The Reckless Collision

Chapter Two

The drive was quick, Purple Rain—the band I loved, playing softly on the radio as I hummed along and calmed my nerves. By the time we pulled up to Rory's house —more of a mansion, really—I realized I was a good thirty minutes late. Not that it mattered; it was a house party, not a dinner reservation.

As the Uber drove off, the party sounds hit me, spilling out from the massive two-story house with its grand windows and towering front door. I stood outside for a moment, taking it all in. The night felt electric, full of potential. Maybe this was what I needed a night to let loose, forget about all the uncertainties waiting for me back home, and just... be.

Should I knock or just walk inside? I hesitated at the door, my hand halfway to the frame, when it flew open before I could decide. There stood Scott, a red cup in his right hand, his grin as wide as ever.

"I've been looking for you," he said, swaying slightly. His balance was questionable, but his enthusiasm was steady. "Come here." He pulled me into one of his signature side hugs brief but warm, just like him.

"My Uber was late," I said, stepping back and motioning to my outfit with a small smirk. "And I had to get ready. This doesn't just happen, you know."

"Yeah, right?" Scott's green eyes swept over my outfit with a playful glint. "Come in. I've got a surprise for you," he added in a singsong voice, already leading me inside before I could ask what he meant.

As we walked through the door, the overwhelming smell of beer and sweat hit me like a brick wall. Rory's house was enormous, its yellow-painted walls glowing dimly under the hazy light, while the sleek black wooden floor seemed to absorb the chaos around it. The living room was packed, a sea of people spread across the space, spilling onto the stairs and into the corridors.

There was barely any furniture just a big flat screen on one wall and a collection of musical instruments arranged in front of it: a drum set, two guitars, and a microphone on a stand. My eyes narrowed as I took it all in, confusion building.

"What is this?" I asked, pointing toward the instruments. "And where's Molly? Have you seen her?" I stood on my toes, scanning the crowd.

"A stage," Scott replied, his smile widening into something almost conspiratorial. He pointed toward the back of the house. "She's somewhere with Mason. You should grab a drink, the show's about to start."

"What show?" My voice rose over the growing noise as the sound of drums filled the air. He didn't tell me anything about a show. It wasn't just a party it was turning into some kind of concert. But who was performing?

"Purple Rain," Scott announced, his grin triumphant, pausing as if waiting for my reaction.

"No," I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Oh, yes," he shot back, nodding like a bobblehead, completely unbothered by my skepticism.

"How did you even pull this off?" I demanded, but the words barely left my lips before I saw him, Raymond Lawrence—the vocalist for the band—stepping onto the makeshift stage as the guitars joined the steady beat of the drums. My breath caught.

"I got you a rum and coke. Is this that band?" Molly's voice jolted me out of my daze as she appeared seemingly out of nowhere, gasping slightly from squeezing through the crowd.

It's like she is Hermione Granger with a time-turner necklace. Molly always had this uncanny ability to pop up at the perfect moment. Her vanilla perfume briefly overpowered the stifling scent of the room as we hugged in greeting.

Molly looked like a different person every time I saw her these days, her obsession with contouring and glam makeup transforming her already striking features into something almost otherworldly.

Tonight, her long blond hair was slicked back into a sleek ponytail, and her black dress hugged her frame, showing off legs that seemed to stretch for miles. Under the dim stage lights, her golden-tanned skin made her high heels nearly disappear.

"I have to talk to Rory. Catch you later," Scott said, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze before vanishing into the crowd of people.

The first vocals broke through the noise, and I instantly recognized the tune "Deep Parade" one of Purple Rain's poppier tracks. The crowd surged toward the stage, making the room feel suffocating, but Molly and I hung back near the open door, where the faint breeze was a welcome relief.

"Thanks for the drink," I said, taking a sip. The familiar taste of rum and Coke was comforting, grounding me in the surreal moment. "This is the band," I added, glancing at Molly, a smile tugging at my lips. The sight of Raymond on stage still felt unreal.

Molly raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a sly grin. "Did you seriously not know about any of this?"

"Not a clue," I admitted, shaking my head as I gestured toward the stage. "Did you?"

"Scott told us when we got here!" Molly yelled over the music, her voice strained and her throat visibly tight as she tried to project above the noise.

I leaned closer, cupping my hands around my mouth to shout back. "How did all of this even happen?" I motioned to the makeshift stage and the instruments, waiting for her explanation.

"Your boyfriend somehow organized it," Molly answered with a sly smirk, taking a sip from her cup.

I furrowed my brows, irritation flickering in my chest. "Don't call him that," I said, scrunching my nose. "We've been over this. Scott is just a friend, and you really need to stop making up theories about us."

Molly, as always, didn't take me seriously. She just grinned and waved her hand dismissively, her hips swaying effortlessly to the beat. "You know what I mean."

"I mean it, Molly," I insisted, trying to focus on the music but failing as her words lingered.

"He's in love with you," she said, her tone light but her green eyes sharp. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off before I could speak. "And you're just fooling yourself into thinking he's just a friend."

I couldn't help it. A dry, mocking laugh escaped my lips. A few people nearby turned to glance at me, but I didn't care. Molly always managed to hit a nerve and then twist it, but I knew how to play it off.

For the next three songs, we danced, sipped our drinks, and let the music carry us away. My throat ached from singing along, but I didn't stop. Purple Rain was one of my favorite bands, and there was no way I could stand still with the vibrant energy coursing through the room.

Molly, predictably, wasn't a huge fan of rock music. Instead, she poured all her energy into dancing, moving in time with the beat like she was born to do it. Meanwhile, I flailed my arms to the sides and shuffled my feet, fully aware of how awkward I probably looked. The amused glances I got from people around us confirmed it, but I didn't care. The music was too good to ignore.

I finished my drink and kept dancing, the buzz of the alcohol mixing with the electricity of the crowd. The night felt endless, like a moment stretched out in time. Until, suddenly, something cold and wet slid down my lower back.

I gasped, freezing in place as the icy sensation sent shivers up my spine. Before I could process what was happening, I felt a hand brush against my back, spreading the liquid even more.

"Seriously?" I turned sharply, trying to see who had just spilled their drink all over me. The warmth of the room and the exhilaration of the music suddenly felt distant, replaced by the clammy, uncomfortable feeling of damp fabric clinging to my skin.