Some Day One Day (Maylor AU)

Chapter 43

Roger's day was spent ruminating on his conversation with Freddie. Tim's uncharacteristic approval of his departure seemed insignificant compared to Chrissie's discovery of what exactly went down between him and her boyfriend at the time. The blonde could only imagine how much the headmistress resented him now, and what she would do to him as soon as he set foot on British soil again. The first time, he got lucky; she had something valuable to offer him in exchange for dissolving the affair. This time around, he already had what he wanted, and since Chrissie wasn't a person that you crossed—let alone twice—it seemed unlikely that a simple trade would settle things.

Harboring a new set of doubts and fears about his upcoming trip, Roger went to work that night, hoping that the change in atmosphere would make him feel better. After all, the silence that consumed his and Tim's apartment after their spat did nothing but amplify the conflicting thoughts consuming the blonde's mind—whether to go to London, to make things right with the brunette, to see how Brian was holding up. Each decision proved too difficult to make and left Roger feeling torn. It was a miracle that he pulled himself together enough to arrive at the bar, only twenty minutes late.

"You're welcome, Rog," Geoff greeted with mock sarcasm, smirking behind the newspaper he held in hands—his nails painted a deep, glossy shade of red and his feet, propped up on the table in the break room, strapped into oversized black heels.

"For what?" the blonde muttered uninterestedly, clocking in and snatching one of the waist aprons off the rack.

"For taking such good care of your boyfriend, of course!" his fellow bartender exclaimed, slamming the periodical down on the table and smiling. "I got him home just like you asked. Don't you think I deserve a little praise?"

"I didn't ask, Geoff. You offered," Roger reminded him, keeping his head hung low while tying the thin, fraying strings around his hips. The smile on Geoff's face faded, his posture straightening as he recognized for the first time the blonde's detachment. It was as though he wasn't there, his body physically standing before his coworker but his mind wandering elsewhere.

"Quite bitter now, are we?" Geoff mused, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm assuming your night didn't go well?"

"No, it went great, actually," the blonde murmured, a slight grunt emanating from the back of his throat as he tightened the knot he made and finally met the bartender's gaze—the corner of his lips twitching upward into an almost sinister smirk. "Got my dream gig, a good fuck, and the morning off out of it."

"Well, then, I think a 'thank you' is still very much in order," Geoff teased, watching as Roger rolled his eyes and headed for the door leading to the bar. "Hey, wait up," he called out, scrambling out his seat and catching Roger by the shoulder before he could escape. The blonde tore himself out of his coworker's grasp, a terrified look flashing across his features as he pushed them apart. "What the hell's going on with you?"

Roger heaved a sigh, slipping his hands into the pockets of his waist apron and answering uneasily, "I don't want to talk about it, Geoff. It's...It's complicated."

"There you go again with the 'complicated,' Rog." The bartender shook his head. "What did I tell you about acting like you can't talk to me about things? We're not that different, you and me. Remember?"

"But we're not the same, Geoff!" the blonde cried, cracking underneath the invisible pressures bearing down on him. "You don't know me, and you don't know what I've done!" With that, he broke out into the bar—welcomed by the blaring distractions all around him. The deafening music, the sweaty bodies, the endless drinks, they all helped to keep Roger away from Geoff, away from Tim, and away from his past that had suddenly returned with a vengeance he wasn't prepared for.

The blonde thought that by leaving, he was preventing this kind of catastrophe from happening, and for a year, he had. Little did he know that his demise would be brought about by his friend's fiancé. He knew that Mary hated him, but he never imagined that she would betray him like this. If anything, he figured he'd done her a favor by leaving, just as he did Chrissie—giving both of them their men's full attention. It didn't matter, though. He'd been found out, and instead of staying away like he should have, he was headed right back into the lion's den; right back into the boxing ring.

To numb the pain of that reality, Roger took his job lightly that night, matching each shot that was ordered, accepting invitations out to the dance floor, and even escaping upstairs with a stranger at one point. Had the alcohol not been coursing through his veins—lowering his inhibitions and making him forget how degrading his actions were; bringing him right back to the place he tried so hard to distance himself from—he would've stopped himself, but he didn't, and he woke up the next morning with a fuzzy recollection of what landed him on the couch in a room he didn't instantly recognize.

A groan slipped past the blonde's lips as he sat up—his back hunched, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together out in front of him—and gazed tiredly into the mirror across from him. His reflection showed a torn shirt, disheveled hair, a prominent love bite on his neck, and a generous wad of cash tucked into the waistband of his pants, which weren't pants at all, but a skirt. He looked down with furrowed brows and pulled out the unanticipated payment, flicking through the bills that amounted to more than the blonde had ever earned in New York City.

"Holy shit," Roger mumbled to himself.