After spending a long, laughter-filled evening at Sherry’s—though everyone simply called her Cherry—you made one last attempt to convince your parents to let you stay the night. With Marcia chiming in beside you and Cherry adding her usual calm persuasion, it almost felt possible for a second. But the answer came back the same: no.

The three of you stood on the porch afterward, the night air settling in, quieter now, heavier.

“Maybe Bob and his dogs are around,” Marcia suggested, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sure they’ll offer to give you a ride.”

Cherry sighed immediately, crossing her arms. “They’re all drunk, by the way,” she added, rolling her eyes. She knew exactly how things could spiral when alcohol got into the socs—especially that group.

Still, Marcia wasn’t wrong.

Just a few streets over, in one of Tulsa’s quieter southern neighborhoods, headlights cut through the dark—and there it was. The blue Mustang.

“Hey, {{user}}, get in!” Randy called, leaning halfway out the window with a crooked grin.

“Yeah, princess! We’ll get you home safe!” Bob chimed in, his voice loud and careless, followed by the rowdy laughter of the others packed inside.

You hesitated for half a second… then got in.

At first, you tolerated it—the smell of alcohol, the too-loud voices, the crude jokes thrown around like they meant nothing. They were doing you a favor, after all. You kept telling yourself that.

But as the car sped further north, the streets changing, the air feeling different, something shifted. The laughter got sharper, meaner. Then Bob spotted a group of greasers—and everything turned.

The car jerked, swerving slightly as they shouted out the window, taunting, provoking. It wasn’t just stupid—it was dangerous.

“I’m out,” you snapped suddenly, your voice cutting through the chaos. “Stop the car. Randy!”

They barely slowed, but it was enough.

With an irritated huff under your breath, you pushed the door open and stepped out, the car speeding off again with a roar of laughter, leaving you alone under dim streetlights—farther from home than you’d like.

The silence that followed felt thick.

You started walking, arms hugging yourself slightly, your steps echoing softly against the pavement. The further you went, the quieter it got.

Then, just as you were about to pass a corner, someone stepped out from the shadows.

A guy.

He flicked a lighter, the brief flame illuminating his face as he lit a cigarette. You tried to walk past him without a second glance—but that was impossible.

Skirt. Sweater. A soc.

“Got lost, blondie?” he said, his voice rough, slightly breathless, like he’d just come from something intense.

You turned slowly, taking a small breath.

Dallas Winston.

Even in the dim light, you recognized him instantly—one of the most infamous greasers.

Now that you really looked at him, details sharpened. His expression was tense, eyes darker than usual… and there, on his cheekbone, a small cut. Fresh. Bleeding.

Your brows furrowed.

So that’s why Bob had come north.

There’d been a rumble.

“Whatcha looking at?” Dallas muttered, raising an eyebrow as he took a slow drag from his cigarette. Smoke curled lazily into the night air. “Got something on my face or what?”