PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

w.c 1.2k

tags. original female character, mentions of smoking, busy work environment, i don't think theres any more warnings. this chapter is pretty tame but duff is smitten.

a/n. once again thank you all for the support and encouragement on my works! i put in a lot of time and effort and i hope you all enjoy them as much as i do writing them. feedback is always appreciated!

taglist. @prettypersuasion, @creepindeaathh, @nelnroses, @hyperiondickrider, @hollywoodroses, @tranquilitybasegrunge. if you would like to be added/removed from my taglist, send me an ask!

pinned so fine masterlist next chapter

Los Angeles smelled different.

Back in Seattle, the air was damp with rain, laced with the sharp bite of gasoline and coffee. Here, everything was drier, hotter—like a sunbaked concrete jungle mixed with car exhaust, grilled meat, and something vaguely metallic from the kitchen vents.

Duff McKagan had only been in LA for a few weeks, and the reality of it was setting in fast: dreams didn't pay rent. He needed money, and fast, which was why he was standing in front of a steakhouse instead of playing bass in some dingy club.

Black Angus wasn't exactly where he pictured himself when he decided to move here, but his brother, Bruce McKagan, had a job lined up for him—but not on the dining room floor. Oh no, his day-glo blue hair was too distracting. Duff's new job: dishwasher. It wasn't glamorous, but neither was being homeless.

With a long, deep breath, Duff pushed open the heavy wooden double doors and stepped inside.

The noise hit him first—forks clinking against plates, the low murmur of conversation, waitresses calling out orders. The kitchen, partially visible from where he stood, was alive with movement: flames flaring up from the grill, line cooks moving in a well-rehearsed dance, the clatter of pans slamming onto burners.

And then—

"Look who finally showed up," a familiar voice called.

Duff turned as Bruce emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag. His older brother was dressed in the standard manager get-up: button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled, hair slightly disheveled, expression hovering between amused and vaguely exasperated.

"You look a bit lost," Bruce smirked.

"Just taking it all in," Duff said, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.

Bruce clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome to the glamorous world of dishwashing, little brother."

Duff snorted. "Yeah, can't fuckin' wait."

Bruce grinned and jerked his head toward the back. "Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone."

The kitchen was hotter than the front of the restaurant, thick with the smell of butter, charred meat, and something greasy sizzling in the fryer. Steam curled from the dish pit where another worker was elbow-deep in sudsy water, stacking plates onto a drying rack.

"Alright," Bruce said, steering Duff past the prep station where a guy with a cigarette hanging from his lips was aggressively chopping onions. "That's Tony—he preps in the afternoons and works the line at night. Don't piss him off."

Tony didn't even glance up from his cutting board, but he grunted in acknowledgment.

Bruce continued walking. "That's Manny on grill, Paula on fryers—"

The introductions blurred together, a mix of names, faces, and brief nods. The kitchen was a well-oiled machine, and Duff was pretty sure he was about to be the next wrench thrown into it.

And then—

"This is Cynthia."

Duff turned, and for a second, the noise of the kitchen faded into the background.

She was leaning against the counter near the order window, flipping through a notepad, her pen tapping absently against the stainless steel. Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She had a sharpness to her—something about the way she carried herself, like she had everything handled and didn't need anyone's help.

When Bruce said her name, she glanced up, her brown eyes flicking toward Duff for the briefest moment before dropping back to her notepad.

"Cynthia," Bruce said, "this is my brother, Duff. He's the new dishwasher."

She gave a small, barely interested nod. "Cool."

Duff felt like he should say something—anything. "Uh, nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too." She didn't look up.

Bruce smirked. "If you have any questions, ask me or Cynthia."

At that, Cynthia finally looked at Duff properly. Her gaze wasn't unkind, just assessing—like she was trying to determine if he was worth acknowledging.

"Just don't get in my way, and we'll get on fine," she retorted.

Then she was gone, striding toward the dining area, already focused on something else.

Duff exhaled. "She's... efficient."

Bruce snorted. "Don't take it personal. She's been here a while—knows this place inside and out. You? You're just another new guy."

"Right. Another dishwasher she won't remember by next week."

Bruce clapped him on the back. "That's up to you, kid."

Dishwashing was exactly as awful as Duff expected.

The sink water was too hot, the plates were crusted with food that had no business existing, and the steam from the dish machine made everything feel soggy. His fingers were already bright red and pruny, his arms sore from scrubbing.

Still, it wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was Cynthia.

Not in a bad way—just in a distracting way.

Duff caught himself watching her more than once, though he tried to be subtle about it. She was quick on her feet, moving between tables and the kitchen with practiced ease. Her voice cut through the noise whenever she called out an order or shot back a sarcastic remark at the cooks.

Cynthia was confident. Unshakable. Completely at home in the chaos.

Duff, on the other hand, was struggling to keep up with the never-ending pile of dishes.

At one point, Cynthia came back to the kitchen to grab a refill. On impulse, Duff decided to try and talk to her.

"So, uh... Cynthia, do you like working here?" Duff liked the way her name felt in his mouth—soft but steady, like a melody that stuck even after the song was over.

She barely glanced at him as she filled a glass with Coke. "It's a job."

"Right." He scrubbed at a stubborn stain on a plate. "Seems kinda crazy."

She let out a dry laugh. "You should see weekends."

Duff smiled, encouraged. "Guessing it's not your dream job either?"

"Dreams don't pay rent."

He hesitated. "Yeah, but if you could do anything else, what would it be?"

For a second, Cynthia looked at him like she might actually answer.

Instead, she grabbed the drink and walked off.

Duff sighed. Strike one.

By closing time, Duff was exhausted. His back ached, his arms were sore, and his shirt was damp from the heat of the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Cynthia, looked as composed as ever. She was leaning against the counter, talking to another waitress, her laughter carrying over the low hum of the closing shift.

Duff didn't realize he was staring until Bruce walked up beside him.

"You survived," Bruce said.

"Barely."

Bruce halfheartedly chuckled. "You'll get the hang of it."

Duff rubbed the back of his neck. "Place is busier than I expected."

"You should see Saturdays." Bruce glanced over at Cynthia, then back at Duff. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

Bruce raised a confused eyebrow. "The job."

"Oh. Uh—yeah. It's fine." Duff paused. "It's work."

Bruce studied him for a second, then shook his head, amused. "Right."

Duff wasn't sure what Bruce was implying, but he didn't ask. Instead, he stretched, rolling out his sore shoulders.

Across the room, Cynthia grabbed her denim jacket, slinging it over one shoulder effortlessly. As she turned, the dim dining room light shined a few pins fastened to the fabric—one of them the unmistakable winged logo of Aerosmith. The red and white design was a little faded, edges worn like it had been there for years.

Duff's lips quirked slightly. Aerosmith. He wouldn't have pegged her as a fan, but then again, he didn't know much about her—not yet.

She disappeared through the door without a second glance.

But he had a feeling he'd be learning soon enough.

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