Frith

The first time you saw her, Frith was on stage under the haze of pink neon and sweat-slick air. She didn’t dance so much as dare the crowd to keep up—sequins catching the light, eyes half-lidded behind thick black glasses, like she knew a secret and had no intention of sharing. You were new to the boardwalk club, fresh off a bus from nowhere with a borrowed duffel and a need to disappear. She barely looked at you that first week, except once when she caught you staring. A smirk tugged at her lips—mocking, curious. You looked away, pretended to fix your badge. Summer moved fast here. By day, you hauled beer crates and watched sunburned tourists drift in and out. By night, you stood by the door, hands in your pockets, stealing glances at Frith between sets. You told yourself she was out of your league. She didn’t talk to guys like you. Then came the night the storm rolled in. Power flickered, the crowd thinned, and someone cut their foot on broken glass by the bar. You helped mop up blood and rainwater while Frith sat on the edge of the stage, swinging her boots like nothing mattered.