Killer Queen | Ben Hardy

4. play the game

    The roar of the crowd from earlier that night has subsided to a quiet hum. A few chat near the counter of the bar, others share a laugh while playing darts or flipping through the jukebox.
    My eyes land on Roger, who lies slouched over the counter, bottle in hand. I silently approach him, thinking over my next course of action. Brian's words still ring clear in my mind: be careful with him. I wonder what he meant.
    I make eye contact with Luke who watches me from across the counter. I give him a silent signal, willing him to give me any information concerning the drunken boy before me. Luke only shakes his head and shrugs. He doesn't know anything.
    I nod, disappointed. And with the flick of my wrist, I shoo the bartender away. I need some semblance of privacy if I'm going to ever get Roger out of here. Luke looks once more at Roger before retreating to the opposite corner of the bar. He gives me a wide-eyed expression, as if wishing me good luck. I'll need it.
    I clear my throat in attempt to get Roger's attention. He remains unmoving, his forehead resting on the bar's surface while a tangle of blond hair covers his face.
    Impatient as ever, I sigh and sit down beside the boy. I turn my body to face him as I place a gentle hand on his back. "Roger," I call in a gentle singsongy voice.
    He doesn't startle, but lazily turns his head to face me. His cheek now rests atop the counter as his blue eyes gaze at me from behind a mop of blond hair. He's beautiful.
    "Danielle." He responds, mimicking my tone with a half smile.  Good, at least he's awake.
    "Roger, are you—" I pause fumbling over the words. "—How are you doing?" I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around him: Brian's warning has really psyched me out.
    But Roger never misses a beat. "You mean, am I drunk?" He asks in a knowing tone. He pauses for an instant as he sits up on his stool. He actually considers the question. "It's wearing off," he decides as he raises his bottle to his lips.
    My eyes widen and I quickly snatch the bottle from his hands: I need to sober him up, not get him even more intoxicated. "I think you've had enough—don't you?" I ask in a chiding tone.
    Roger takes a moment to lean against the counter and stare at me. His expression shows his confusion, as if he's internally arguing that he's not drunk. I almost pity him, for he can't see the way he's swaying in his seat. And he can't see the glazed-over look in his eyes. And he doesn't notice his slurred speech. I, however, know that he is most certainly intoxicated.
    Suddenly, he slaps his hand against the counter, as if a lightbulb has just gone off in his head. "Let me guess," he begins with intentional words. "Brian sent you over here to have you take me home."
    I'm stunned—not only by the sudden noise of his outburst, but by the truthfulness in his accusation. My silence says it all: Roger is spot on.
    He scoffs at my silence. "How fucking typical." Raising his voice loud enough for the entire room to hear, he jerks his arms in the air as he shouts, "I don't think he realizes I can walk myself home!"
    I want to tell him to calm down, but I fear that will only anger him more. I instead clasp his hands and pull his focus back toward me. "Hey, I want to walk you home, ok? Brian didn't make me do anything."
    I hold his gaze for a moment, making sure he believes what I'm telling him. It's not the complete truth—but it's not a lie either. I really do want to spend time with this boy, believe me.
    He's now silent. I lightly squeeze his hands before loosening my grip, but he holds them in place, staring down at our interlocked fingers. I don't force myself away from him, but admire his gaze. What is he thinking? In his drunken state, his actions have reverted to those of a child: he lashes out with the smallest instigation, then become somber in the blink of an eye. But the one thing I notice, above all, is the inherent vulnerability behind his gaze. There's no facade he's able to hide behind, and for the first time I see sadness in his blue lenses. I want to ask him what's on his mind; it's evident that there is so much he's leaving unsaid. However, I don't get the chance. He abruptly drops my hands—why do they suddenly feel empty without his touch?
    He meets my eyes with a teasing smirk, the fog somewhat clearing up from his eyes. "Since you keep insisting on walking me home," he begins with deep-rooted sarcasm, "I will comply. But only if you answer a few of my questions." He comfortably rests his elbow on the counter, seeing if I'll take the bait.
    I twirl a strand of hair around my finger as I decide to play along with his game. There's no use in arguing with him. "Alright Mr. Taylor, do your worst," I say, all in good fun. The hint of a smile plays at my lips.
    "You played really well tonight."
    I chuckle at his words, expecting a question and not a compliment. He looks at me as if questioning why I'm laughing—he must be more drunk than I thought. "First of all, thank you. And second of all, that's not a question."
    Roger suddenly chuckles, undoubtedly laughing at himself. But if he's embarrassed, he doesn't show it. Instead he quickly smooths over the mishap. "What I mean is, since you play as well as you do, why haven't you started your own group?"
    I shrug. "I've never really had the aspiration to. Not to mention my crippling stage-fright."
    At this, Roger rolls his eyes—or attempts to, but ends up rolling his entire head to one side. "I don't believe that. You don't seem like the type. And what about tonight?" He asks, countering my statement.
    I shake my head. "Tonight was—strange." It's the only explanation I can think of. Why I didn't freeze up on stage is beyond me. But when I'm given a gift, I've learned not to question it.
    "So why are you here?"
    "Excuse me?" I raise my eyebrows at his rather rude remark. Although, I can't blame him too much; if I were in his state of mind I would have said—and done—much worse by now.
    Roger shakes his head and practically lunges forward as he attempts to move his chair closer to mine. I straighten up at his sudden proximity, yet I unconsciously desire for him to be closer. "What I mean is, why are you in the UK? Your accent is clearly American."
    I'm surprised by his perception—you'd be surprised by the amount of people that don't ask about my foreign accent. Daisy didn't even bring it up until a month after I had moved in.
    "I moved here just over three years ago," I begin. Delving into the past isn't a task I enjoy, especially when that past is not fondly remembered. "I initially moved here because I was working as an intern with this theatrical production company. And I had a really great management position lined up as head of the production's crew."
    I trail off, and Roger looks at me expectantly. I'm clearly leaving certain things unsaid. "What happened?" He pushes, despite my evident uneasiness.
    I sigh. I haven't thought about my past situation in so long—it's too painful. I had such a bright future, and a once in a lifetime opportunity to work at a job I loved. But it was stolen from me, and I haven't recovered since. "The company went under and was sold to a new owner. And the new owner wouldn't rehire me—said I was too inexperienced." Even thinking about the ordeal makes me angry. Three years and I'm still not over it.
    Roger doesn't say anything. I wish he would say something. I tap my nails against the counter as he squints his eyes at me, clearly in thought. What's he thinking now?
    "I currently wait tables. Unfortunately." I say, only to fill the silence. "I'm still working on finding a new job."
    Roger nods. "I see. So you're good at—what? Building sets?" To my appreciation, he somewhat changes the subject.
    I let go of the breath I didn't know I was holding. "Sort of. I specialize in lighting and sound—but I have general management experience as well."
    "Interesting." Roger nods and looks to the side of the counter. His eyebrows are furrowed, as if contemplating all the information I've told him.
    I bring him back to reality as I begin to stand from my stool. "Ok, enough about me. Let's get you home."

~•~

author's note:
thank you all for reading!
please vote and comment—it means a lot to me!
also, hopefully i didn't bore you all with dani's backstory. it will come into play later on... (;