This is my alt-rock NA serialised story — the book my younger self needed, written by my older self who finally knows what to do with all the bruises.
New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 6. Or go to the chapter index
Sadie
Friday nights at Margot’s were always a bit feral.
The sound system was vintage, the lighting was straight-up moodboard, and the floor behind the bar always smelled faintly of limes and regret.
I loved it.
Margot was currently yelling over the espresso machine, a swirl of Vivienne Westwood tartan and safety pins. Her hair was piled high in a deliberately messy up-do streaked with silver, and her eyeliner was sharp enough that you probably shouldn’t stand too close.
Rumour had it she’d been on first-name terms with Vivienne herself, back when the Pistols were still nicking pints from backstage riders.
Right now she was trying to convince the kitchen staff she invented the espresso martini. Someone lobbed a lemon at her head. She caught it one-handed and bowed like she was accepting an Oscar.
“Learn from me, children!” she shouted. “This is hospitality! This is theatre!”
“You’re theatre,” I muttered, wiping down the bar.
She pointed at me like I’d just proved her point. “Exactly, Pikelet! And you, my darling Sadie, are the people’s princess.”
I rolled my eyes. She’d called me that since forever.
I was halfway through restocking the glasses when the door slammed open.
They’d clearly legged it down Karangahape Road to get here – I could still see the rain glittering on their jackets. We always cut that way, past Mum’s mural that still looked defiant even with half the paint peeling off. Gray saluted it every time. I always touched the viola, like a habit I couldn’t break.
“Oi, Sadie! You on?”
Jasper’s voice hit first – loud, sunny, and totally unaware of volume as a concept.
He swept in, soaked from the rain, flinging off his coat like he was on a runway. Our flatmates and friends followed behind, spilling in like the cast of a chaotic queer sitcom. Glitter. Eyeliner. Two tote bags from film school. Standard.
“Sadie!” Gray beamed, already halfway to the bar. “We’re celebrating. Jasper got funding and Sam’s had three Negronis. It’s unhinged.”
I smiled before I could stop it.
Gray leaned against the counter, eyes big with drama. “Come play.”
“I’m working,” I said, fighting the grin.
“Boo.” He leaned in, stage-whispered, “We’ll tip obnoxiously.”
He meant it. Last time, they folded a twenty into an origami penis.
The others sprawled all over the front tables which soon looked like a glitter bomb had gone off. Someone knocked over a stool. Margot gave them a wave from the end of the bar like a war general saluting incoming troops.
“Here comes trouble,” she muttered, and disappeared into the office.
And just like that – I felt it. That thing. That sudden, aching, ridiculous swell of affection.
This messy, creative, queer family I’d somehow stumbled into? It wasn’t what I thought I’d end up with.
But it was everything I didn’t know I needed.
Later That Night
The flat was quiet. Everyone was either out, asleep, or passed out halfway through a doco about moths (Jasper, obvs).
A candle was burning on the kitchen counter – coconut and sandalwood – and the smell was drifting down the hall like it had nowhere better to be.
I was curled on the couch under a questionable op-shop blanket, half a mug of tea going cold on the armrest, phone screen too bright in the dark.
I wasn’t going to search him.
Not properly. Not seriously.
…maybe…just a vibe check?
And then I did.
Dev Fletcher. Ruin.
Search results? Instant. Scarily instant.
Pages of images. Interviews. Thirst tweets. Fan edits.
And then – there he was. Moving.
Not the soft-focus blur I’d been low-key replaying since the hut. Not the stillness of memory. Real. Laughing, talking, sprawling across a late-night talk show couch with that slow, smug confidence of someone who knows exactly where the cameras are and wants them to stay there.
He was layered in vintage – frayed silk, faded denim, too many rings. Eyeliner artfully smudged. Hair wild in that way that’s definitely styled, no matter how hard it’s pretending not to be.
But it was his voice that messed me up.
Familiar. But… wrong.
Like hearing someone cover a song you love, but in the wrong key.
The texture was still there. The gravel. The rasp. But this version was curated. Sanded down at the edges.
Not the voice that had muttered “Nurse Ratched” at me while I pressed gauze to his ribs. Not the boy who’d looked at me like he’d run out of lies.
This was Ruin.
And Ruin was a brand.
I paused the video, heart doing that annoying lurchy thing, and opened his Instagram.
Branded chaos. Loud. Pretty.
Studio shoots. Black-and-white tour shots with the other lads in Ruin: Connor, Mateo, Simon and Owen. Half-buttoned shirts. Carefully undone. Then way too many of Dev shirtless, displaying that bloody tattoo. Posing like he was flirting with the lens and bored by it at the same time.
Nothing like the boy in the hut.
Nothing like truth… but what even was the truth? He hadn’t even fucking told me who he was. Had even poked at my not knowing by asking me what I thought of his own music…I mean, who does that?
I slammed the app shut, tossed my phone onto the couch like it was too hot to touch, and sat in the dark with the ghost of him still running loops in my head.
That tattoo.
That mouth.
That look. Like I wasn’t an accident.
And then – worse than any of it – came the memory I hadn’t let myself touch. Not properly.
The way he’d snuggled against me in the sleeping bag, no hesitation.
The way his arms wrapped around me like we’d done it a hundred times.
No commentary. No agenda. Just warmth.
His body was solid. Big. Safe in a way I hadn’t expected. Didn’t even want to expect. I could still feel the weight of his arm across my waist. The slow rhythm of his breathing.
The way he’d shifted once – just once – and tucked his chin near the top of my head like we were... something.
Like we mattered.
My throat tightened.
And for a minute, just one, I let myself feel it.
Then I stood up.
Wandered to the kitchen. Stared down a bowl of leftover lemon wedges like they might have an answer... any answer.
Opened my Notes app.
Find sage. Burn hut. Maybe scorch myself a little for symmetry.
Then I went to bed.
Because I wasn’t about to let this become a story I couldn’t get out of.