Flames of Fate

Whiskey and Thunder

[Author's Note: Alright, guys. Here's chapter three! I hope you enjoy it, and as ever, drop me a comment or a message with your thoughts! I appreciate the fact you take the time to read my work, and I appreciate it when you take the time to tell me what you think I'm doing right and what you think I'm doing wrong. I'll post chapter four tomorrow, probably, but I head back to work this weekend so it may be a few days before I have chapter five written and posted. Bear with me!

And again, my formatting is just not cooperating on the site, so I apologize for that!]

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He was back on stage performing, and while part of me was relieved, a bigger part of me missed the conversation. Before he had left he'd vowed to earn my name, and I had laughed at his sheer determination to find out.

Most of the songs that Maybe Mayhem performed were originals, but they had a healthy sprinkling of covers in their line-up, too. Strangely, the covers were all songs I really loved. The band seemingly had excellent taste in music...at least in my eyes.

The whiskey and the lights were making my head swim, and the pulse of the music and the sound of Grayson's voice was making my body hum. Closing time was fast approaching, and I didn't want to go home. There was nothing at home for me but fear and doubt and fate itself, hanging ominously over my head, waiting to fall like the blade of a guillotine. Here, however...here there was alcohol, lights, and music. Here there was distraction. Here there was him.

His voice broke through my alcohol-induced reverie. He had stopped singing, and now he was talking. "...almost closing time, guys. Now, usually the boys and I close our show with our rendition of Semisonic's song, Closing Time, but I'm going to switch it up tonight, as long as my bandmates don't mind having another drink instead of playing another song."

"When have you ever known me to mind having another drink?" the bass player piped up.

"Yeah, ye plonker. We're Irish!" exclaimed the drummer.

"Actually, I'm Scottish," added the guitarist as the band put their instruments up and left the stage.

"Well...now that that's settled," Grayson said, rolling his eyes. "There's this girl here tonight, and she was spewing flames at me earlier. But, guys, we were having this great conversation...lots of banter. And she's beautiful. I mean, drop dead gorgeous. And I can tell she's interested in me. But she won't give me her name. She says I haven't earned it, can you believe that?"

I blush, and some of the guys in the audience are shouting out replies. Most of the girls in the audience are screaming their names at him, hoping that he'll take one of them home instead. And when I look towards the bar, Grayson's band members are all staring at me with bemusement; they're probably not used to girls turning their lead singer and friend down. And Cahlee...Cahlee is there, and she is glaring daggers at me.

"So," Grayson continues from the stage, "I thought, maybe, if I change up the set for her again and do a stripped down acoustic version of this song, she might actually give me her name. Or at least give me a little more time to try and earn it after Bedlam shuts down for the night."

A ragged cheer went up from the crowd, and with that, he picked up his acoustic guitar and started playing the opening strains of the mystery song he had been referring to.

I recognized the song almost instantly; it was by one of my favorite new musicians, a professional hockey player turned country music singer named Chad Brownlee. The song he chose was called Where the Party At?, and once I realized what he was singing I blushed deeper. Girl, that dress is a loaded gun...You look like you like to have fun.