Black Sheep - Eddie Munson x Reader

Passionfruit Paperbacks

Eddie waited for you to walk through that aluminum door for weeks. For four grueling Saturday nights in a row, he drank far too many beers before Hellfire Club even commenced. Anxiety ate at him from the inside out like moths devouring an old woolen jacket.

What would he do even if you did show up with Steve again? Eddie became well aware that he wasn't the fearless creatures he created for each week's campaign. If he were, maybe he would've had the guts to ask you out in high school. Or at that Mötley Crüe concert. Or before you walked out of his life once again and back into that prison you called home.

Still, he continued to manifest your arrival, and he continued to end up disappointed when the universe decided that his darkness wasn't worthy of your light.

Not that you were any better off.

The plan worked. Neither of your parents so much as mumbled the words "marriage" or "grandchildren". They didn't mention nursing school, let alone ask you to drop out to start your life as a homemaker. Guess they'd rather see you die an old spinster than take on the Munson family name.

Despite having gained their long awaited silence, you lacked the peace you'd always assumed would accompany it. Eddie's face plagued your dreams. Images of his dark, deep puppy dog eyes and tattoos made every second of sleep restless — and waking up a breathless, sopping mess was even worse.

It felt like you were in mourning. Like you'd somehow lost him, even when he was never yours.

But as the weeks passed, that hurt grew a little more dull. It didn't go away — he still crossed your mind every single day, and you did his — but you were able to shower without imagining the way his lips would feel against your shoulder beneath the hot stream.

And that little bit of strength was enough for you to continue with your volunteer work. Maybe if you signed up to work the nurse's station at another rock show, you could meet your real "Eddie".

Or at the very least, a cheap knock off that could take his place for one hot, steamy night.

Somehow you'd managed to snag the Judas Priest show following Independence Day. It wasn't just the clinical hours and eye candy that you were after at these concerts. Hearing your favorite bands live fed your soul a type of gratification that was incomparable — even if you spent most of the night sopping up bloody noses and stitching together sliced palms.

You sat at your little makeshift triage booth in your corner near the door — which consisted of something like a massage table for your patients to lay back on, a few boxes of first aid supplies, gloves, and puke bags — and watched as the first concert-goers flooded the venue. It was like a stampede. An absolute shit show. Ninety percent of the attendees were guys, and you scanned every single one of their faces for features you would recognize.

Smile lines, perfectly shaped lips, a beautiful set of canines that could pierce your skin so wonderfully. No one looked familiar in the frenzied stampede, but it was a nice shot. Wasn't it?

It wasn't halfway into the opening band that your first patient arrived with blood gushing out of his mouth. Poor boy didn't look a day over seventeen. You wanted to ask him how he'd gotten his teeth knocked out of his skull so damn early in the set, maybe ask if this was his first show, but it wasn't long before the injuries were lining up for your expertise.

By the end of the third opener you'd worked up a sweat. The second one patient hopped up off of your table, another laid down in his place. Little droplets of blood dried against the floor surrounding you and stained your white shoes. You made a mental note to leave them on the front porch or else you'd never hear the end of it.