The garage smelled like motor oil, stale beer, and something faintly metallic—probably the rust on the ancient drum kit shoved into the corner. Dim light filtered through a single, grimy window, casting long shadows over a chaotic sprawl of mismatched amps, tangled cords, and a guitar case that looked like it had been through a war zone. Milo stood in the doorway, clutching his beat-up acoustic guitar like it was the only thing keeping him from bolting. His pastel sweater—a soft lavender thing his sister had picked out—felt like a neon sign screaming “I don’t belong here.” At eighteen, with a cherubic face and a habit of fidgeting with anything in reach, he looked more like a lost choirboy than a rockstar wannabe.
He’d seen the flyer at Brew Haven, the local coffee shop where he spent too much time sketching in notebooks and avoiding eye contact. “Rhythm guitarist wanted. Must have grit. No posers.” The words had hooked him, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what “grit” meant in this context. He’d imagined a mellow indie band, maybe some acoustic jams by candlelight. Instead, the garage door had rattled open to reveal three figures who looked like they’d just walked out of a punk rock fever dream.
Rox, the lead guitarist, stood front and center, her electric blue mohawk defying gravity and her ripped tank top showing off arms covered in ink. She was mid-argument with Jax, the drummer, whose leather jacket creaked every time she gestured wildly with a drumstick. Jax’s dark eyes glittered with mischief, her short-cropped hair slicked back like she’d just stepped off a motorcycle. Behind them, Sam, the bassist, leaned against an amp, her muscular frame and no-nonsense expression making Milo feel like he’d just wandered into a lion’s den. Her buzz cut and the way she cradled her bass like a weapon didn’t help.
“Uh… hi?” Milo’s voice cracked on the second syllable, and he winced. Great start.
Rox turned first, her piercing gaze pinning him in place. A slow, predatory grin spread across her face as she took in his sweater, his scuffed sneakers, and the way he was practically hugging his guitar. “Well, well, well. What do we have here? Did we accidentally post our flyer at the knitting club?”
Jax snorted, twirling her drumstick like a baton. “Nah, Rox, this kid’s straight outta grandma’s bingo night. Look at that sweater. Bet it’s got little kittens on it somewhere.”
Milo’s cheeks burned as he shifted his weight, trying to hide the tiny embroidered daisy on the cuff. “It’s… it’s just comfortable,” he mumbled, staring at the concrete floor.
Sam pushed off the amp, crossing her arms over her broad chest. Her voice was low, almost a growl, but there was a glint of amusement in her hazel eyes. “Comfortable ain’t gonna cut it here, pretty boy. We’re Vixen Riot, not the Pastel Pajama Party. You even know what a distortion pedal is, or did you just bring that acoustic to serenade us with some campfire songs?”
“I—I know what it is,” Milo stammered, though he wasn’t entirely sure he could point one out in a lineup. “I saw your flyer. I’m here for the rhythm guitarist spot. I can play. I think.”
Rox barked out a laugh, stepping closer until she was right in his personal space. She smelled like cigarette smoke and something sharp, like lime. “You *think*? Oh, honey, we don’t do ‘think’ around here. We do loud, we do messy, and we do it with balls. You got any of those under that baby face of yours?”
Milo swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the guitar neck. “I’m not… I mean, I don’t look like I fit, but I can keep up. I’ve been playing since I was twelve. Just… give me a shot?”
Jax leaned over her drum kit, resting her chin on her hand with a smirk. “Aw, he’s got puppy eyes, Rox. Look at him, begging like that. Makes me wanna pat his head and give him a cookie.”
“Or toss him out on his cute little ass,” Sam added, though her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. “What’s your name, kid? We gotta know who we’re roasting.”
“Milo,” he said, barely above a whisper. Then, louder, because he could feel the weight of their stares boring into him: “I’m Milo. And I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen.”
Rox raised an eyebrow, circling him like a shark. “Eighteen, huh? Barely legal and already walking into the lion’s den. You got guts, I’ll give you that. But can you handle us, Milo? ‘Cause we don’t play nice, and we sure as hell don’t hold hands.”
“I don’t need my hand held,” he shot back, surprising himself with the edge in his voice. Their teasing was starting to grate, and something stubborn flared in his chest. “I just need a chance to show you I’m not some… some bingo night reject.”
Jax cackled, slapping her thigh. “Oh, he’s got a little fire! I like it. Fine, pretty boy. Plug in. Let’s see if you can keep up with the big girls, or if you’re gonna cry for mommy halfway through a riff.”
Sam gestured to an old electric guitar propped against a crate, its paint chipped but its strings gleaming. “That’s Rox’s spare. Don’t break it, or she’ll break you. Got an amp over there. Show us what you’ve got, Milo. And don’t waste our time.”
Milo hesitated, his palms sweaty as he set down his acoustic and picked up the electric. It felt heavier, foreign, like holding someone else’s secret. He fumbled with the cord, nearly tripping over a tangle of wires, and heard Jax snicker behind him. “Graceful as a drunk ballerina,” she muttered.
“Shut it, Jax,” Rox snapped, though her eyes were still locked on Milo with a mix of curiosity and challenge. “Alright, kid. We’re gonna run through ‘Hellbound Heart.’ It’s fast, it’s dirty, and it’ll chew you up if you’re not ready. Follow my lead, or get left in the dust. Ready?”
Milo nodded, his heart hammering so hard he was sure they could hear it. Rox counted off with a sharp “One, two, three, GO!” and the garage exploded into sound—her guitar screaming, Jax’s drums pounding like a war march, and Sam’s bassline rumbling through the floor. Milo scrambled to keep up, his fingers slipping on the unfamiliar fretboard, but after a few shaky bars, something clicked. The rhythm found him, or he found it, and suddenly he was in the chaos, matching Rox’s frenetic energy with a raw, unpolished edge.
When the song crashed to a halt, the silence felt deafening. Milo was panting, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he realized all three of them were staring at him. Not with mockery this time, but with something else—something hungry.
“Well, damn,” Jax drawled, spinning her drumstick with a wicked grin. “Baby face has claws. I’m almost impressed.”
Sam tilted her head, her gaze appraising. “Not half bad, Milo. You’ve got potential. But you’re still green as hell. You gonna toughen up for us, or are we gonna have to drag you kicking and screaming?”
Rox stepped close again, so close he could feel the heat radiating off her. Her voice dropped, low and teasing, with an undercurrent that made his stomach flip. “You surprised me, pretty boy. I like surprises. But don’t think this means you’re in yet. We’ve got a lot more to test before we decide if you’re worth keeping around. Think you can handle the heat?”
Milo met her eyes, his nerves still buzzing but his jaw set. “I can handle it. Just don’t expect me to dye my hair blue anytime soon.”
She laughed, a sharp, delighted sound, and clapped him on the shoulder—hard enough to make him stumble. “Oh, we’ll see about that. Stick around, Milo. This is gonna be fun.”
As the girls started packing up gear, tossing barbs back and forth, Milo stood there, guitar still in hand, feeling like he’d just survived a storm. But beneath the exhaustion and the lingering embarrassment, there was something else—a spark, a pull, a tension he couldn’t name. Whatever this was, whatever Vixen Riot was, he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t walking away anytime soon.
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