Wandering down the clogged Melbourne city street, I smiled when I heard the docile tones of a busker playing a cover of The Doors’ song ‘Riders on the Storm.’

Crossing the flow of foot traffic, my grin widened when I caught sight of my best friend, Dee. He was standing at his favorite busking spot, guitar in hand, playing to a group of pretty girls who’d stopped to check him out. Typical.

When he saw me coming, he winked. I hung back, waiting as he finished playing to his adoring fans.

When he was done, he set down his guitar and wiggled his eyebrows at me, making my cheeks flush as the group of girls glared with unmasked jealousy. “Hey, hot legs.”

“’Sup, Dee, making any cash today?” I nudged his open guitar case with the toe of my scuffed combat boot.

Pointing to the blue velvet interior, he said, “There are a couple of tenners in there, Zo Zo. The people have been showing me the love. I’m too hot to handle.”

He threw an arm around me, tugged on my hair, and planted a kiss on my cheek. I breathed in his familiar scent of leather and musk as I pushed him off with a playful shove. I had long, dark-brown hair that hit my lower back, and wearing it in a braid was better than brushing it most days when I rolled out of bed at five a.m. for work.

Dee and I have been best friends since our first year of high school when we were both twelve, and time had done nothing but solidify our friendship. Back then, we were both awkward outcasts, and we just fit together when we didn’t fit anywhere else. We ended up in different classes but still managed to hang out every chance we got. Now we were both twenty-four, and I couldn’t remember a week going by where I didn’t speak to him. I can’t even remember us having a fight that lasted more than an afternoon.

The brisk mid-afternoon Melbourne swelled around us along with the sickly-sweet smell of the natural cosmetics and soap shop Dee was currently out front of. How he managed to sweet-talk the girls in there to plug in his amp for free, I’ll never know. I’d bet anyone a million bucks that they all have an epic crush on him.

Dee busked here almost every day. He was the die-hard musician type—always on the lookout for his big break into stardom—with the charisma to match. Truthfully, he earned a bucketload playing for strangers on the street, but that’s the reality of being Dee. The awkward kid from high school grew up to be a smooth-talking, handsome, tattooed man. When the hell did that happen?

“You off work for today?” he asked, propping his guitar against the shop front.

“Yeah,” I said, burying my hands into the pockets of my leather biker jacket.

I worked in the mailroom of a building on William Street—the business end of the city—for the past year and a half, sorting letters and packages for a law firm. It wasn’t glamorous, not like the hairdressing job I’d quit before it, but they didn’t care what I wore or that I had an arm full of tattoos as long as I did my job and exited by the side door. They learned quick smart that I put my head down and worked. For what must be the first time in history, they rewarded me with a slackened dress code.

“Wanna play with me? I’ll take vocals,” he asked.

“Hell, no.”

The last two years had been hard, and everything had taken a massive hit, including my confidence. The only thing that kept me on the up and up was my guitar. I just couldn’t face the world anymore—resulting in me quitting my old job, cutting ties with everything I once was, and moving to the other side of the city—and the only one who stuck around was Dee. He gave me his beat-up black Stratocaster to practice on, promising it would take my mind off all the bullshit that had happened, and he was right on the money.

I played every day, getting blisters on my fingers from nutting out some silly chord progression that should have been simple until I got it. I moved onto harder things and worked those out on my own too, and soon enough, life got a little easier, as well. I still hid from the world in my own shell, but I didn’t dwell on those things as much.

As I got better and better with the guitar, I decided to buy my own and give Dee’s back. I now had a matte black Epiphone Les Paul with a pedal collection to rival Jack White’s, and Dee was jealous as hell. He still tried to get me to busk with him, and I still declined, but it had become a running joke now. Hey, Zo, wanna play with me? Hell, no.

Dee laughed and shook his head. “One day, I’ll have you up there on a bloody stage, chicken.”

“In your dreams, buddy.”

He wiggled his eyebrows at me again. “I have the best dreams. Wanna hear one?”

“Ugh.” I screwed up my face in disgust. “No thanks.”

He bent down and started collecting the coins and notes from his case. “I’m cutting it early today. Are you going home?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Do you wanna go get a drink later?”

“Sure. Anything to spend time with a hot woman.”

With a mouth like that, it was no wonder girls fell over themselves when he was around. “You’ll never get a girlfriend if you keep flirting with me like that. You know I’m a dead end.”

“If I’m still single at forty, I’m proposing to you.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as I went to retrieve the other end of the amp’s power cord. “Deal.”

After Dee was done blowing kisses to the girls in the shop, we walked the three blocks down to Flinders Street to catch the train home—Dee with his guitar and case full of shrapnel and me with the amp. It was only a small thing that weighed next to nothing, so I didn’t mind carrying it to the station.

Dee lived in Prahran with dodgy roommates, and I lived across the highway in St Kilda in a one-bedroom shoebox. We were both within ten minutes of the same station, which made getting home by cab a hell of a lot cheaper.

We sat on a seat on the open platform, waiting for the next Sandringham train as people walked past us. There was nothing out of the ordinary about that. It was something we did all the time—I knocked off work, found Dee in the city, and we shared the ride home. A group of girls walked past and giggled, eyeing him as they passed. The thing about Dee, with his slicked back quiff and sunglasses, he looked like he was in a band even if he was only walking down the street. He was smooth as hell. Total ladies’ man. Sometimes, I think I was jealous of the attention he got.

I snorted, and as I looked the opposite way, I saw someone interesting coming down the escalators. My eyes wouldn’t focus at first, but my brain registered this guy was worth a second look, but Dee elbowed me.

“Train’s comin’.”

I stood and watched the lights of the train approaching through the tunnel, and the guy passed us on the platform. He was a typical indie-looking guy with a shock of long, curly hair in his eyes. Eyes that looked at us indirectly. You know, like when you want to check someone out but attempt to be a little covert about it? He was trying at least. Me, I stared at him as he walked by. He looked very familiar, and I wondered where I’d seen him before.

Dee looked at him over his sunglasses. “You know him?”

I shrugged. “Isn’t he in that band The Stabs?”

“Yeah. Bass player, I think.” I could tell Dee was disinterested.

I knew exactly who it was. Will Strickland. Just one look at the guy and I was already picturing what it would be like to kiss him.

I glanced down the platform, but he’d disappeared, but in his wake I felt a spark of loneliness so profound, I felt my heart twist. A guy like that’d never look twice at me.

At that moment, the train pulled in next to the platform, and we dragged the gear into the carriage.

Guys and me? Well, that was something I didn’t go near anymore. And guys in bands? That was something I especially didn’t go near. I absently rubbed the scar on my arm through the sleeve of my jacket and settled into a free seat next to Dee. Yeah, I definitely didn’t need a guy.

But no matter what I did, I still thought about Will Strickland.

* * *

Later that night, I met up with Dee for a drink like I’d promised—silly, giggly schoolgirl romance still on my mind.

I was quickly developing a crush on a guy I didn’t even know. Seriously, it was like fangirling over a super-famous rock star. When I thought about it—and I was thinking about it overtime—Will Strickland was a rock star.

Dee and I frequented a bar off Chapel Street, mainly for the cheap drinks and not the decor. It was called Ted’s Shed, and it looked exactly like its title. They served Mexican food in foil containers and alcohol in well-worn glasses. The place wasn’t exactly upper class, but the people were friendly, and it was within our price range, which was bargain basement. Because of this, it was always crammed with young locals. Students, artists, and hipsters. The posters on the wall were either Hawaiian themed or some kind of tattoo art, and every now and then, there was a fake potted plant strategically placed to hide a pole or an ugly wall of corrugated iron. The plastic hula girls on the bar and the fake flowers really topped it off like a cherry on an ice cream sundae. This place was what you would call kitsch on a grand scale.

When I felt down, I’d come here to get a fluoro-colored cocktail. Eight bucks would get you a sugar hangover and a few hours of ignorant bliss. It was in my comfort zone and away from the regular crowd of people who once filled my past life.

Dee sat with me at a lopsided table in the corner. He was scowling at his bright pink drink like it was going to sprout wings and steal his manhood. Mine was an obnoxious shade of orange and was already starting to help mute my thoughts about unobtainable happy endings.

I stroked the scar on my arm that was hidden in among the Japanese dragon I’d had tattooed over it. I hadn’t realized I was doing it until Dee narrowed his eyes at me. When I broke my arm two years ago, it was the beginning of the end, and it’d never healed one hundred percent. I covered up something ugly with something beautiful in an attempt to move on. There hadn’t been much moving.

“Is your arm worrying you?” Dee asked, watching my fingers.

“No.” I shook my head and let my hand fall away. It was a nervous gesture I’d developed more than anything. My arm ached every now and then but nothing bad.

A group of girls across the bar laughed loudly, pulling my attention away from Dee. Sometimes, I thought I was dragging him down by being such a mess. I felt bad about it, but I knew without him, I’d be in a much worse place than I was. And right then, I was just coasting, but I guess that was better than sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean never to be found again.

I glanced over at the group of girls again as they put on their coats, and I recognized Beth among them. My arm was like a barometer or something, like when old people swore rain was coming when their joints began to ache.

My gaze ran over the girls she was with. I didn’t know any of them, but I’d recognize Beth anywhere. She was the super-alternative Goth type with long black hair and a Bettie Page fringe. She looked like a pinup model even when she was in her gym gear, which I had always been secretly jealous of. I was rough around the edges and more like a rock ‘n’ roll girl than a perfect gothic doll.

“Isn’t that…” Dee began to ask, and I elbowed him.

I hoped she didn’t see us and went the other way. I couldn’t take her judgey looks tonight. I couldn’t take it at all. Once upon a time, when I was happy and didn’t have the constant reminder of my pathetic life scarred on my arm and long before she took sides and believed a lie, we used to be good friends. Like I needed her around to remind me how blind I’d been. I tortured myself enough, thank you very much.

They walked toward the door away from us and, to my relief, didn’t look our way. Close call.

I needed some serious cheering up then, so I downed the rest of my fluoro-orange cocktail and dragged Dee to the bar for something else. I either needed to get drunk to forget or find something else to dwell on. Starting with an electric blue Fruit Tingle sounded like a good idea to me, so I shouted Dee one, much to his horror. Girly drinks were not hard enough for him, and two in one night was stretching his friendship.

I scanned the bar, which had emptied out since the night was getting on. I’d never admit it to Dee or even to myself, but I just wanted to look at a handsome guy. If he smiled at me, then I would feel less like the mutant I was. That I didn’t have something wrong with me, and I was still worth a second glance. Seeing the echo of a much happier past had shaken me up and implanted the seed of doubt in my mind that grew like a noxious weed.

The thing was, when you’re single, you can’t help but look twice at any decent-looking guy anyway—like you’re an animal looking for a suitable male with a strong genetic makeup.

Nice hair, nice eyes, but crap shoes. The shoes were always a deal breaker. Beat-up white runners turned me off because it was like the guy couldn’t make an effort to be presentable. So when I saw a guy leaning against the far wall, I looked at his shoes first. He wore scuffed to hell tailored combat boots with the laces undone. Sexy as. One hundred bonus points already. So naturally, I looked up to see what the rest looked like.

To my surprise, it was Will Strickland.

The bass player from The Stabs.

The guy I’d developed a crippling crush on in T minus an afternoon.

I didn’t recognize the people he was with, but right now, they didn’t exist to me. For once, I had time to look at him without anyone but Dee noticing. I hadn’t had a chance to take in the full package that afternoon, and I was practically salivating. He had a faded The Strokes T-shirt and tight gray jeans on, tattoos on one arm, and the wildest curly hair I’d ever seen on a guy. And I knew some unkempt guys. It was short at the back and sides, and the shock of blond curls falling into his eyes was like the guy’s trademark. I wanted to brush it away to see what color his irisis were underneath all the wildness, curl my fingers through it and—

“Zoe?”

“Shit, Dee,” I cursed, looking away.

“Who you checkin’ out?” He winked at me, saw where I was looking, and whistled. “The Strokes, huh?” he said almost sarcastically. “Twice in one day. Since when are you into indie guys?”

I squirmed, knowing I was more than a little tipsy. “Since when does it matter?”

“Since I knew you.”

“You’ll know my fist in a minute.” When I glanced back, Will Strickland was gone, and the bar was almost closing. If it weren’t for Dee acknowledging his existence, I’d swear I was seeing things.

“You’re so volatile,” Dee said, putting his empty glass on the bar.

“You know who we have to thank for that,” I snapped and instantly regretted it.

Dee frowned and linked his arm through mine. “C’mon, Zo. I’ll walk you home.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“S’okay. You’re drunk, you lush.”

“You’re such a woman, Dee.”

“My cock thinks otherwise three nights a week.”

“I think I just vomited in my mouth.”

We wandered down Chapel Street toward home, and I made a mental note to see if I could get a ticket to that Stabs gig I saw advertised the other day.

It could be a disaster waiting to happen, or it could be nothing. Going by my track record, I was pretty sure it wouldn’t amount to anything. I’d hide in a dark corner and watch him like a creepy pervert, never working up the courage to talk to him.

Yeah, I was pretty sure I was just torturing myself.

* * *

The first thing I did when I got home was to hop on The Corner Hotel’s website and buy a ticket to the Stabs gig.

The second thing I did was swallow my fear and get the tram to Richmond the next day.

The third thing I did was hand over my ticket and go inside.

I’d be lying to myself if I said the mysterious Will Strickland didn’t intrigue me. I caught myself thinking about him yet again when I bought the ticket to the gig. It was all wishful thinking on my part. I would never know him. I mean, I would never approach him in the first place, and why would he look twice at me? How could you go up to a guy in a successful band to say hi when they would think you were another groupie looking for a quickie. I don’t think I could ever have a quickie with a stranger no matter how hot they were.

I stood awkwardly in the semi-dark as people milled around me. No one looked at me, and no one would probably remember me, but I still felt uncomfortable. Alone in a crowd. I busied myself looking around, waiting for the support band to come on.

The thing I disliked most about this venue was the huge pole right in the middle of the floor. Right behind the mosh pit. Sucked hard if you were stuck behind it, worse than inadvertently positioning yourself behind the only seven-foot-tall bloke in the whole place. What a stupid place to put a pole. What I did like about The Corner were the curtains. It made the whole experience feel like you were at the theater. The red velveteen curtains swung open and closed after each support act like some kind of grand unveiling, making the experience more like a stage production than a gig.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, saving me from staring vacantly at nothing. That’s what I disliked about going to shows on my own. Not knowing anybody and standing around between sets. I mean, what do you look at? I always ended up getting a drink, so I had something to do.

The text that flashed up on the screen said, Look behind you. It was from Frank.

Frank was the drummer in a punk band called The Deadshits, and to tell you the truth, he was the least deadshit of the lot.

I turned around, and there was Frank behind me with four bottles of Bulmer’s apple cider balanced in his arms as he tried to launch himself onto me, laughing like a madman. He had a shaved head, wore an assortment of flannel shirts, and was totally buff—all muscle and then some. Tonight he’d donned a blue shirt with beat-up black jeans. Frank killed me, he really did, but I was glad to see him. He was one of the few souls who seemed to like me despite my anti-social resting bitch face.

“Thanks for the drinks,” I joked and took two from him before they ended up on the floor. “Why’ve you got so many? I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“Zoe, babe! I know this guy in the support, and he put me on the list.” He hugged me, slapped me on the back, and gestured to the bottles in my hands. “Keep ‘em and drink up. On me.”

That was the thing I loved about Frank. He was hard as nails but over-the-top generous. He made everyone feel included, no matter where they came from. He stood beside me and called out to some guy who was walking past with his girlfriend trailing behind in her stiletto heels and tiny dress. I looked at her, and then I looked at me in my jeans, boots, and cut up band shirt. It was no wonder I got along with guys better if that was what they wanted.

To be honest, people at gigs kind of annoyed me. There were always groups of girls dressed up like they were going to a mainstream club, high heels and all, and somehow, I always stood behind the people taking the piss out of the support bands—bands that were just starting out and were just good enough to get a great slot. You could tell they were new by how stiff they were on stage. What I hated were people in the crowd trying to be funny about it and not giving them a go. Laughing and not listening. Plenty of times, I would hear these bands, and later on, they’d get headline slots and would become the next big thing, and the same people suddenly thought they were amazing.

Despite the crowd, I loved to go and see bands. I liked to watch them play. I mean, really watch. How they played their instruments, and how they moved onstage. I liked to see what they did so I could try it when I got home. What I especially didn’t like was if the songs sounded the same as on their record, like they were miming to a backing tape. It was about the moment, wasn’t it? The feeling and emotion of whatever song they were playing, the little variations in the vocals, an added riff or drum fill that made it a unique experience. That’s what I loved. The emotion.

As the curtains began to close on the support band, someone shoved me from behind. I turned around to glare, but they were whispering in my ear, “Zoe, sweet lips. Gimme a kiss, sugar.”

I got an eyeful of Dee laughing like he was a fucking comedian, and I slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “What are you doing here, smartass?” I yelled into his ear.

“Frank got me in.” He winked, taking one of my drinks, and I knew he thought I was here because of Will Strickland. What I didn’t admit was that he was right.

“Hey!” I protested as he pried one of my bottles from my hand

“Hey, yourself.” He elbowed me, took a swig, and offered it back.

“Eww.” I feigned disgust. “I don’t want it now.”

As much as I kept to myself, it was nice to have someone to talk to between sets and hang out with. Before long, it was time for the main act to come on.

The Stabs was made up of four guys—two guitar players, a bass player, and a drummer. They played straightforward indie rock, nothing overly complicated, but whoever wrote their lyrics was a genius. Each song played out like a story, and it was hard not to get sucked into them. The crowd was going nuts, and the people crammed into the mosh pit at the front were jumping so much the floor felt like it was shaking.

What was also hard not to get sucked into was watching Will Strickland. My eyes glued themselves to him, and I couldn’t find it in myself to look away. I watched his fingers slide across the strings of his bass, and my mind wandered, imagining them doing something else. Something below the belt. I was suddenly horrified at the image in my head and forced myself to look away.

“That guy,” Dee whispered in my ear, “is Will Strickland. He’s bad news, Zo Zo. Wom-an-izer. Takes it and leaves it from what I’ve been told.”

“I’m just looking,” I told him, because I was. The last thing I needed was an unattainable crush on a known manwhore, but it was already too late for that. A woman could dream a little, right? Right?

What happened then was Will Strickland, known bed-hopper, turned his gaze on me and caught me staring. A slow, lazy grin spread across his sexy lips, and he held my gaze like superglue while the band went on playing the song. Effortless…and hot as fuck. There was no way in hell he was smiling at me like that.

The thing about someone staring at you when you regarded yourself as a mutant was you had an overwhelming urge to look around to see if there was someone better looking behind you. In this case, I was jammed between Frank and Dee and a few hundred people. I was pretty sure I was not the target.

I raised my eyebrows…and he raised his, making my heart stop beating for what felt like a full minute. Then I glanced away, embarrassed. You read about these kinds of things in soppy romance novels or in hipster chick flick movies. The lonesome plain girl in the crowd, and the handsome guy in the popular band chasing her despite all the forces trying to tear them apart. But this was the real world, and it was just a look.

The show was that good it was over before I knew it. The singer and drummer seemed to milk the encore a little too much, but I mean, who wouldn’t? As people started to mill around and file out the door, Frank shot off into the mass and left Dee and me to our own devices.

“What did you reckon?” he asked.

“Pretty good,” I said. “I liked them.”

“Why’d you come here, Zo?”

I scowled at his question. “I wanted to see a band.”

“Plenty of other bands on tonight, you know.”

“Then why are you here?” I snapped.

Before we could get into a fight, Frank reappeared with another guy.

“This is Chris,” Frank clapped the guy on the shoulder. “Bass player extraordinaire.”

“Hey,” he said and shook my hand. He seemed nice enough. He had sandy blond hair that fell into his eyes and a kind smile.

“Oh, you were in the support, right?” I asked, suddenly recognizing his face.

“Yep. Empty Hands.”

Frank sniggered, and Chris shot him a warning glare.

I shrugged. “I like it. It’s a cool name.”

“Thanks, you’ve got a lot more tact than those assholes,” Chris said. “It was nice to meet you, Zoe. I gotta go take care of the gear.” He shoved Frank’s shoulder playfully and disappeared into the band room.

“Drinks?” Dee asked.

“Shit, yeah,” Frank declared.

“I dunno…” I began to complain.

“C’mon, Zoe! Stick around for at least one more drink.” Dee picked me up around the waist, so I had no other choice but to agree. He seemed to have let go of his earlier outburst, and I was thankful.

The security guard came in and attempted to push the last few punters out the door as we went into the bar next door.

I knew staying around would mean a high likelihood of the guys from the band sticking around, as well. I felt a bit on edge about it, especially knowing I was tingly at the thought of a certain guy. The last time I met someone from a band I liked, they turned out to be a real idiot, and then it kinda ruined their music for me. I couldn’t listen to any of their records without thinking about how much of a twat that guy was.

“That Will Strickland fucker keeps staring at you,” Dee whispered in my ear. “By the bar.”

I glanced covertly to my left, and there was Will Strickland himself with the wild, curly hair quickly glancing away.

“If he so much as talks to you, I’m punching him in the face.”

“Dee, I admire your protectiveness, but I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t talk to me in the first place.”

I could see he was torn between reassuring me of the opposite and his obvious need to keep scumbags away from me.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I know.”

“I reckon we could give them a run for their money,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“What’s that meant to mean?” I turned around.

“I reckon we could form a band ten times better than The Stabs. Hey, Frank? Wanna play drums?”

Frank’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. “Do I?”

“Zoe, you can belt out a tune.” Dee looked at me with his big eyes, the same way he had when we were twelve when he wagged school and wanted me to cover for him.

“Shit, Dee. There’s a difference to fronting a band and singing like an idiot in the car.” Shit. The last time I’d sung in front of a crowd was never. I was already breaking out in a rash.

“C’mon, Zoe! Just give it a shot. Just one shot. I’ve got some songs we can work on.” Those eyes again.

I began to crumble. “You are a manipulative asshole.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Pick you up tomorrow arvo.”

“Tomorrow?” Somehow, I reckon he already had this planned and was waiting for the right moment to drag me into it.

“No time like the present.” He slapped me on the back, and I choked on my cider. “Hey, that Chris guy plays bass, right?” He looked around the bar and wandered off when he saw him.

I’d just been manipulated—Dee style—into joining a band…as the front woman.