by Kendall Duke
The band was planted there for an hour and a half, minus the drummer. I wished he stayed; that split second when our eyes met came back to me, and the dark glimmer of his knowing look when Disappointment #3 grabbed me. I kept the lemon knife close by whenever I took another order from them and the same frozen smile on my face no matter what bullshit came out of their mouths. Disappointments #1 and #2 thought the whole thing was hilarious, and one of them kept sliding fives at me across the bar like he thought I was a goddamn stripper. But I’d pissed off Disappointment #3. He was drinking a lot, and he was getting meaner. I knew the look in his eye; he was the type that takes offense when his shitty behavior gets noticed, as if his victim was the one doing something wrong.
Well, fuck that guy. Fuck all these guys. What a sloppy bunch of assholes.
I texted my boss and told him I wasn’t coming back after this shift, and apologized for the short notice. I didn’t bother lying about a death in the family, or finding a better job; I didn’t care, at the moment, if I was burning this bridge with gasoline. I couldn’t walk out right then, because it would screw everybody that worked there and I didn’t want that. But they could cover the remaining two shifts I had this week, considering they had a bit of notice, and if I knew my fellow bartenders they really wouldn’t even mind. I had the weekends, mostly, so somebody would grab those. They might have to go halvsies—not many people could stand on their feet for ten hours, serving drinks, especially if they drank the whole time too—but Margo and Callie could cover it easily and make decent money.
So I was really only screwing myself.
I wondered if I could catch some shifts at another nursing home. My license wasn’t expired, so I could still work as a CNA, but it was difficult, demanding work, and made it hard to attend school. I wouldn’t be making anywhere near as much money even if I worked forty hours a week, instead of the twenty-five I crammed into three days as a bartender.
Whatever. I didn’t care. My head rung with the disappointment of meeting a band I actually enjoyed and having them be so incredibly douchey. It also rung with about thirty different orders as people yelled from all directions, waving cash and slapping the bar to get my attention. It was going to be a long night.
After enough time had lapsed and the band was well and truly wasted, they got up and stumbled over to the stage. Usually with someone this famous playing we’d have a good line-up, two or three openers, but this was a last-minute promotional gig and they were by themselves. It was supposed to end around ten o’clock; we’d promoted it as an all-ages show, but they were starting so late I didn’t think they’d wrap up until midnight. Maybe not. They were also so wasted I wasn’t sure how they were going to play at all.
Except the drummer. I saw his muscular form looming in the back, his severe expression darting out at the crowd from under his hair as he took in the weaving stance of the other band members. They were so arrogant. Not one of them seemed to realize that people had paid to see them. Instead, Disappointment #3 pointed out at the crowd and slurred a greeting into the microphone. People hollered back—some of them heckles, but mostly supportive—and the snare started tapping. Thank God for that guy. Without a steady beat I didn’t know what was going to happen. The bass player managed to line up his part with the rhythm, but the guitarist fumbled the intro and they had to start over three times. By then, the crowd was getting restless.
“Hey! Listen all a youssss,” the lead singer howled, then stomped, then picked his mic up when he dropped it. “Alright alright alright,” he muttered, the sound booming out over the crowd. He steadied himself and looked at us, his face relaxing into a smile. “Let’s do this.”
And then they did. The drummer guided them through the song, and I guess, if you weren’t a particularly choosy listener, or didn’t play any instruments yourself, it was a passable imitation of the album version. It wasn’t too bad. It almost sounded like they were a cover band of themselves, which was an odd thought, but there you have it. I appreciated them for making it work, as it thinned out the crowd around the bar while everyone surged towards the stage. The evening slumped by, their talents revealed as being much more studio than stage oriented, but they did okay. I’d heard worse, anyway.
The drummer was good. I nodded my head in time and tried to follow the songs, hiding a smile when the singer accidentally changed a lyric or they fumbled a favorite bassline. These things happen to the best of us, and if they hadn’t been such assholes before they went on stage I would’ve rooted for them anyway. Playing live was really difficult, no matter who you were.
As it was, I just tried not to enjoy their fuck-ups with too much glee.
When things started winding down on-stage, at least a quarter of the crowd was already gone. All of the kids that were here, excited to be seeing their favorite band on a school night, had to leave by eleven. I hoped they Instagrammed the hell out of this bullshit, or whatever it was high school kids did these days; hashtag: Groovebonesux. On the other hand, a part of me felt really bad for the drummer. I’d seen him helping the roadies unload, an uncommon kindness among musicians of his stature, and he’d done the sound check by himself. I’d thought it was suspicious at the time, but the rest of them did okay on stage. He must just have a real work ethic, in addition to not being a gigantic walking douche.
On the other hand, he was in the same band, a band called Groovebone. So there was that.
Sure enough, after the show the four of them came up to the bar again, moving through the crowd with big, shit-eating grins on their faces. Except the drummer, of course; he hung in the back, leaning down to talk to the fans that approached him and once I even saw him smile and shake a guy’s hand. That smile was startling; his whole face exploded with… Kindness, I would say. He just looked incredibly different—all those harsh lines, the severity of his countenance… It was all gone. And then the fan walked away and it all returned, just like that. He stood behind the row of assholes as they slid into vacant bar seats and avoided making eye contact with me, so I sighed and started the routine with his band-mates.
“What’ll it be? And don’t say ‘you sugar,’ or ‘short and sweet,’ or whatever dumb shit you thought up in the two hours you survived on stage,” I said through my bared teeth. “What do you want to drink?”
“You are just a little savage,” Disappointment #3 said, smiling at me. That nasty glint was still in his eye, though, so I stood well back from the edge of the bar. “You’re a minx.”
“You sound like a fucking disco clown,” I yelled over the noise of the bar. “It is not 1975. Do you want anything to drink?”
“Cosmopolitan,” he said, because of course he did. I looked at the pair of assholes next to him and they both ordered White Russians, like a couple of goddamn sorority girls.
“Great,” I said, and I kind of meant it; those drinks weren’t cheap, and they were past their comp tab. I looked at the drummer. “And for you?”
“Nothing, thank you,” he called, and I nodded before turning around and making the rest of their order. Four or five other people had drinks afterward, and the evening slowly became night, then past mid-night. The band was still there when I shouted out for Last Call.
“I want something special,” Disappointment #3 hissed at me, his eyes openly malevolent. We’d had a few more interactions over the bar and my hostility was harder for him to ignore. “What’s special? Besides you?” He leaned back in his seat, coming dangerously close to falling off of it. “And him, I suppose.” He glared at the drummer, who was still standing behind them, talking animatedly to the occasional fan and then lapsing into stillness until one of his band-mates almost fell off a stool. He’d saved them all at least twice. “He’s special too. You can tell, can’t you?”
“Did you want another drink?” I sounded as bored as I felt. “This is Last Call. That means our fun little chats are about to come to an end. Do. You. Want. A. Drink?”
“He likes you,” the lead singer said, his mouth curling
as if the thought repulsed him. “He thinks you’re hot.”
“I hear that a lot,” I said, moving on to the next band-member, “from a lot of drunk guys, unfortunately. Maybe one day someone who’s not an asshole will think I’m hot—a girl can dream. How ‘bout you?” I pointed to the Disappointment next to him. “You want a drink?”
I’d come closer than I realized. A skinny arm snaked out and Tony’s fingers clamped on my wrist again. I pulled away in revulsion but he hung on, digging into my skin. “You’re rude,” he snarled, and I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought he was attractive. He looked reptilian. Evil.
“Let go of me,” I said, and grabbed the closest thing I could find. “Or I’ll fucking blind you, dipshit.” It was a corkscrew, which I could work with, probably, but just made him laugh. He jerked hard on my arm, using it as leverage to haul himself over the bar towards me.
And I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck sticking straight up as I remembered the other guy, the one from two months ago that followed me out.
Disappointment #3 frightened me.
I’ve been in numerous fist-fights. I have a temper, obviously, and just because I grew up dirt poor with a bunch of redneck brothers doesn’t necessarily mean I was destined to turn out as a surly hard-ass, but I did. I know when people are backed into a corner, and when they’re just the type that enjoys hurting someone. And this guy wanted to hurt me.
I lifted my hand, preparing to strike and praying that the security cameras were on—
And he flew sideways across the bar, crashing into two other drinkers before he slid down to the floor, his eyes rolling around in his head. The whole place went dead silent.
The drummer was standing there, his fist still outstretched and his face frozen in a ferocious snarl. He realized I was staring at him and put his arms down and faced me. “I’m sorry,” he said, as if he’d done something wrong. “I’m really s-sorry.”
“Please,” I said, shaking my head at him. “Can you do it again? I know he’s on the floor and all, but I’ll hold him up for you.”
Instead, the drummer took a hard left from the guitarist, also known as Disappointment #2, and then Disappointment #1 started yelling at them both in that sloppy, drunk guy kind of way. I leaned back on the bar and watched the clock. The bouncers would be here in a minute, which was good, because the drummer might kill the rest of the band otherwise. Not that I minded. He took another slug in the face before knocking Disappointment #3 out cold and hauling Disappointment #2 down the bar, shredding some beer bottles on the way. “Watch the glasses,” I called out, and he dropped the guy on the floor like a sack of concrete. About twenty people were still in the bar and they stood up in the booths and cheered like they’d just watched a winning touch-down at the Superbowl. Half of them had their cell phones out, and I wondered if this little fisticuff would be worthy of TMZ. Nice publicity play, if so.
Geordie came back from his smoke break and looked around. “Should we call the cops?”
“Nah,” I said, “we’re not that mean. That idiot over there probably has so much blow in his system that when he stands up he’ll shit a snowflake. And those two don’t need any trouble either.”
“What about him?”
The drummer was watching me with his black hair hanging over his eyes. He blinked, then looked down at his hand. He’d hit them hard, harder than he meant to, I could tell. His knuckles were bleeding. “I don’t want to call the cops on him. Do you?”
“Nope,” Geordie said, and sauntered off in the other direction.
The bodies laid on the ground for a while, and as the on-lookers started drifting out, paying their tabs and laughing as they re-watched the fight on their phones, a couple of them stopped to speak to the drummer but quickly moved on when they saw his face. Severe. Still feral. The bar was empty in about ten minutes, which was just fine with me. “So what’s your plan?” I waved my hand over the snoring bodies of his douchebag compatriots. “I think you probably made the first page of Youtube—hell, if you’re lucky you’re already trending on Twitter. But nobody else is going to show up here, and if they do they’ll find the door locked. So what’s up? You can’t leave them here.”
“I… I’ll call the manager,” he said, his deep voice making a raspy echo in the big empty room. He was still standing there, opening and closing his fist, the blood from his knuckles dripping on to the floor. I threw him a rag as he used his other hand to dial a number on his phone.
“I’m not mopping tonight,” I told him, raising an eyebrow and making a circle with my finger. He dropped the cloth on the floor and quickly swept the blood away with his foot, kicking it aside afterwards. I’d pour some extra bleach in the water tomorrow—oh, shit.
No I wouldn’t.
Damn it. I wouldn’t leave that for Callie to clean up tomorrow. That wasn’t fair.
May as well earn my money one last time.
Heaving a sigh, I started behind the bar, going through the whole inventory and ringing out the cash register. Allen shut down the kitchen and waved good-bye to me, heading out the back door as I started on the dishes. I worked my way through them while a crowd of suits showed up, talking to each other under their breath in hushed, agitated whispers. The drummer just kind of stood there and watched, and some of them called in the roadies and they were tasked with dragging the snoring trio of Disappointments out the door. Papers were pulled out, ripped up violently, signed, ripped up again. The drummer barely moved, unless it was to shake his head no. As I pulled out the mop and bucket, dumping some extra bleach in, the suits began filing out. When the last one left, I locked the door behind him and turned to the drummer.
He took one look at me and slumped in a booth, staring down at the tabletop from under his hair.
So I wasn’t kicking him out then, I guess. On account of a pretty decent left hook I felt like it was okay for him to hang out while I finished up.
But to my surprise, when I started working with the broom I saw a long shadow loom up behind me and startled. “Excuse me—”
“It’s just me,” he said, as if that would be reassuring. No eye contact; he held his hand out for the mop. “M-my fault,” was all he said, and I shrugged and handed it over. Now, that was different. I couldn’t remember a time when someone else made a mess in this dump and then offered to clean it up—hell, they weren’t sober enough to realize they’d made a mess half the time.
“Thanks,” I told him, and started going through the booths, collecting bottles and glasses, getting all the trash sorted. He was quick; he was long and pure muscle, probably about six four or so, and not an ounce of fat on him. I realized I was staring and walked up to the stage, focusing on making sure the whole damn place was spotless. If there was going to be bitching about me walking out, it wouldn’t be from the other employees; the owner was a dick that still owed me for two pay-checks. I’d even done the bathrooms earlier in the night, and after a cursory pick-up I went back and locked the register. When I glanced around the drummer was gone; he came out of the bathroom a minute later, mop in hand, and went back to the big industrial sink behind me as nice as you please, cleaning up like he was getting paid to do it.
“Well, you are not half the douche I thought you were,” I said, turning towards him with my hand on my hip. “If you were here every night, I might stick around. But I’m done—let’s go. Thank you again for your help, Mr. Rockstar.”
He gave me that smile… I swear to god, it was like a spotlight turned on behind his eyes, just the most beatific, angelic, sweetest smile… And then he let his hair fall in his face and nodded once, following behind me as I walked one last time through the bar. Good old Dirge. See you around.
Oddly, it didn’t bother me that he was behind me. I felt safer.
And I can’t remember the last time I let a guy walk behind me willingly—it was probably before I started working here, and had a couple guys decide they wanted to teach me a lesson. The dumber ones would try right here, climbing ove
r the bar, and I’d teach them one instead until Geordie showed up and finished them off. But that one guy followed me outside, waited by the door for at least an hour to get to me…. That incident required a call to the police, a charge for assault, and stitches. He’d really hurt me before I was able to hurt him enough to get away. My skin prickled at the memory, and the old injury twinged in my ribs. When the drummer’s long body reached over mine to hold the door open for me—like an actual gentleman, God bless him—I jumped.
“S-sorry,” he said immediately, but he held the door anyway, and I walked underneath his arm.
He smelled good. After a night on stage, a fist-fight, and mopping up blood. Huh.
I turned and looked up at him, trying to find those eyes under his hair. “Hey, what’s your name?” I realized something when I looked at the promotional poster outside on the wall; the name on the receipts for the show was different.
It took him a minute to answer. He let go of the door and waited for me to lock it, and then I could see the glimmer of his eyes as he looked down at me. “L-L-Leo.”
“Now that,” I said, crossing my arms, “is a sexy name. Why are you listed in the liner notes as Leonidas Barthel? That’s who we paid tonight, not Leo.”
“That’s t-t-technically my name—my l-legal name,” he said, and I nodded, encouraging him to continue. “My father’s name,” he finally clarified, his dark eyes peering down at me from an opening in his long shock of bangs. “S-so I don’t use it in any other context. I go by my mother’s name, Millon.” He pronounced with a Spanish accent: Miyohn.
“Sexy,” I said again, mostly just to see what he’d do. He glanced down at the ground, but when his eyes made their way back up to mine… His gaze was scorching.
Damn. I’d been an idiot for all these years—it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? I tried to remember how I felt about him when I saw him during interviews, but he was so quiet I barely remembered him being on the screen. Instead, I’d watched that snake, Tony, and thought he was a prince. So much for the louts at the bar being idiots. “So, Leo Millon, prize-fighting drummer for the questionably named Groovebone, where are you headed tonight?” It was two in the morning. We closed up at one, and the streets were empty. I guess the band sucked enough that no one was hanging out afterwards on the bus… Actually, I realized, looking around, the bus was gone. “Wait—”
