Killer Queen | Ben Hardy

1. don't stop me now

1970. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke are the first to hit my nose as I step into the Flying Fox Pub. Bodies dance beneath the makeshift stage as rock music fills the space. The room isn't large—it feels incredibly crowded with the only thirty individuals dancing on the floor. I make the executive decision to make a beeline for the bar. I need a drink.
In my denim skirt and tight floral top I can feel the eyes of many admirers—I ignore each one. There's no time for boys right now. I keep my eyes on the prize: that corner bar stool that has become all too familiar.
"You're late."
A white sangria is pushed in front of me as I sit down at the counter. "Calm down, Luke. It's only ten," I respond as I gratefully pick up my drink. I give Luke, the bartender, an exaggerated eye roll before taking my first sip. Delicious.
"You're our local barfly. I expect you here at eight o'clock on the dot."
Over the many months of my weekly visits, Luke and I have grown close. We're both around the same age, him somewhere in his mid-twenties. And he never fails to listen to my incessant babbling—the mark of a true friend. He teases me about my 'alcoholism' due to my continual Friday night visits, always with my best friend Daisy. Except of course for tonight, due to her inherent cancellation. Screw her.
"Where's Daisy?" He asks as if reading my mind. He begins wiping at the benchtop with a wet towel.
"Sick." I spin around and focus my attention on the band. Smile has been playing this Friday night gig since I've started coming here. I'll admit, seeing them is one of the perks to my visits.
I zone in on each member playing together in perfect unison. There is Brian, playing a smooth lick on the guitar, Tim, belting out notes as he plucks at his bass, and of course Roger, who pounds away at his drum set.
I'm interrupted from my daze by Luke's voice in my ear. "I know, doesn't he look good tonight?" He forgets washing the counter, instead leaning over so he can speak privately to me.
Even without saying a name I know he is talking about Roger Taylor. Let's just say we both have a little crush on the guy.
I tear my eyes from the drummer and spin back around to face Luke. "Why don't you just ask for his number already?"
"Honey, we both know he ain't gay," he says with the sassiest eye roll. "But girl, you should go for it. I see him give you eyes," he encourages as he goes back to washing the surface of the counter.
I chuckle, nearly choking on my drink. "Yeah, I'm sure," I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. I steal a glance back at Roger as he obliviously plays the drum set. Luke is right, he does look good.
"Oh wait," Luke suddenly interrupts, looking off as if in thought. "Maybe he was looking at Daisy," he wonders aloud, the hint of a grin creeping up the corners of his mouth.
He's obviously trying rile me up—it partially works. My eyes narrow as I gently slap his arm. "Screw you."
He chuckles before responding. "I'm kidding babe. She's cute, but you're hot."

~•~

Four drinks later and I make my way out the back door. It's half past twelve—nearly closing time. I never stay this late but I did arrive later than usual.
I'm not sure if it's from the alcohol or the dancing, but I'm burning up and the cool, autumn breeze sounds like a much needed refresher. I lean against the back brick wall, only slightly dizzy, and pull out a cigarette.
Lost in thought, I don't notice another body walk outside and stand next to me. That, or in my tipsy state I don't care enough to look.
"Got a light?" The male voice asks as I mechanically hand over my lighter, still distracted by the clear night sky.
After a moment of silence, the voice speaks again. "Where's your friend?" I'm shocked out of my daze by the odd question.
I turn to see the familiar blue eyes of Roger Taylor gazing down at me. I've only ever seen him hidden behind his drum set—now he stands less than two feet away from my place against the wall.
I'm too dumbfounded to respond to him. What was it he asked me again? I stare at his perfect frame as he casually leans, facing me, against the brick wall. The collar of his shirt is popped and partially unbuttoned, exposing his chest. His blond hair falls in perfect waves as sweat glistens his chest and forehead. He must have just got done playing.
"I mean, I've never seen you here alone. You're always with that other girl," he continues, ignoring my apparent lapse of speech. His words are slow and deliberate. He brings his cigarette to his lips as his eyes trail the length of my body.
My cheeks burn a shade of red as I finally find the will to speak. "Do you know me or something?" My words come out accusatory, but this doesn't seem to deter the boy.
"No," he pauses with a smirk forming at his lips. "Not yet." Once again he gives me a quick once over before meeting my narrowed eyes.
Damn he's attractive, but I'm not playing this game. I look at him with raised eyebrows and a cocked head, not seemingly impressed by his polished words and smooth demeanor.
He pauses for a moment as if gathering his train of thought. "You come here every week." Now his words are softer and more meaningful. "I've been meaning to talk to you, actually. But you always leave before the show's over."
I'm awestruck by his words. The man who I've been secretly swooning over somehow remembers me.
"How would you remember me?" I ask in disbelief.
With a sly grin he answers, "You're hard to forget." He extends his hand out to mine, "I'm Roger."
"I know," I say shaking his hand. "I'm Dani—Danielle," I correct, opting for the use of my full name.
"Ok, Danielle," he chuckles, mimicking my tone of voice. "How did you think the show—"
His question is interrupted by a shrill screech from inside the bar: "Roger, get your ass in here and get your drums!"
Roger exhales, clearly irritated by the interruption. "Piss off, Tim!" He yells back, yet stubs out his cigarette. Turning back to me he says, "I've better get back in there before he loses it."
He turns to leave but backtracks—pulling out a piece of paper and sprawling a few numbers on it. "Here," he says placing it in my palm along with my lighter. "Give me a ring this week. Or, I'll always see you next Friday," he says with a wink before disappearing back inside.
In an instant he's gone, and in my intoxicated state, I'm wondering if I imagined the entire exchange. However, the telephone number in my hand reminds me otherwise.
Wait 'til I tell Daisy about this.

~•~

author's note:
thank you all for reading! (: