Bruising | Bondy x OFC

Chapter 1

June, 1995.

It's the peak of the Britpop movement, but most of the people in Newcastle are focused on the bands from Manchester.
Small bands try to adapt themselves to the new beats, regardless of their previous songwriting styles, just in case they become popular.
Somehow, this is the pub where these bands get started. They book a gig and get 30 percent off the tickets sold. And if it gets sold out –which is rare, considering how little known these groups are–, they get free drinks and food at the bar.
As for me? I'm not much into the movement. I was raised on Black Sabbath and Deep Purple. I recently found myself buying records of big grunge bands that my best friend recommended - so far, the band I like the most is Pearl Jam. I heard the singer loves The Who and, to be honest, I feel somewhat important knowing that a famous singer is into the same music as me.
But my life has little to do with music. I am, legally, a lawyer. But in these trying times, most attorney studios require years of experience that, so far, I have not. So, until the crisis wears off –if it ever does–, I'm working at The Alligator, or as I call it, The Rat Hole.
It's almost literally a hole in the wall. It used to be a rather small grocery store in the 70s until a rat infestation in the storage rooms caused it to be closed for pest control and abandoned afterwards. My boss, Andrew, bought it in 1983 and did very little to get rid of the dirt and smell of piss through the years. Now, he boasts about being the first step onto fame for musicians, but little does he know that these kids starve themselves to record very rudimentary EP's and release little copies that most times don't get sold, thus being given out as gifts at their gigs in hopes for a massive producer to be infatuated with their music, which so far, has never happened.
Anyways. After I left my ex fiancée for his violent behaviors, I started to hand out curriculums in every place that was hiring staff to move out of our flat in the city centre. I lived in the streets for about a month, sleeping in doorsteps and hospital halls, until they phoned me from here.
Today, I rent a single room flat in a rather calm neighborhood where there isn't any yelling, cars beeping past midnight and old hags complaining about how the youth choose to dress up. And, of course, where my ex can't find me.
My name is Y/N, by the way.
The staff at The Alligator are Alma, my closest friend whom I keep near me and protect at all costs; Syd, the punk kid who serves the drinks; Andrew; and the bouncer, Jack, who is a sweetheart but will beat you up if you pick up a fight. And me, well - I mop the floor and get rid of the smell of piss and other bodily fluids. Oh, and I also book the bands that come and play.
This evening, it's pretty quiet. There's a saxophonist playing a really smooth piece of traditional jazz and there's about four people listening, whereas the rest are drinking their salary away at the hidden tables behind columns or in corners where they aren't reached by the lights.
Alma is standing with me at the bar, occasionally sipping on a bottle of beer while we wait for another client to come in.
"What about Aiden?" She asks, looking me dead in the eye. She's sick and tired of trying to hook me up with lawyers, doctors and other professionals that are 'on my level', but I just want nothing to do with love yet.
"Everyone in town knows that man is a dimwit," I answer. Her eyeliner is sharp but mine is sharper.
"But he went to Law School."
"And? That doesn't make him smart. He probably memorized everything and nowadays can't remember article 14 from the Constitution."
"Ah, Y/N, come on!" She sighs, frustrated. Then, she raises her eyebrow and gives me a huge, toothy grin.
"Which one now, Alma…" I mumble in response, pinching the bridge of my nose in visible nuisance.
"Why don't you date a musician? Most of the kids who come here always leave with the hots for you."
I snort loud enough that the sax player almost loses his track. A musician? Me? Y/N Y/L/N, who graduated with honors? Following a hydrophobic dirtbag who happens to play an instrument around the country to his shitty gigs?
"No fucking way, Alma. No fucking-"
And then, we hear the doorbell ring. A customer has come in.
He has shoulder length, wavy, brown hair and small doe eyes; a hooked nose and small lips. He's wearing an Oingo Boingo t-shirt underneath an open flannel. Alma elbows me and whispers in my ear. "He's cute! Say hello, Y/N!"
"Hello, sir, how may we help you?" I ask, repeating the same speech from every night. I can't help but look into the only eye his hair isn't covering, which is icy blue. The bloke smiles and I see a rather adorable, crooked row of teeth. I also notice that his cheeks are as red as the cheap wine this hellhole serves.
"Please, don't call me 'sir'," he answers, giggling. "My name's Jonathan but my friends call me Johnny or Bondy. Either is fine."
Alma grabs my arm and quickly jumps to speak. "Okay, Bondy? Hold on. I need help in the kitchen and my fellow coworker is the only one available. Can you wait five minutes? Right here?"
Johnny nods and sits on one of the stools at the bar while Alma pulls me into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
"I saw it! I saw it in your eyes, Y/N, you can't lie to me!" She whisper-yells, grabbing both my shoulders and shaking repeatedly.
I brush her hands off of me. "What are you talking about? I only said five words to him!"
"The way you looked at him. You like him."
"Shut the fuck up! He's cute, yes, but-"
"Go out and talk to him right. Now." I know that's a command and you can never fight Alma, so I get out of the kitchen and back to Johnny.
"So, Johnny," I sigh as I approach him. "Can I see your ID?"
"Sure, here you go," he replies, holding out the small plastic card. I look at it thoroughly, searching for signs of adultery. But he's squeaky clean - he's 23.
I hand him his ID back, smiling politely. "Okay, you're clean. Do you want the menu or a surprise drink?"
"Actually, I've come to book a gig," he answers, shyly looking down at his shoes. I take the artists' list and explain him the rules, to which he agrees. "Thanks… can you tell me your name again?"
"Y/N, but my friends call me Dolly. You know, the doll face…" I fake a giggle to be polite. I want this one and every raggedy musician to stay away from me.
"Well, not only the face. You truly are a doll. You treated me better than most of the managers at the other pubs…" he looks away and I know he's intimidated and probably regrets saying that but… it was sweet and smooth. So I let it slide. "So, everything's set up? Just gotta bring the gear?"
"Yeah, that's pretty much it."
"Okay, well, I'll… come back tomorrow. It's getting late."
"Sure. Goodnight, Johnny."
He's facing away from me now, walking towards the door. But he turns his face to me, smiling coyly before he says "nighty night, Dolly," and leaves the pub in the heavy summer night.