I made a few tweaks to the story, mostly proofreading. If you like what you're reading, let me know!
It was late, almost midnight, when I walked into the Jolly Roger pub. It had been five years since my last visit. It had been five years since I'd set foot in Boston at all, much less the place that had ruined my life. I took a quick look around before wandering over to the intricately carved mahogany bar. The mahogany was worn from years of glassware slamming on its surface. It was still beautiful, but it looked old, a little worn out. The brass foot rail wasn't really brass anymore, the shiny coating scratched by hundreds of shoes. I ran my hand across the once smooth filigree along the front before sliding up into one of the newer barstools. The bartender walked over.
"Welcome to the Jolly Roger. What'll it be?" he asked, barely glancing at my face as he slammed clean glasses on top of one another, straightening up from the busy night.
It was loud, the place almost full. The stage was occupied by a live band, all normal for a Saturday night. I didn't recognize anyone, which was good. I was in some melancholic stupor and stopped by out of morbid curiosity. And for the whiskey.
"Jolly Roger, up, please?" I said to the distracted bartender. He glanced up at me with furrowed brows.
"Jolly Roger? Expensive stuff, no one ever drinks it," he tilted his head back and gave me a look.
I stared back at him. No one? Fine, I'll play. "That's me," I said, smiling at him in what I hoped was disarming and sexy. "No one. Make it a double." I looked away from him, turning to check out the crowd. The bar area was dark, the light from the stage the main illumination. I could see faces, but mine was hidden. I heard a thud behind me as my drink hit the bar.
"That'll be…" my hundred dollar bill silencing him as I smacked it down beside the glass of amber liquid.
"I'll take the bottle," I said. He placed it on the bar beside my glass and nodded before turning away.
I picked up the glass and turned back to the crowd. Sliding down off the barstool I walked slowly through the swaying mass of drunken humanity. Somehow I ended up in the back corner at an abandoned high top. I pushed one of the chairs up against the wall and sat sipping my drink. I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, remembering another time, another life.
It was just another night after work, and we were all hanging out at the Jolly Roger. David and Mary Margaret were dancing. My fiancé, Neal, and I were playing darts with Killian and Milah. Milah was in a snit about some work thing, and Neal was trying to cajole her out of it by picking on her throwing stance.
"Come on, Mi, you're throwing like a damn girl tonight," he said, rolling his eyes at her.
She whipped around and glared at him. "I am a girl, asshole." She flipped her long hair over her shoulder and turned back to throw, landing on the top right corner of the large space on the five.
"No twenties for you, little girl. Come on, seriously, how many triple twenties have you hit just this week? A five? I know you can do better than that." Killian glared at him. I punched him in the side.
"Leave her alone, Neal," I said. "We're winning. Her bad day will make for us a lovely night." I reached up to peck him on the cheek. Killian rolled his eyes and walked over to the bar for a refill.
Neal walked up behind Milah, taking her throwing hand in his, placing a hand low on her hip in a way that could only be described as "possessive," and guided her through throwing a dart. She hit a double twenty.
He looked down at her and winked. "See, babe, you can do it." I couldn't actually hear the words, but I could read lips. Glancing up, I saw the look in his eyes. Smoldering, was the word that came to mind. He pushed back from her and landed back against the table I was leaning on. I could see a flush rising up her throat onto her cheeks. I looked back for Killian to see if he'd watched their little scene. He was just leaning against the bar, drink in hand, jaw ticking. I looked back at Neal's face and watched him watch Milah. I glanced down at the ring on my finger. What the hell?
It was my turn to throw. I stepped up to the line, my hands and knees shaking. I took aim and threw. I hit the nine, nowhere near where I was aiming. I looked down at the floor, at all the nicks and scuffs from misthrown darts marring the dark wood. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breath. I looked back at Neal for encouragement, but he was busy chatting up Milah. I looked for Killian, to see if he was watching, but he was nowhere to be seen. I took a deep breath and toed the line again, lifting my arm to throw. Someone stepped up behind me.
"Did you know?" Killian whispered against my ear. His English accent thick with hurt. I shook my head slightly, my own throat too choked to speak.
"Hmmm, well, four can play at this game, right, love?" he said, his voice was tempered steel. I glanced up at his face; his normally tranquil, blue eyes were lit with something fearful. His hand snaked along my waist to rest on my hip. I couldn't move.
"Killian, what are you doing?" I said, keeping my voice as low as I could, trying to catch my breath. I could feel his anger in his grip.
He smirked at me, moving his lips against my hair. "Next round, we're changing teams." His words were whispered as if to a lover. He nudged my ear softly with his nose, staring into my eyes. He winked at me and squeezed my hip, abruptly pulling away. I glanced over my shoulder, following him with my eyes and saw Neal watching. The look on his face was thunderous. I guess four could play this game.