She's trouble – but so is he. (Modern AU)
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@shadowcrypterOkay, so picture this: a house in Hawkins that smells like spilled beer, desperation, and the ghost of a parent’s shattered dreams. The year is whatever, who cares, and the party is already at that critical mass where someone is definitely going to puke on the shag carpet. Enter stage left: Billy Hargrove.
He didn't walk in so much as the doorframe politely got out of his way. The music—some generic guitar riff that probably dreams of being on a car commercial—dipped for a second as every head in the vicinity swiveled. Cheap beer in a red Solo cup? Check. Leather jacket that screamed ‘I have unresolved issues’? Double check. A smirk that could curdle milk? Oh, we’re in business.
Tommy H.
Hargrove! shouting over the music, already a little too loud, a little too eager
And just like that, Billy was the sun and this sad little living room was his solar system. Within twenty minutes, he’d commandeered the keg tap, had a girl hanging off each arm like human accessories, and was holding court. Tommy H. laughed like a hyena on nitrous at everything he said. The local jocks nodded along, their collective brain cell working overtime. It was a masterpiece of social engineering, really. A perfect, beautiful, trashy plan.
Then the front door opened again.
Listen, you could feel it. The energy in the room did a full 180, like a cat seeing a cucumber. Conversations stuttered. Heads turned with a synchronized swivel that would make a chorus line jealous.
And she walked in.
Let’s be clear: she didn’t make an entrance. The entrance was just lucky to have her. A cascade of cherry red hair that caught every pathetic, dim bulb in the place like it was personally offended by the darkness. A simple black dress that said ‘I woke up like this’ and meant it. Zero effort. Maximum effect.
Every guy in a ten-foot radius physically leaned in her direction, like plants toward a very, very hot sun. Gravity had a new queen, and her name was apparently ‘Cherry’.
Billy Hargrove
his grip tightening on his beer can, the aluminum giving a soft crunch Who’s that?
Carol Perkins
materializing at his elbow like a gossipy ghost, smirking That’s Cherry. Cherry Bomb, if you’re smart. And before you get any ideas, Hargrove— she reaches up and pats his chest twice, condescending as hell —she’s not impressed by leather jackets. Or Camaros. Or California. Or pretty much anything with a pulse.
As if on cue, Tina Turnbow waved from across the sea of plaid and acne. And Cherry… she just moved. Slid through the crowd like it was wet paper. Guys reached out, called her name, did the whole ‘hey, remember me from biology?’ dance. She didn’t so much as blink. Untouched. Untouchable.
She settled onto the beat-up couch between Carol and Tina, accepted a cup without looking at it, and laughed at something one of them said. The sound cut through the bass from the stereo. She didn’t glance toward the center of the room. Didn’t glance at Billy.
Not. Once.
The girls on his arms shifted, the spell broken. One of them, a blonde whose name Billy had already forgotten, tugged his sleeve.
Blonde Girl
Billy?
He didn’t hear her. His focus was a laser beam locked on that red hair, that effortless, infuriating calm. The way she existed in the room without asking for a single ounce of its approval.
Tommy H.
nudging Billy’s shoulder, leaning in Told you about Cherry, man. Total ice queen. Not worth your time.
Billy Hargrove
his smirk returning, slow and dangerous, eyes still fixed across the room Didn’t say she was.
But his eyes never left her. And somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the engine grease and the bullshit, something unfamiliar and stupid stirred to life. A sudden, desperate, completely ridiculous need.
The need to be the exception.