Last Call

It was karaoke night at the little hole in the wall bar around the corner from his building, but Rowan was tired of sitting in the jail cell of an apartment he called home. So the trade off that he chose was drunk screechy singers in a dark smoky barroom over staring at four bare eggshell white cinder block walls.

His divorce finalized a couple of weeks prior, dissolving a colorful seventeen year run with his high school sweetheart. Rowan and Heather started out hot and heavy, deep in love. However, as with many young marriages, time had a way of driving couples apart.

Life got demanding between working long hours, money stresses and just the two of them growing in different directions. First their intimacy waned, the communication followed close after and Rowan turned to porn. Heather sunk herself into her job and friends, it wasn't ugly, it was just... over.

Rowan had been sitting at the bar for a couple of hours chatting up the blonde haired bartender, Regina and a few patrons that sat around him as he sipped on the bottomless bourbon tumbler. He was working to drink away his first Valentines Day alone.

He felt the presence of a person taking the barstool next to him, but didn't look up from his whiskey glass right away. The woodsy scent that invaded his senses told him it was probably just another bearded red neck in a sleeveless shirt. "Shot of Jose Gold and Yuengling please?" The smooth baritone voice grabbed his attention, causing him to look up.

The man occupying the black bar stool next to him was anything but what his mind imagined. Jet black hair and smooth clean skin, the young man oozed confidence from every pore. He was way overdressed for the regular crowd, white button up with a small sprout of back chest hair spilling out over the low buttoned shirt covered with a stylish black sports jacket, Rowan guessed he was somebody's best man who snuck out of a stuffy wedding reception to have some fun.

"Hey." Rowan nodded at the man when he was caught staring at him. The man nodded back, the hint of a grin curling at the edges of his mouth. He tipped his shot glass back, emptying it before slamming it on the cigarette burn covered bar and walking away, beer in hand.

Without thinking, Rowan swiveled his bar stool around, his eyes followed the younger man as he walked towards the pool tables at the opposite end of the building. He didn't understand his nearly involuntary glances as he watched the stranger work a custom pool cue to clear his table time after time, taking down each opponent that tried to win the space he was commanding.

Every so often, the man would catch Rowan looking at him and smile. Each of those little smiles curiously raised Rowan's heart rate. When the man needed another round, he seemed to make sure he stood, not sat next to Rowan, often times so close their arms touched. His woodsy musk slowly blending together with the cigarette smoke in the air and his alcohol saturated breath.

Each time their bodies made contact, Rowan felt a warm stir in his core. He recognized the feeling, it was the same burn he used to feel when Heather was close to him. He couldn't understand why this mysterious man rekindled that fire, but he did. Rowan decided to table his curiosity and continue trying to drink the loneliness away.

Finally on his forth round, the man looked down at Rowan who was trying hard to not look up and said, "Hunter." with his hand extended in greeting.
Rowan took his hand, chills shot up his arm when Hunter offered a firm handshake. Rowan's voice crackled. "Rowan" he offered, 'Damn I sound like a pubescent teenager', returning fake confidence in his grip. Hunter smiled, seeming entertained by the nervousness Rowan tried to hide.

When some drunk guy murdered the end of Don't Stop Believing in the open opera and some of the inebriated spectators offered hoot n holler cheers, undoubtedly for their friend, the karaoke host yelled out "Last Call, last call for alcohol" before introducing the next rock star singer to the microphone.