it was the two-dollar PBR she’d just chugged, or maybe it was the way his smile tugged up at the corners, like he was in on some cosmic joke she didn’t know about.
“Same thing as you, I guess,” he replied, his voice warm and low. “Bad decisions and good music.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look like the bad decision type.”
He laughed, a deep, unpolished sound that made her grin despite herself. “And you look like the kind of person who’d judge me for it.”
“Touché.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Lena.”
“Eddie,” he said, shaking her hand. His grip was firm but not crushing, and she immediately hated how much she liked it.
Over the next hour, they talked about everything from their favorite bands (he liked The Clash, she was more of a Dead Kennedys girl) to the merits of pineapple on pizza (she thought it was sacrilege; he called it “a misunderstood masterpiece”). She learned he was in town for work—some kind of fancy tech job that sounded boring as hell to her but paid well enough to fund his record collection. He learned she played bass in a punk band called “Rat Vomit,” which he thought was both disgusting and hilarious.
By the time the final band of the night came on, Lena was dragging Eddie onto the dance floor, his protests drowned out by the opening chords of a blistering guitar solo. He wasn’t much of a dancer—too stiff, too self-conscious—but she didn’t care. She threw herself into the music, her wild hair and spiked bracelets catching the dim, flickering lights. Slowly, he loosened up, his movements less awkward, his grin more reckless.
When the set ended, they stumbled out into the cool Los Angeles night, sweaty and breathless. “So,” Eddie said, leaning against the brick wall, “do you do this every night?”
Lena smirked, lighting a cigarette. “Only when I’m not busy breaking hearts and smashing the patriarchy.”
He laughed again, that same deep sound that made her stomach flip. “Well, if you’re free tomorrow, maybe you could give me a tour of your favorite dive bars?”
She pretended to think it over, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Only if you promise to wear something more tragic. That outfit’s way too put-together.”
“Deal,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I’ll even throw in a fake tattoo.”
“Make it a skull,” she said, flicking her cigarette to the curb. “I’m a sucker for cliches.”
As they walked off into the night, Lena couldn’t help but laugh. She’d come for the music and stayed for the bad decisions, but maybe—just maybe—this one wouldn’t be so bad after all.