Kim Pine

You’d always had a soft spot for grimy garage-band venues—the kind of places where the floors stuck to your shoes and the amps buzzed louder than the crowd. So when you spotted a half-crumpled flyer taped crookedly to a streetlamp, advertising Sex Bob-Omb – Tonight Only, curiosity got the better of you. Worst case, the music would suck and you’d drink enough cheap beer not to care. Best case... well, you tried not to expect best cases anymore.

The venue was one of those old converted basements—low ceilings, mismatched lights, stickers plastered across every surface like the walls were trying to hold themselves together with punk memorabilia alone. The audience had the usual mix: thrift-store jackets, dyed hair, ironic moustaches, people pretending not to look lonely.

Then the band came on.

They weren’t bad. Not legendary, not life-changing—just raw, loud, unfiltered. There was something honest about that. Stephen Stills hunched over his guitar like it personally offended him. Young Neil looked like he was waiting for someone to tell him he was doing it wrong. But the drummer—

The drummer was something else.

She was compact, sharp-edged, ginger hair tied back like she couldn’t be bothered with it, freckles scattered across a permanently unimpressed face. Her posture on the stool said I’m here because someone has to keep these idiots in time. And she played with a fierce, precise aggression that made every beat feel like an argument she was winning.

Kim Pine.

You remembered her name from somewhere—muttered in local music circles, usually followed by a sigh or a “Yeah, she’s great but... don’t talk to her.” Rumor had it she’d been playing since middle school, that she’d been the backbone of three different bands before this one, that she had the patience of a brick wall and the warmth of one too.

Somewhere between the second and third song, you realized you weren’t watching the stage—you were watching her. The way she set her jaw, the sharp flick of her wrist, the slightest eye-roll every time someone in the band missed a cue.

At one point, you felt her gaze snap toward you.

She didn’t look flattered. Or flustered. Or curious.

She looked... irritated. Like you’d stepped on her mental carpet with muddy shoes.

Her eyes narrowed, assessing you like a problem she was deciding whether or not to fix. You tried to look away—but she didn’t. She kept staring, drumming without missing a beat, and you got the distinct feeling she wanted you to know she’d noticed.

By the final song, she was still stealing glances at you. Not shy ones—more like she was performing a background check with her eyes alone.

When the set ended and the small crowd erupted into messy applause, Kim stood, wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, then locked onto you again. She didn’t smile. She didn’t nod. She just jerked her chin once in a curt come here motion.

Then she pointed backstage.

Then she walked off without waiting for you, because Kim Pine didn’t seem like the type to wait for anyone.

And judging by the way Stephen Stills flinched when she brushed past him, you weren’t the only person she intimidated.

You weren’t even sure whether she was inviting you or summoning you.

But the look in her eyes had been unmistakable:

She wanted a word. With you.

—

Backstage was less glamorous than you expected. More like a storage closet with a couch someone had definitely found on the side of the road. Cables snaked across the floor. Someone’s half-eaten granola bar sat on top of an amp. A poster of The Clash At Demonhead hung crooked above a stack of broken drumheads.

Kim was already there, sitting on that couch like she owned it—or maybe like she dared it to collapse under her. She was peeling tape off her drumsticks, jaw set, expression unreadable except for the perpetual low-level annoyance she seemed to radiate.

She didn’t look at you when you came in.

She waited.

Then, deadpan:

“You following directions isn’t something I expected tonight.”

You weren’t sure if that was supposed to be praise.

Before you could answer, she finally glanced up at you—sharp, quick, clinical. She scanned your face like she was taking inventory of it.

“You were staring at me,” she said flatly. No inflection. No accusation. Just a statement of fact that somehow felt like a warning.

She tossed a strip of tape toward the floor, missing a trash can by a mile. She didn’t pick it up.

“Just so you know,” she added “I don’t do the whole fangirl or fanboy or whatever thing. I’m not signing your shirt or taking a photo or teaching you how to drum or—” She waved a hand in a small, irritated circle. “—whatever you're thinking.”

Stephen Stills appeared in the doorway, opened his mouth like he wanted to intervene, then saw Kim’s expression and immediately reconsidered.

“Uh—Kim? We’re, uh... packing up soon, so if you could maybe—”

Kim didn’t even turn her head. “Go away.”

“Yep,” he squeaked. “Great talk.”

He vanished.

Kim let out a breath through her nose—something close to a scoff, but softer, almost amused. Almost.

“You’re not from the scene,” she said after a moment, eyes back on you, assessing. “You don’t dress like it. You don’t act like it. You didn’t clap on the off-beat, so at least there’s that.”

A pause.

Then, blunt as a hammer:

“So what’s your deal?”

She leaned back, arms crossing. Not inviting. Not confrontational. Just... waiting for you to prove she hadn’t wasted twenty seconds summoning you back here.

And despite the coldness, despite the absolute lack of warmth in her voice, there was something else beneath it—something sharp, curious in a way she didn’t want to admit.

A flicker of interest she’d probably deny even under oath.

The room hummed with the leftover vibrations of the amps outside.

Kim stared, unblinking, expecting your answer.