All The Fuckin Hits

February 2027

It's cold as shit. South Philly in February, the kind of cold that sinks into your fuckin' bones, makes your teeth hurt, makes you wonder if you even have toes anymore.

Carina Marie Delvecchio's stomping her feet, blowing into her hands. Zachary Noah Rannis is hunched into his hoodie, posture screaming regret, looking like a guy who made one too many bad choices and now has to stand in this godforsaken line, in this godforsaken wind, with this loud-ass woman he loves but refuses to admit is actually trying to kill him.

"Holy fuck, it's cold."

Zach pulls his hoodie tighter. "Yeah, no shit. Feels like my balls just receded into my stomach."

From behind them, a voice. Small, sharp, and entirely too amused:

"You gotta keep 'em separated."

Carrie whips around.

And there she is. Small. Red-haired. A walking thrift store pile of winter layers. The hat's too big, the coat's seen better decades, and there's that grin. That too-wide, too-pleased-with-itself grin.

Carrie squints. "Did you just Offspring me?"

The girl shrugs, rocking back on her heels. "You said it was cold. Gotta bundle up."

Zach, squinting too now. "You good, or...?"

She flashes teeth. *"I'm lovin' it."

Carrie snaps her fingers, pointing. "Oh my god, she's one of those weird fuckin' people who only speaks in commercials."

The girl just tilts her head. Innocent. Too innocent. "Have it your way."

Carrie turns back to Zach, dead serious. "I love her."

Zach, already so fucking tired: "Please, don't encourage this."

The girl shifts her weight, eyeing them both, still grinning. "Betcha can't eat just one."

Carrie bursts out laughing. Zach groans into his hands.

"Where'd you even come from?" Carrie asks, wiping at her eyes.

The girl shrugs. Still grinning. Always grinning. "Like a good neighbor, I'm always there."

Carrie barks another laugh. Zach lets his head fall back, staring up at the sky like he's pleading for help from a God that abandoned him years ago.

"Okay, okay," Carrie says, still grinning. "What's your name, jingles?"

The girl just smirks, takes a step back as the line shuffles forward.

"The best part of waking up..." she says, cryptic as fuck, before disappearing into the crowd.

Carrie watches her go, blinking.

Zach sighs, rubbing his face. "That was fuckin' awful."

Carrie just grins. Something about it sticks.

The place is small. Tight tables, dim lights, a long, scarred-up bar with too many ghosts soaked into the wood. It's the kinda joint that's always half-falling apart, where the paint peels, the stools wobble, and the taps only sometimes work.

But it's got history.

It's got a stage that barely fits a drum kit and a microphone stand, a low ceiling that makes everything feel a little too close, a little too intimate. And the crowd? Loyal. A mix of die-hards, lost souls, and people who just know this is where you end up when you got nowhere better to be.

Tonight?

Tonight, it's Frankie fuckin' Vescovi.

Blues artist. Philly-born. A voice somewhere between Sass Jordan and Janis Joplin, all raw edges and lived-in pain. She ain't a household name, but she should be. She's been around just long enough to be a legend to the right people, but not long enough to escape the small stages and the sticky floors.

Carrie and Zach find a table near the back, the kind that wobbles just a little too much, and settle in.

"What do you want?" Zach asks, already shrugging off his coat, shaking off the cold.

Carrie doesn't even look at a menu. "Whiskey."

Zach snorts. "No shit. What kind?"

Carrie just waves a hand. "Whatever's cheapest but won't kill me. Same for you?"

Zach leans back, considers. "Nah. Beer. I gotta pace myself if I'm babysittin' you tonight."

Carrie kicks him under the table.

He doesn't even react.

A waitress with tired eyes swings by, takes their order without writing anything down, and disappears before they can even think about small talk.

They wait.

The room fills in slow, the way places like this always do--people peeling off coats, claiming tables, exchanging nods with the regulars. The air thickens with cigarette smoke and that low hum of pre-show energy, the anticipation that makes even the roughest dive bar feel electric.

The stage stays dark.

The drinks come.

Carrie takes a sip of her whiskey, lets it burn down warm.

The small red-haired girl.

Still grinning.

Still watching.

Carrie's got her whiskey half-raised when she sees her.

Small. Red-haired. That same wild-ass grin.

Still watching.

"Squirrel."

Zach blinks, looks around, checks under the table, even lifts his feet like one might be skittering around down there.

"Where?"

Carrie rolls her eyes. "No, dumbass. That girl. The redhead. Squirrel. That's her name."

Zach follows her gaze, squints at the feral little gremlin standing near the bar, icking at the label of a beer bottle like she's got secrets to uncover.

He considers for exactly two seconds before muttering, "That's bad parenting."

Carrie leans in, dead serious. "That's her."

Zach barely looks up from his beer. "Who?"

Carrie jerks her chin toward the small redhead near the bar. "The one who lost a fight to a squirrel in front of CVS last fall."

Zach pauses mid-sip. Lowers his glass. Turns real slow to look.

The girl--Squirrel, because there's no way in hell her name is anything else now--is leaning on the bar, now peeling the label off the bottle like it personally wronged her, grinning to herself like she just heard a joke nobody else did.

Zach looks back at Carrie. "You're sure?"

Carrie nods. "I saw it happen. She tried to square up, but the squirrel came in fast, got right up her leg. She panicked, spun, tripped over the curb, wiped the fuck out."

Zach exhales, rubs a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ."

Carrie takes a sip of whiskey, watching the girl vibrating in place like she's either waiting for a fight or about to start one. "Yeah. That's her."

Zach watches her for another beat. Then nods.

"Checks out."

The lights drop. The crowd hushes, but it's that excited kind of quiet, the kind where everyone's leaning in, waiting, knowing they're about to feel something.

Then--Francis Carmela Vescovi steps into the light.

She don't ease in. She comes on strong.

First chord, thick and heavy, rings out from her guitar. Her voice hits like a truck, low and raw, dripping with decades of heartbreak she ain't even old enough to have lived through.

And the crowd?

The crowd is into it immediately.

She starts with the old stuff. Retro classics, the kind of songs that sound like neon signs and smoke curling up toward a ceiling fan. Nothing newer than 1963.

Something about it feels right here.

The tiny dance floor fills up fast, people swaying, spinning, feeling it down in their fuckin' bones.

Carrie taps Zach's arm.

"Dance with me."

Zach yawns, stretches, cracks his neck like an old man.

Then he stands.

Carrie grabs his hand before he can think better of it, dragging him toward the front. They move with the music, the beat sliding into their ribs, the whiskey-warm glow of the place wrapping around them.

And for a little while, nothing else exists.

Frankie's ripping through Smokestack Lightning, and the whole place is electric.

She's sweating under the stage lights, her guitar snarling, voice raw, pulling something out of the crowd that wasn't there before she stepped on stage.

She scans the room, instinct kicking in, even as she's tearing through the chords, grinding them out like she's working steel between her fingers.

She always picks one.

One girl.

Every show.

And then she sees her.

Carrie.

That look. That energy.

Half-lit by the neon, hips rolling to the rhythm, laughing as she spins in and out of Zach's loose grip, whiskey glow in her cheeks.

Frankie watches her move. Watches the way she takes up space like she owns it.

This is the one.

So she shifts.

Lets the last riff of Smokestack Lightning ring out longer than necessary, riding it out as the crowd whoops and hollers.

Then--she slows it down.

A chord. Soft. Sustained.

She leans into the mic, voice turning low, rich, deliberate.

"Well, where oh where can my baby be..."

Last Kiss.

Wayne Cochran. Slow. Lingering.

And Frankie locks eyes with Carrie and doesn't fuckin' look away.

Carrie notices immediately.

She stills mid-step, hands on Zach's shoulders, eyes snapping to the stage.

Frankie keeps singing.

"The Lord took her away from me..."

The crowd changes. The drunk chatter dies down. People lean in.

Because this ain't just some throwback love song. This is a hunt.

Frankie's pouring it out slow, like a drink you don't rush, like a hand dragging down a lover's spine. And she's locked onto Carrie like a goddamn target.

Carrie can feel it.

The weight of it.

The invitation.

And she ain't exactly the kind to back down from a challenge.

Frankie don't break eye contact.

Not once.

She rides Last Kiss out slow and mean, every lyric dripping like warm honey, voice deep, raw, fuckin' devastating.

And Carrie?

Carrie's already gone.

She feels it everywhere. The heat of the stage lights, the slow roll of bass through the floor, the way Frankie's mouth lingers too long on every note like she's tasting it first, letting Carrie watch.

It's a show, yeah. But it's also a goddamn performance just for her.

And then--

The next song starts.

And the next.

And the next.

And Frankie does not let up.

She's fucking Carrie with her voice.

Every goddamn syllable is dragged out, teased, twisted, turned into something filthy without changing a single word. Every guitar lick? Slow, deliberate, intentional.

Every time Carrie shifts, breathes, licks her lips-- Frankie sees it. Registers it.

Feeds off it.

And Carrie?

Carrie is losing it.

She's one drink, one bad decision away from climbing onto that stage, pushing Frankie flat on her back, and making the whole bar watch.

She wants to wreck her. Right here. Right fucking now.

Zach--who's been here before, who knows exactly what this means--leans in just enough to murmur:

"You need me to hold you back, or you wanna get arrested tonight?"

Carrie snaps her head toward him, eyes wild.

"Zach, I swear to fuck--"

But Frankie--still watching, still fucking devouring her--grins into the mic like she knows exactly what's happening.

And Carrie?

She grins right the fuck back.

The place is quiet now, but not the kind of quiet that means empty.

It's the end-of-the-night quiet. That low murmur of drunken confessions, chairs scraping, the occasional burst of laughter. Feedback hums through the half-dead PA system before someone cuts it off.

People file out.

Some stay for another round. Others for company.

Carrie stays for Frankie.

She stands by the table, rolling her shoulders, still feeling the weight of three straight songs of being sung to like a fucking meal. She grabs her whiskey, downs the last sip. Smirks. Turns to Zach.

"Don't wait up."

Zach grins, doesn't even blink. Just leans in, presses a quick, easy kiss to her mouth. "Enjoy yourself."

And then he turns away, smiling, hands in his pockets, stepping into the night like a man walking into a real chill robbery.

As he goes, he hums--low, off-key, under his breath.

"I married a lesbian..."

Carrie watches him go.

Shakes her head. Laughs.

Then--she turns.

And there's Frankie.

Watching.

Waiting.

Carrie smiles.

And she don't plan on leaving anytime soon.

Frankie's moving through the dwindling crowd, still humming with the afterglow of the set, that buzz in her bones that only comes from laying it all out there and having it land.

She's smiling, shaking hands, soaking up the compliments, laughing off a half-serious marriage proposal from a guy too drunk to mean it.

But her eyes are locked on the 5'7" curvy Italian woman stepping out of the smoky dark like a goddamn problem.

Carrie moves like she owns the whole fuckin' bar.

The whiskey warmth, the pulse of old blues still in her hips.

She closes the distance, stops just close enough to let the tension hum between them.

Frankie waits.

Carrie lets the silence hang, lets Frankie feel the weight of her smirk before she finally, finally speaks.

"Not bad."

A lie.

A bold-faced, sinful fucking lie.

Frankie grins, slow, lazy, dangerous.

"That so?"

Carrie shrugs, all confidence. "Yeah. You almost had me a few times."

Frankie lets her tongue run across her teeth, studying her, taking her in.

Then she steps forward, just a little.

"Almost?"

Carrie doesn't step back.

She just smiles wider.

Game on.

The distance between them vanishes.

Carrie moves in fast and sure, Frankie meets her halfway, and then--

Contact.

Tits smash together, warm, soft, impossible to ignore.

The kiss?

It tastes like whiskey and sin. Like smoke curling low in a dark bar, like slow blues grinding under sweaty lights, like trouble finding trouble and not giving a single fuck.

Frankie grips the back of Carrie's neck, nails grazing skin, pulling her in deeper. Carrie presses closer, a sharp inhale through her nose, greedy, unapologetic.

The few people still lingering--half-drunk, half-in-awe--watch with the kind of quiet respect reserved for witnessing an act of God.

Somebody, in a low, knowing voice, mutters:

"She got another one."

And for a second--it ain't clear which one of them they mean.

Near the door, small, red-haired, feral as ever, the girl pauses.

She looks back just long enough to catch it--the moment, the impact, the way the whole damn bar seems to hold its breath as Frankie and Carrie all but devour each other in plain sight.

Her grin flickers wider.

Like she expected this. Like she knew it was coming before they did. Like she sees all the threads before they knot together.

Then--just like that--she's gone.

Darting into the night, one last flicker of movement before she disappears into the streets.

A ghost. A rumor.

Here one second.

Vanished the next.

Cut to--

Frankie's apartment.

It looks like a pawn shop fell from orbit.

Recording equipment everywhere. Guitars stacked against walls, amps piled like fortifications. A bust of Roy Orbison stares unblinkingly from a cluttered shelf, right next to a cardboard cutout of Elvis Presley that's seen better decades.

The place is a museum, a shrine to every musician who ever howled into the night and meant it.

Posters peel from the walls, the couch is buried under tangled mic cables, and the air smells like leather, old vinyl, and something faintly electrical.

It's a mess, but it's a mess with soul.

Carrie steps inside, boots clicking against hardwood, hands on her hips as she surveys the damage.

"Jesus Christ, Frankie. You live like this?"

Frankie grins, kicking the door shut behind her.

"Babe, I thrive like this."

It starts fast.

The door barely clicks shut before Frankie's on her, gripping Carrie's jacket, pulling her in, mouth hot, urgent, unapologetic.

Carrie meets her beat for beat, hands in Frankie's messy curls, teeth grazing lips, both of them hungry, both of them knowing exactly where this is going.

Fingertips drag over skin.

Jackets hit the floor.

Boots toe off.

The rug is stained as hell, but neither of them notice, or care.

Frankie's hands find Carrie's waist, then her back, her ass, every curve like a revelation.

She pulls back just enough, breathing hard, gripping Carrie by the arms, holding her at arm's length.

Just looking.

Drinking her in.

Because fuck.

Carina Marie Delvecchio is built like a problem.

Soft where it matters, strong where it counts, all curves and confidence and trouble wrapped in perfect Italian skin.

Frankie shakes her head, half-laughing, half-dazed.

"Jesus. Look at you."

Carrie smirks, breathless, hair a mess.

"You like what you see?"

Frankie's fingers tighten, just for a second.

"Babe," she murmurs, grinning, eyes dark, voice wrecked.

"I love what I see."

For all its pawn shop chaos, for all the rusted amps and peeling posters, Frankie's place is wired.

Carrie barely has time to catch her breath before Frankie, half-grinning, half-wrecked, tilts her head back and calls out--

"Alexa, start Playlist Two."

And just like that--Sam & Dave roar to life from hidden speakers.

Don't you ever feel sad...

Carrie laughs, breathless, still standing there half-dressed, chest rising and falling, hair wild.

"Oh, you've gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

Frankie just grins, grabs her wrist, and pulls her down.

They crash onto the couch in a tangled mess--legs caught up in mic cables, old issues of Hit Parader scattering to the floor, Frankie's thigh sliding between Carrie's, heat chasing heat.

The music rolls through the apartment, thick and warm, the bassline sinking deep into their bones.

Frankie's fingers graze Carrie's waist, slow and teasing, eyes flicking between her lips and her skin like she can't decide which one she wants more.

Carrie, grinning, breathless, knowing exactly where this is going, leans in close.

"You always set the mood like this?"

Frankie smirks. Tips her head, voice low, wrecked, full of promise.

"Only for the good ones."

Frankie don't rush. She never does.

Yeah, she picks someone out of the crowd most nights. Someone who feels it, who gets it, who lets the music get into their blood the same way she does.

But it ain't just some cheap, backstage quickie.

It never is.

She's got no one in her life, no anchor, no home that feels like more than a museum of things that mattered to other people. So she fills the silence with women who are willing to let her in, if only for a night.

And tonight?

Tonight, it's Carrie.

And Carrie isn't just anyone.

Carrie meets her halfway, matches her note for note, the same way she did on the dance floor. She lets Frankie lead, lets her set the rhythm, but she don't just lay back and take it.

This ain't just sex.

This is a performance of a whole other kind.

Frankie takes her time.

She memorizes.

The shape of Carrie's mouth under her lips.

The way her breath catches when Frankie's fingers sink into her.

The heat of her skin, the fire in her blood.

She tastes her slow, slides against her like she's playing for an audience only they can hear.

Her hands move deliberately, like she's picking out chords, like she's building something, piece by piece.

Lips. Soft, then hungry.

Tits. Pressed together, heat pooling between them.

Tongues. Slick, teasing, deep, knowing.

Fingers. Trailing, circling, sinking, curling.

And the gasping.

Not desperate. Not rushed.

Just felt.

Carrie moans against Frankie's mouth, and Frankie swears it vibrates through her fuckin' soul.

And then--the staring.

Deep. Unwavering.

Carrie's brown eyes, dark and molten, locked onto Frankie's like she's seeing something that ain't been seen in a long time.

Frankie holds it.

Keeps playing.

This is her second set of the night.

And she's playing all the fuckin' hits.