The Band Want You.

The music in wine bar was low and smooth, matching the dark mahogany paneling, gold accents, and astronomical drink prices. It was the kind of place where money was supposed to buy safety. You were sitting at the marble bar, sipping a cocktail, completely oblivious to the room around you. Across the bar, Lucy had been panning her camera through the ambient lighting, capturing blurred, sped-up crowd motion for a sequence in My Dead Dad's Dolls Head's next music video. Stopping to review the crisp 4K playback on her small monitor, her heart dropped. Right there on the screen, sandwiched between shots of glowing neon and laughing faces, was a stranger in a bespoke suit slickly dropping a tiny white tablet into an unsuspecting stranger's glass the second their head was turned. She looked up instantly, tracking the shot in real-time, only to see your head begin to lurch and your legs buckling under the sudden weight of the sedative. "Oh god guys, look," she hissed, shoving the small display into William’s broad chest and pointing straight at you. "That guy just spiked them. They're going down." The band members moved in an instant. Before the predator could put a hand on your slumping frame, a tall, William, stepped aggressively into your space. With an icy, terrifying look that made the culprit freeze, William effortlessly caught your collapsing body. "I've got them," he rumbled, handing your limp form directly to Lucy and Zara. Leaving the two women to hustle you safely out to the car, William flagged down the venue's head of security. He held up the camera monitor, tapping the exact timestamp on the screen so they could pull their own CCTV footage, then nodded sharply at your half-empty, spiked drink on the marble counter. When security grabbed the man by his lapels, the violent sudden movement jolted a small blister pack of loose tablets straight out of his suit pocket, clattering noisily onto the floor. William didn't stay to watch the police arrive, he just turned and walked out to join the rest of the band.

The Next Morning

The head pounding ache hit before your eyes even opened. You were not at the bar. The air smelled of faint paint thinner, lavender laundry detergent, and fresh espresso. More importantly, you could not move, pinned under an absurdly heavy amount of human warmth. As your eyes blinked open, the blurred room came into focus: a sprawling, sunlit artist's loft littered with half finished canvases, vintage synth cables, strange sculptures, and a vintage puppet booth tucked near the wall. Wrapped around your midsection was a thick, muscular arm, gently holding you against a chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. It was William, fast asleep and curled around you like a massive, protective blanket. Beside him, Lucy stirred. Long wavy brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, her skin lightly smudged with dried charcoal along her jawline. She blinked against the morning light, her expressive green eyes widening the second she noticed your open eyes. "Hey... hey, take it easy," Lucy whispered softly, leaning on one elbow with deep, genuine concern. "You're safe. We're at the loft. You got drugged last night at the bar... I was filming crowd footage for our new music video and caught the whole thing on screen right as you started to pass out." She winced, reaching out to gently smooth a hand over your shoulder. "We couldn't just leave you there, so we brought you back here." Lucy glanced over your head toward the giant man pinning you to the mattress. "What happened with the guy, Will?" At the sound of his name, William's dark green eyes fluttered open. The quick-thinking guard dog from last night was completely gone, replaced by quiet, sleepy protectiveness as his heavy arm tightened just a fraction around your waist. "Showed security the timestamp on the video and pointed out the drink," William rumbled softly, his voice low and rough with sleep. "Guard grabbed him, and the idiot dropped a whole pocketful of loose pills onto the floor. They weren't letting him leave." He rubbed a thumb gently against your side before resting his chin near your shoulder. "He's probably in a cell right now." The heavy loft door clicked open, followed by the soft sound of feet padding up the wooden steps. Zara appeared at the edge of the bed, freshly back from the street. She was wearing an oversized, rumpled pink three-piece suit, she kicked off her shoes and walked towards the bed, she had a strangely shaped piece of rusted metal tucked under one arm that she'd found in the street, and a greasy bakery box held out proudly in her hands. "I went outside, managed to avoid the scary grey work monsters," Zara announced calmly, her striking grey eyes locking onto yours with curiosity. "I rescued these delicate, flaky shell creatures from the bakery so you can heal." She reached into the box, pulled out a croissant, and leaned over the bed, she began repeatedly poking the warm pastry against your cheek. "You fucking want some?" she growled suddenly in a terrible, fake Cockney gangster voice. Breaking character instantly, she let out a soft, musical giggle. She leaned down, pressing a warm kiss to your cheek, dropped a second kiss onto Lucy’s forehead, and finished by planting one right on top of William’s nose. Turning on her heel, she sauntered barefoot toward the kitchen counter, casually singing to herself "Get up, get on up, stay on the scene, like a washing machine..." "Welcome to the loft. That's Zara, she's always like that." Lucy said chuckling.