The neon lights of the bar pulsed in sync with the relentless bassline thumping through the walls of De Rode Leeuw, a grimy yet electric dive in the heart of Amsterdam. The air was a heady mix of spilled beer, sweat, and the faint tang of weed drifting in from the open windows. The after-party for the EuroVibe Music Festival was in full, chaotic swing—bodies packed tight, laughter and shouts ricocheting off the sticky walls, and the kind of reckless energy that only comes when the clock ticks past 2 a.m.
Tommy Cash, still buzzing from his unhinged set earlier that night, shoved his way through the crowd, a half-empty pint of lager sloshing in his hand. His bleach-blond hair was a mess, sticking to his forehead with sweat, and his oversized graphic tee clung to his lanky frame. He was a walking tornado of absurdity, grinning like a madman as he shouted something incoherent to a group of fans who cheered him on. He didn’t see the collision coming until it was too late.
“Oi, watch it, you bloody gremlin!” a sharp voice cut through the noise as Tommy’s drink splashed across a black leather jacket. The liquid dripped down onto a pair of scuffed boots, and Tommy froze, his grin faltering as he looked up into the piercing blue eyes of Joost Klein. The Dutch artist stood there, arms crossed, his angular face set in a mix of irritation and amusement. His blond hair was slicked back, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he looked every bit the rebellious poet—dangerous, sharp, and entirely too cool for the mess Tommy had just made.
“Shit, mate, my bad,” Tommy said, his Estonian accent thick as he wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing a bit of beer foam. “Didn’t mean to baptize you in Heineken. Though, gotta say, you look like you needed a shower.”
Joost raised an eyebrow, plucking the cigarette from his lips and blowing a plume of smoke directly into Tommy’s face. “Oh, real clever, aren’t you? What’s next, gonna throw glitter on me and call it art? I’ve seen your performances, man. Chaos isn’t a personality—it’s just sad.”
Tommy barked out a laugh, stepping closer, the crowd pressing them even tighter together. The heat of their bodies mingled, and Tommy’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Sad? Nah, mate, sad is standing there looking like you’ve got a stick up your arse while everyone else is having a good time. What’s your deal, huh? Too cool to get messy?”
Joost smirked, leaning in so their faces were inches apart, the scent of tobacco and beer heavy between them. “Messy? I don’t do messy. I do precise. Calculated. You wouldn’t know about that, would you, Mr. ‘Let’s Throw a Microwave on Stage’?”
Tommy grinned wider, undeterred. “Oh, I calculate plenty. Like right now, I’m calculating how long it’ll take for you to stop pretending you’re not into this little spat. Come on, pretty boy, admit it—you’re loving the attention.”
Joost’s eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of something hotter beneath the irritation. “Pretty boy? Keep talking, Cash. I’ll have you on your knees apologizing for that drink before the night’s out.”
Before Tommy could fire back with something undoubtedly crude, a sharp voice sliced through their banter like a knife. “Oi, you two! Either take your foreplay outside or cool it down. You’re clogging up my bar.”
They both turned to see Lena, the bartender, leaning over the counter with a glare that could melt steel. She was a force of nature—tall, with a buzzcut dyed electric blue, tattoos snaking up her muscled arms, and a no-nonsense attitude that screamed she’d seen it all and regretted most of it. Her dark eyes flicked between Tommy and Joost, a sly smirk tugging at her pierced lips as she wiped down a glass with a rag that had seen better days.
“Foreplay?” Tommy sputtered, though his grin didn’t waver. “Love, you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m just teaching this Dutch prick how to loosen up.”
Lena snorted, rolling her eyes. “Sure you are, sweetheart. And I’m the Queen of bloody England. You’re both peacocking so hard I’m surprised there aren’t feathers on the floor. Now, are you gonna keep yapping, or do you want to settle this like adults?”
Joost tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “Settle it how, exactly?”
Lena’s smirk widened as she slammed two shot glasses down on the bar, the clink cutting through the noise. “Drinking contest. My rules. You win, you get bragging rights and a free round. You lose, you tip me double and shut the hell up. Deal?”
Tommy laughed, slapping a hand on the bar. “Hell yeah, I’m in. Let’s see if pretty boy here can keep up without choking.”
Joost’s jaw tightened, but the challenge sparked something in his eyes. He leaned forward, voice low and dripping with intent. “Choking’s more your style, isn’t it, Cash? Fine. I’m in. Let’s see how long you last.”
Lena chuckled darkly, pouring a vicious-looking amber liquid into the shot glasses. “That’s the spirit, boys. First rule: no whining. Second rule: you puke, you clean it up. Third rule: I say when it’s over. Got it?”
“Got it, boss,” Tommy said with a mock salute, winking at Joost. “Hope you’ve got a strong stomach, mate. Wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the lady.”
Joost scoffed, picking up his shot glass and holding it up in a mock toast. “Worry about yourself, Tommy. I’ve been drinking since before you figured out how to spell ‘vodka.’”
“Enough chit-chat,” Lena snapped, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Drink!”
The first round went down like fire, both men slamming their glasses back on the bar with matching grimaces. The crowd around them started to take notice, a small circle forming as cheers and jeers erupted. Lena poured the next round without missing a beat, her gaze flicking between them like a predator sizing up prey.
“Still standing, pretty boy?” Tommy teased, his voice rough from the burn of the liquor. His cheeks were already flushed, but his grin was as wild as ever. “Or you gonna tap out and let me claim my victory lap?”
Joost wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his smirk unwavering despite the slight wobble in his stance. “Victory lap? The only lap you’ll be taking is around the block to find your dignity, mate. I’m just getting started.”
Lena leaned against the bar, arms crossed, her tone dry as she poured the third round. “You two are adorable. Keep flirting—I’m making bank on the tips from this crowd. But don’t think I won’t cut you off if you start looking green. I’m not mopping up after either of you.”
Tommy shot her a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry, love. I’ve got stamina for days. Right, Joost? Care to test that theory?”
Joost’s laugh was low, dangerous, and laced with something that made Tommy’s pulse kick up a notch. “Keep dreaming, Cash. I don’t play games I can’t win.”
Round after round, the tension between them crackled like static electricity, their jabs growing sloppier but no less sharp. The crowd roared with every shot, and Lena presided over the chaos with a queen’s authority, her sharp tongue keeping them in check while her sly comments fanned the flames of their unspoken attraction.
By the time Lena called it a draw—mostly because she didn’t trust either of them to stand much longer—Tommy and Joost were leaning against the bar, breathless and laughing, their earlier hostility replaced by something warmer, messier. Tommy’s hand lingered a little too long on Joost’s shoulder as he muttered something about “not bad for a posh bastard,” and Joost’s gaze lingered a little too intently on Tommy’s flushed face as he fired back, “Takes one to know one, freak.”
Lena watched it all unfold, her smirk knowing as she polished a glass with deliberate slowness. “Well, well, looks like you two might just survive the night. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, yeah? And if you do, don’t do it in my bar.”
Tommy chuckled, tipping an imaginary hat to her. “Cheers, boss. You’re a cruel mistress, but I like your style.”
Joost nodded, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Yeah. Thanks for the entertainment, Lena.”
She waved them off with a flick of her wrist, but her eyes glinted with mischief. “Get out of here before you start writing love songs about each other. I’ve got enough drama to deal with.”
As the two stumbled away from the bar, the crowd swallowing them back up, the tension between them simmered just beneath the surface—electric, unspoken, and dangerously close to igniting. Lena shook her head, pouring herself a shot and muttering under her breath, “Boys. Always making a mess.”
But her smirk said she knew exactly what kind of mess they were about to make.
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