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The first time Billy saw you, he stopped mid-sentence. It was a Friday night at the arcade parking lot—someone’s older brother had lugged out speakers and a cooler full of beer, and the local hellraisers had gathered like moths around the sound of a revving engine. Billy’s Camaro, as always, was front and center, polished within an inch of its life. He was halfway through bragging about his last drag race when your car pulled up—a black Firebird, gleaming like a storm cloud under the flickering streetlights.
You stepped out like the scene was made for you. Leather jacket draped just right, big teased hair catching the neon glow, dark lipstick that could stop a heartbeat. The whole crowd turned. Even the music seemed to quiet for a second.
Billy’s grin faltered.
Because you weren’t looking at him. You were too busy lighting a cigarette, your eyes sweeping over the lot like you were already bored of it. Like Hawkins, Indiana, and every soul in it, existed for your mild amusement.
And then— You looked right at him. A slow smirk. A drag from your cigarette. Then you turned away.
Billy couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or start a fight.
From that night on, you were everywhere.
In the school parking lot, leaning against your car with your Walkman on, boots crossed at the ankles. At parties, dancing like you didn’t give a damn who was watching. Sometimes Billy swore you’d deliberately stand just close enough that your perfume—smoky and sweet, like burnt sugar—would drive him insane.
You didn’t flirt back. Not really.
But you knew he wanted you. And that seemed to amuse you more than anything.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Billy drawled one afternoon, leaning out the Camaro window as you walked past after class. “Wanna take a real ride? I’ll even let you shift the gears.”
You didn’t even slow down. Just flipped him off without looking back.
Billy’s grin twitched. “Yeah, love you too, princess!”
He watched you disappear around the corner, that leather jacket glinting in the sun, and his jaw clenched hard enough to crack a tooth. He told himself you were just playing hard to get. But deep down, it burned—how you didn’t need his attention. How you already had everyone’s eyes without trying.
At the next party, he saw you again.
You were sitting on the hood of your Firebird, smoking with some guy from the basketball team. Your lipstick left a perfect print on the cigarette filter, and when you laughed at something the guy said, Billy nearly crushed his beer can in half.
He stalked over before he could think twice.
“Move along, pal,” he snapped at the guy, shoving him lightly in the chest. “You’re blocking my view.”
“Billy,” you said, voice calm as smoke. “Don’t be a dick.”
He turned to you, jaw tight. “You got something better to call me, sweetheart?”
You took another drag, your eyes glittering under the cheap fairy lights. “Yeah. Predictable.”
Someone nearby snorted with laughter. Billy’s face went red. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you think you’re dangerous,” you said, hopping off the car and stepping in close. “But everyone’s already seen the act, Hargrove. You drive fast, you drink, you fight, you flirt. Congratulations. You’re a cliché in tight jeans.”
Your perfume hit him like a slap. His pulse thundered. You were so close he could see the reflection of the firepit in your eyes.
He didn’t know what came over him—some half-feral instinct, maybe—but his mouth twitched into a grin. “You think you’re better than me, huh?”
“Oh, baby,” you murmured, leaning forward just enough that your breath tickled his jaw. “I know I am.”
Then you flicked ash off your cigarette, brushed past him, and climbed into your Firebird.
Billy turned, furious and half-aroused, just in time to see you blow him a kiss before peeling out of the driveway.
The crowd erupted into whistles and cheers.
He spent the rest of the night trying not to think about you.
Didn’t work.
Didn’t work the next night either. Or the one after that.
Every time he saw a flash of black leather or caught a whiff of smoke and perfume, his stomach knotted. He’d find excuses to drive by your house, or rev the Camaro outside the diner where you worked. And when you ignored him, when you just laughed and shook your head—God, it drove him crazy.
Billy Hargrove wasn’t used to being jealous. He wasn’t used to wanting something he couldn’t just take.
Then one night, he found you alone. Behind the bowling alley, where the parties always spilled into chaos, you were leaning against your car, cigarette between your lips, eyes on the stars. The air was cool, quiet, for once.
He hesitated. Then— “Can’t decide if you hate me or if you’re just scared.”
You didn’t look at him. “Scared? That’s cute.”
Billy scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You keep acting like I’m the joke, but you’re the one running every time things get real.”
That got your attention. You turned, slow, eyebrow raised. “Real? Billy, you’ve never said a real thing in your life.”
He stepped closer, the swagger fading. “You got everyone fooled, huh? Like you don’t care. Like nobody can touch you. But I see it. You’re just—” He stopped, realizing too late that his voice had softened.
“Just what?” you asked.
He swallowed. “Like me. Only worse.”
You stared at him for a beat, unreadable. Then you smiled—sharp, dangerous. “Flattering, but I’d never be caught dead being like you.”
You tossed the cigarette, climbed into your car, and looked at him one last time through the rolled-down window.
“Next time you wanna talk, Billy,” you said, voice low, “try asking. Instead of barking.”
Then you revved the Firebird and tore off into the night, leaving him standing in the drifting smoke, teeth bared in something halfway between a grin and a curse.
That night, Billy realized two things. One—he’d never hated anyone so much. Two—he’d never wanted anyone more. And god help him, you probably knew both.