Whiskey for the Songbird

There's a special kind of hell in cleaning out a broken beer tap at midnight with your hands half-soaked in foam and regret.

That was my Friday.

The Electric Veil was buzzing-half-full, maybe a little more than usual. I could tell by the way the floor stuck to my boots, and the jukebox couldn't compete with the pre show hum. Cleveland in February was bleak, too bleak. We were the kind of bar people crawled into when they couldn't afford tickets to the real show, or just didn't care enough anymore.

Me? I didn't care enough anymore.

"Hey Roxy," Jules called from the other end of the bar. My head snapped over to him. "You got that bottle of Jack?"

"Top shelf. Next to your self-respect."

"Cute." He smirked, then ducked behind the bar to grab it himself. He knew better than to test me twice in one night. I'd been working at The Veil for almost six years. It was long enough for me to know what kind of man walks in drunk and leaves broken. Long enough to know the difference between a groupie and a guy just trying to forget someone. Long enough to know the stories behind the eyes before anyone opens their mouth.

At 9:45 pm, the Vultures showed up.

I didn't recognize them at first. The guy at the front had on mirrored sunglasses, and a leather jacket that had probably been cool five years ago. His hair was teased up like it had been electrocuted backstage, and he walked with the attitude of someone who wasn't use to hearing "no."

Jack Ransom. I didn't know the name until Jules leaned over and whispered, "That's him. Lead singer of Vulture. Used to be big-like, MTV big."

I didn't give a shit. We got washed-up rockstars sometimes. This was Cleveland. People came here to disappear, not to be remembered.

Jack didn't look at me right away. He scanned the room like he was still trying to spot the stadium crowd that wasn't there. Just forty or fifty barflies and punks pretending it was still 1981.

He finally made it to the bar, tossed a pack of cigarettes onto the counter, and pulled out a chair like he owned it. I didn't say a word.

He lit up without asking.

"No smoking inside." I told him, not even looking up from the bar towel I was using to wipe down the tap. It was a lie. Nobody here cared if you smoked. But I cared about him thinking he could get away with it.

He smirked. Of course he did.

"I'm Jack" he said, like it mattered to me.

I started at him, deadpan. "Hm. That's unfortunate."

He laughed, it was a sound that was low and tired. "Wow. You're just a warmth and sunshine, huh?"

I finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot behind the glasses. He pulled the glasses off, like he wanted me to really see him.

I didn't flinch. "What do you want?"

"Whiskey. No ice. And maybe a smile if you've got one hiding somewhere sweetheart."

"Smiles cost extra, and don't call me sweetheart." I poured him the drink anyways, slid it across the bar, and moved on.

He stayed there for an hour before the show. He didn't say much. Just watched. Observed. Most guys like him had a crew, a noise to them. He was quite than I expected.

When the Vultures took the stage, I thought, Okay, let's see if they're at least worth the power bill.

And damn if he didn't wake something in the room.

He may have looked a mess offstage, but up there? He had something. A voice like gravel an cigarettes and something older to him. He didn't try too hard. He just... let go. I don't even like glam rock, but the guy could perform.

By the third song, girls were dancing near the stage, bodies moving like they were sixteen and stupid again. Jules leaned into me and said, "Told you."

I shrugged, but I was watching. Not because I cared about the music, but because Jack Ransom looked like a man who ha nothing left to lose, and I knew that kind of man too well.

They ended their set a little after three. The crowd hollered like it was a sold out arena. Jack gave a lazy bow and disappeared backstage.

Ten minutes later, I was dragging a mop across the back of the bar when I heard shouting near the exit.

Some drunk asshole, mid twenties, mullet, Iron Maiden t-shirt was in Jack's face. "You used to be good, man! What the hell happened to you?"

Jack just smiled, but it was the wrong kind of smile. It was the kind you give before throwing a punch.

I was over the bar before anyone else even moved.

"Hey!" I snapped, getting between them. "Take it OUTSIDE, both of you."

"Stay out of it, lady!" The fan slurred.

"I swear to God, if you call me 'lady' one more time-" I turned to Jack. "You. Rock god. Go cool off. I'm not scraping blood off the floor tonight."

Jack blinked like he was waking up. "You always this fun?"

"Only on nights that end in me throwing men out."

He chuckled then backed up, raising his hands. "Alright, I'll behave."

The guy muttered something under his breath and stumbled out the door. Jules caught up with him, and made sure he didn't try to come back.

Jack lingered by the bar, still catching his breath.

"You got a thing for saving me?" He asked.

I leaned back against the sink with my arms crossed. "I've got a thing for not filing out police reports."

He stepped closer. Not aggressive, just curious. "What's your name?"

"Roxy"

"Roxy.." He said it slow, like he was tasting it. "That's a name with sharp edges."

"Yeah, and if you're not careful, it'll cut you."

We stared at each other for a second. No flirting. Just this low, strange buzz between us. It was like a wire humming in the dark.

Then he smiled. "Good show, huh?"

I smirked. "Not bad for a guy two steps from rehab."

He laughed again, louder this time, and full of something almost real. Then he picked up his leather jacket, and slung it over his shoulder.

"Guess I'll see you tomorrow."

I raised an eyebrow. "You sticking around?"

He didn't answer. He just gave me a wink that didn't feel like bullshit and walked out into the cold.

I watched the door longer than I should have.