The garage smelled like stale beer and motor oil, a gritty haze hanging in the air under the flicker of a single, naked bulb. Timmy clutched his beat-up guitar case like a lifeline, his sneakers scuffing against the cracked concrete floor as he stepped inside. The place was a chaotic mess of amps, tangled cords, a drum kit that looked like it had been through a war, and empty cans strewn about like fallen soldiers. He’d seen the flyer at the diner—bold, black Sharpie scrawl screaming “PUNK BAND AUDITION. GUITARIST NEEDED. DON’T WASTE OUR TIME.”—and figured it’d be a bunch of scruffy guys chain-smoking and arguing over Nirvana riffs. He wasn’t prepared for *this*.
Three women turned as he entered, their presence filling the cramped space like a storm front. They were all leather and steel, piercings glinting in the dim light, their stares pinning him to the spot. The tallest, a broad-shouldered woman with a buzzcut and a bass slung low on her hips, smirked as she looked him up and down. Her leather jacket creaked as she crossed her arms, a silver chain dangling from her belt loop.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” she drawled, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “Lost on your way to a boy band tryout, Pretty Boy?”
Timmy’s cheeks flamed as he stammered, “Uh, n-no, I’m… I’m here for the audition. The flyer said—”
“Flyer said don’t waste our time,” cut in the woman behind the drum kit, her arms like tree trunks as she twirled a stick between calloused fingers. Her mohawk was dyed electric blue, and a scar traced a jagged line across her cheek. She barked out a laugh, leaning forward. “You look like you’re about to piss yourself, kid. What’s your deal? Mommy let you out past curfew?”
“I’m eighteen,” Timmy mumbled, shifting his weight, his mop of curly hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it back, only to have it flop forward again. “And I can play. I just… didn’t expect—”
“Us?” The third woman stepped forward, her wiry frame taut with energy, her voice like gravel over broken glass. She was the smallest of the trio, but her intensity made Timmy’s stomach flip. A studded choker circled her throat, and her eyes—sharp, kohl-rimmed—raked over him like she was dissecting prey. “What, thought you’d roll in here and find some sweaty dudes to jerk off with over power chords? Sorry to disappoint, puppy. I’m Vex, that’s Kat on drums, and the big boss over there is Roxy. We’re The Iron Vixens. And we don’t play nice.”
Roxy tilted her head, her smirk widening as she stepped closer. She towered over Timmy, her presence a wall of heat and leather. “So, Pretty Boy, you got a name, or do I just keep callin’ you that ‘til you cry?”
“Timmy,” he managed, his voice cracking on the second syllable. He winced, gripping his guitar case tighter. “It’s Timmy.”
“Timmy,” Roxy repeated, dragging the word out like she was tasting it. “Cute. Real fuckin’ cute. You sure you’re in the right place, Timmy? ‘Cause you look like you belong in a library, not a shithole like this.”
“I can play,” he said again, a little firmer this time, though his hands were sweaty on the case handle. “Just… give me a shot.”
Kat snorted, slamming her sticks down on a cymbal with a sharp crash that made Timmy jump. “Oh, we’ll give you a shot, alright. But you better not be wastin’ our time, kid. I’ve got better things to do than babysit a nervous little twink.”
“Lay off, Kat,” Vex snapped, though her lips twitched with amusement. She circled Timmy, her boots clicking on the concrete, her gaze never leaving him. “Let’s see if the puppy’s got any bite. Plug in, Timmy. Show us what those shaky little fingers can do.”
Timmy swallowed hard, his heart hammering as he set down his case and pulled out his guitar—a scuffed-up Stratocaster he’d saved every penny for. He fumbled with the cord, plugging into a nearby amp, aware of every eye on him. Roxy leaned against a wall, one boot propped up, watching with a predator’s patience. Kat tapped an impatient rhythm on her snare. Vex stood with her arms crossed, her head cocked like she was already bored.
“Any day now, sweetheart,” Roxy called, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Or do you need one of us to hold your hand?”
“I’ve got it,” Timmy shot back, a flicker of defiance cutting through his nerves. He adjusted the strap, took a deep breath, and launched into a riff—a raw, jagged run of notes he’d been messing with for weeks, inspired by late-night binges of The Clash and Sex Pistols. His fingers moved faster than his brain, the sound ripping through the garage, gritty and unpolished but alive with energy.
The women went still. Kat stopped tapping. Vex’s eyebrows shot up. Roxy’s smirk faltered for half a second before it returned, sharper than ever.
“Well, damn,” Kat muttered, leaning back on her stool. “The kid’s got claws after all.”
Vex let out a low whistle, stepping closer as Timmy finished, his chest heaving, cheeks flushed. “Not bad, puppy. Not bad at all. You might just survive the first round.”
Roxy pushed off the wall, stalking over until she was right in front of him. Up close, he could see the faint scar above her lip, the glint of a tongue ring as she spoke. “Alright, Pretty Boy, you’ve got talent. I’ll give you that. But let’s get one thing straight.” She jabbed a finger into his chest, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “I run this show. You don’t talk back, you don’t fuck around, and you sure as hell don’t show up late. You got that?”
Timmy nodded quickly, his throat tight. “Yeah. Got it.”
“Good.” Roxy’s eyes gleamed with something dangerous, something that sent a shiver down his spine that wasn’t entirely fear. “Stick around, Timmy. We’ve got practice tomorrow. And trust me, you’re gonna need to keep up, ‘cause we don’t slow down for anyone. Not even a cute little thing like you.”
Kat cackled, slamming her sticks down again. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. Fresh meat to break in.”
“Play nice, Kat,” Vex said, though her grin was anything but nice. She clapped Timmy on the shoulder, her grip firm. “For now. Let’s see how long you last, pup.”
Timmy managed a shaky smile, his palms still sweaty, his heart still racing. He should’ve been terrified—and part of him was. These women were a force of nature, a hurricane of leather and attitude that could chew him up and spit him out without a second thought. But as he packed up his guitar, their taunts echoing in his ears, he felt something else too. A spark. A thrill. Like he’d just stumbled into something wild, something bigger than himself. And for the first time in a long while, he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
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