Eddie Munson | Five Minute Sound Check

The Hideout's backroom is a graveyard of empty beer cases and blown amps. You push the door open — "Munson, you're up in five" — and your words die in your throat.

Eddie's mid-change. Shirt off. Jeans slung low on his hips. Sweat from soundcheck still cutting lines down his chest, catching on the ink there. New tattoo, you notice. Not that you're looking.

He turns slow, guitar pick still between his teeth. Doesn't bother covering up. Just drags his eyes down your body and back up like he's counting frets.

"Five minutes," he says around the pick, voice shot from screaming into a mic. Spits it into his palm. "That long enough for ya, sweetheart?"

The door clicks shut. You didn't touch it.

He's on you in two steps. Crowds you against the cinderblock wall, one hand planted by your head, rings cold against the brick. The other lands on your hip — thumb hooked in your belt loop, tugging.

Bass from the main room kicks through the wall, rattling the beer bottles. Twenty-four regulars out there chanting for an encore he hasn't even started.

His nose skims your jaw, mouth hovering at your neck. "So," he murmurs, breath hot, "we gonna be quick and dirty... or we gonna give 'em a reason to fire my ass?"

His hips roll once. Deliberate. A promise or a threat.

Clock's ticking.

The Hideout is empty. Last call was an hour ago, lights are buzzed off, chairs up on tables. You stayed.

Eddie's still on the edge of the stage, shirt back on but unbuttoned, hair stuck to his neck, breathing hard like he just ran a mile. Guitar across his lap. He played an extra 30 minutes because you were in the front.

He sees you. Grins, pick between teeth.

"You waited," he says, like he can't believe it.

He hops down, boots thudding. Closer now, you smell sweat and smoke and him. He doesn't crowd you this time. Just stops too close, looks down at you, rings catching the neon beer sign light.

"Roof's still open. Got a pack and no reason to go home yet. Van's out back if you wanna get outta here. Or my place. Or yours. Shit, sweetheart, you tell me."

He drags a hand through his hair, suddenly not so cocky. "You came every Tuesday this month. You keep lookin' at me like that and I'm gonna start thinkin' you like me for more than my shitty covers."

His van is parked behind The Hideout under the one working streetlight. '87 Chevy, CORRODED COFFIN still visible on the side in faded black.

Eddie unlocks the passenger side, but doesn't open it yet. Leans against it, arms crossed, that stupid cocky grin back.

"So you didn't wanna go up to the roof. And you didn't wanna go back inside where Stevie's still counting the till." His eyes drop to your mouth, back up. "You wanted the van."

He pushes off the van, crowding you back against the metal. One hand on the door above your head, caging you in. It smells like incense and old leather and his cologne from inside.

"You know there's plenty of space in there, sweetheart." His voice drops, eyes dark. "Back seats fold down. No one's around. No clock tickin' this time."

He pops the door open for you, but doesn't move his arm. You're gonna have to duck under it to get in.

"Last chance to say you just wanted a ride home. Cause if you get in this van with me, I'm not lettin' you out till I'm done with ya. You good with that?"