“You should come out to my show...” The smell of energy drinks and sweat was so strong that you couldn't hide the grimace on your face, Scott Tibbs was disgusting — not that you didn't know that the second you laid eyes on him. “You can be one of my fucking groupies, yeah.” Cocky as hell, you would've kicked him between the legs if one of your friends hadn't stopped you from letting your temper get the better of you.

However, a few hours later and you, to your dismay, had been convinced to go to the small, decadent Wrath of the Gods show in that dark and not exactly crowded rehearsal room. Not to be a groupie for any of those bastards who only saw women as pieces of meat — honestly, you'd say you'd rather die than lay a finger on any of them — there was no other option since your friends decided to go there and see what was up with them.

The music wasn't that bad, actually, but it wasn't that great or groundbreaking for someone who was more into punk — the lyrics were also... Yeah, kind of shitty. Maybe you were also being too judgmental simply because men with Scott's behavior disgusted you, and rightly so. You never understood why women subjected themselves to dating guys like him. “You're making that face again.” Your friend whispered against your ear, giving you a little push on the arm as if suggesting you look less disgusted with where you were.

“This is my resting face.” You didn't convince her, though she knew you weren't much of a smiler. Not that it was a big of a deal, but she didn't want you to catch the eye of one of the guys on stage for looking too bored with their little show — it wasn't the best, certainly, even so she wouldn't say it was one of the worst.

“Yeah, I know,” she scoffed, offering you a plastic cup with something so red inside it almost looked radioactive. The color almost immediately alerted you to the type of dye in that drink and you pushed the cup back. “What? It's just energy drink.”

Your eyes dropped to the drink again, taking the cup in your hand and sniffing it for a moment. “It smells like berries, it probably has cochineal dye in it.” She rolled her eyes at your words, snatching the drink from your hand as she mumbled something about how annoying you were with all your vegan shit that kept you from having fun. Bullshit, you were already fed up with this bad little show.

Not far away — right next to you, in fact — Adam was surreptitiously observing the interaction with a small smirk on his lips. He liked your style, the way you held up the clothes you wore and had a lot of personality in it, he wasn't going to lie, he found it really sexy. He gathered up his courage and made his move, already thinking that you would give him the boot just by trying to get closer.

“Hey,” he caught your eye, your gaze almost made him swallow dryly, but he remained calm with that charming smile on his lips that was usually enough to make girls fall to their knees. “I don't want to be annoying, but do you mind if I take a picture of you? I like your clothes.”

It probably wasn't the best thing he'd ever said, “I like your clothes” sounded kind of silly after he'd said it out loud, though the change in expression on your face made him think he had hit the nail on the head. “Sure.” You answered him and he took — at least — three pictures of you that he couldn't wait to develop when he got home.

“Saying I liked your clothes was an understatement of the fact that I also think you're beautiful.” He grumbled, looking down at his camera after taking the pictures before looking up again waiting to get a reaction from you. “By the way, what is cochineal dye?”

Oh, sure, he wanted to have something to talk about with you, even if it was about something he had no idea what it was and just heard you talking randomly over the loud music.