Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 8

Cheryl spared him a response by yanking him towards the bathroom tucked away in the far back, propping herself up on the sink's countertop, and spreading her legs for him. Roger stood in front of her timidly, as if this was their first time. The undeniably beautiful woman—who any of the other employees would've killed to be in such an arrangement with—raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking her inferior, Well, what are you waiting for?

The blonde heaved a sigh and took a quick glance at himself in the mirror—almost not recognizing the man staring back at him—before dropping to his knees and grabbing onto her thighs. He dove in fearlessly and began his practiced work, Cheryl's eyes fluttering shut in pure ecstasy and her hands tightly gripping the edges of the countertop to ground her. Within minutes she reached her high, her loud moan reverberating off the graffiti-covered walls as Roger slowly pulled back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—eyes narrowed in resentment.

"Are we even now?" he asked bitterly.

His manager looked down at him with an expression of bliss still painted across her face, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Until next time, pretty boy."

With cheeks reddened in shame, Roger stood up and burst out of the small, cramped room that felt dirtier each time he was dragged into it. He made sure to slam the door behind him, storming out of the café as though he never intended to come back. He knew he'd be there tomorrow morning, though, right on time, and he knew that the next day, or the day after that, he would be late again. It was routine, and god knew how much Roger liked routines.

The subway ride usually helped to calm the blonde down on days like this, surveying those around him and wondering what dirty things they did to keep their jobs, but today Roger focused on an amateur guitar player with a mop of curls on their head situated only a few seats away from him, and his mind went somewhere else—a place that pained him more than in between Cheryl's legs. A sick feeling washed over him and lingered for the rest of the ride that seemed longer than usual, the underground transport system threatening to break down at nearly every stop. After what felt like an eternity, Roger finally reached his destination, and with a stomach full of butterflies, dragged himself to the bar.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" Geoff asked as the blonde trudged in, plopping down at the table his coworker sat at and burying his head in his arms that folded over one another on the flat surface. "You look like shit."

"Thanks, Geoff," Roger grumbled, his voice muffled by the table.

"I know just what you need," the man who had yet to change into his alternative outfit for the night announced, smashing the cigarette he took one last drag from into the dish and lifting the blonde up out of the chair. Roger was so exhausted at that point that he didn't even put up a fight, allowing his fellow bartender to lead him up the back stairwell and into one of the rooms he'd never been in before. In fact, Roger had never even been to the second floor—knowing what went on up there and avoiding it at all costs, afraid that if he found himself in one of those rooms, things would go right back to the way they were in London.

With a flick of a switch, the dark room flooded with a warm light—a couple vanities, a full-length mirror, a couch, and a round coffee table covered in magazines, empty beer bottles, and leftover trails of coke coming into view. Before Roger could object, Geoff sat him down at one of the vanities and began sifting through the caddies of makeup in search of some foundation to hide the paleness of the blonde's skin; maybe even a bit of blush, because the bar's dim lights could only hide so much.

"So, are you just going to sit there and not tell me what's going on?" the bartender blurted out, looking back over his shoulder at the blonde and smirking.

Roger shifted uncomfortably in his seat, answering timidly, "I...I don't really want to talk about it. Can I please just get to work?"

"Looking like that?" Geoff chuckled, dabbing a large cosmetic brush into the light powder he'd picked out. "No way, hon. You go down there looking like that and you'll go home sadder than when you walked in." He swept the foundation across Roger's cheeks, right underneath his rolling eye. "So, spill. What happened?"

"Geoff, it's—" the blonde sighed, "It's complicated. Okay?"

"Complicated is what I tell my parents when they ask me about my relationship with my nonexistent girlfriend," the bartender retorted with a beguiling smirk, tapping the brush against the compact in his other hand.

Roger couldn't help but return the facial expression, hanging his head to hide it and twiddling his thumbs in his lap.

"You know, Rog, I don't know a lot about you," Geoff continued, grabbing the blonde's chin and tilting his head back to complete his work, "But I get the feeling that you and I are not all that different, and I know it'll make you feel better if you stop acting like you can't talk about these things with me. I'm not going to tell anyone. In fact, I think I'm the best confidant you've got."

He raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Really. Now stop moving so I don't get makeup in those pretty little blue eyes of yours."