Here's chapter two for you, my darlings. More like a "chapter one: part two", since the first chapter was so long initially.. Anyway, enjoy!
He stood by the door for several moments, as though moving anywhere at this point would disrupt the girl's song. He clutched his ragged guitar case. He was chewing on something, gum or whatever, open-mouthed but without smacking. He cautiously approached the counter. Roman's coworker Dolph nearly caught the order, but Roman darted to the register before Dolph made it.
"Oh," Dolph whispered, seeing who it was inching nearer. "Sorry, bro. Forgot this is your guy."
"Hardly."
"Yeah, you wish, right?" Dolph snickered and nudged Roman's shoulder, then moved back to his drawn-up chair on the other side of the counter.
He was wearing a leather jacket over a black muscle shirt tonight with very tight blue jeans. His black shoes were as tatty as his guitar case. But he looked good, damn good. His hair fell over his eyes. Roman never had the closeness nor the correct lighting to tell what color they were.
Be cool, Roman warned himself. Chill.
"How's it going?" Roman said softly, hands planted flat on the tile.
"Not too shabby," he said, voice almost a whisper. His breath smelled minty. Definitely gum. Not tobacco. Thank God. "How are you doing?"
"Pretty good, thanks." Better now. "Want your usual?"
"Depends. What's my usual?"
"Tall salted caramel mocha with an extra pump of caramel." Does he think it's creepy I remember that?
"You're good." He grinned in a way that let Roman know he was wrong. He breathed an inward sigh of relief.
"Anything else?"
"Nah, that'll do it, man. Thanks."
"$3.10. Can I get a name for the order?"
He rubbed his chin, which held faint traces of a beard. "'The Lunatic Fringe.'"
Roman stifled his laughter. Always the strange nicknames for him. Last time it had been 'Ambrose Asylum'; the third Thursday of last month, 'Dirty Deeds.' Roman figured he was an AC/DC fan. One of these days he'd get this guy's real name. "Alright. I'll bring it over to you when it's done." He didn't mention he knew where "the Lunatic Fringe" sat every week, because it never, ever changed: the corner table by the window. If that seat was taken, he'd sit closer to the counter. It wasn't taken tonight, unfortunately.
He handed over a ten-dollar bill for his drink. "Killer. Thanks."
"Yeah, no problem," Roman said. He hoped this guy couldn't tell how hard his heart was hammering, or how his hands were noticeably shaking. Get a grip on yourself, Reigns, damn.
He dropped his change into the glass tip jar—nearly a seventy-percent tip—then lifted his guitar case and moved to his table. He usually waited until the end of the night to finally get up there with his guitar. Roman never minded waiting. He made for a worthy finale. He never played any songs Roman recognized from Pandora or the radio or his own music library, but that was alright.
Tonight there were more performers than usual. Every time there was a small break between singers, pianists and guitarists, Roman wondered if—hoped that—"Lunatic" was next. Then someone else would hop onto the stage before he had the chance to even move. Roman killed the time by studying for his Microbiology test, listening in to the songs—on average they were all mediocre—and getting some cleaning done. At this rate it felt like the night would go to dawn and dawn would go to day before he ever got up there.
Finally, around ten when most of the crowd had dispersed, he rolled his neck, eyes inspecting for any further volunteers, then sauntered to the stage. He freed his unscratched instrument from its case and lowered himself onto the stool. He placed his pick between his teeth as he tuned the instrument. How could someone look so good tuning a guitar?
No introductions per usual. No name, no mention of the song he'd be playing, no invitation to check out his music or his band or his mixtape on a Facebook page or Youtube. He just plucked the pick from his mouth and strummed away.
Roman recognized the tune. He'd played it here before. He tried to catch onto the words, listening to his gentle and articulate voice. Microbiology, Randy and his girls, even the fact that he was at work and it was long past regular closing time—all that was far from mind. Nothing else mattered, nobody else existed in his world now, except him.
"Saying "I love you" is not the words I want to hear from you
It's not that I want you not to say but if you only knew
How easy it would be to show me how you feel
More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me
Cause I'd already know."
He kept a beat for himself with his foot on the floor. Roman was one ounce of self-control away from cupping his chin in his palms, elbows propped on the counter, dreamily goggling with a stupid smile on his face. Instead he wrestled the ponytail holder from his head and combed out his long hair with his fingers, assuming he wouldn't be making any more orders tonight.
"What would you do if my heart was torn in two?
More than words to show you feel that your love for me is real
What would you say if I took those words away
Then you couldn't make things new just by saying "I love you"."
He tweaked each string with his eyes closed, bopping his head to his own beat. Fuck, he was adorable. If only he wore glasses. Roman wasn't sure what was such a turn-on about them. But they were.
A five-minute song felt like thirty seconds. The remaining patrons clapped politely for Lunatic, and he ended his recital with a tip of an imaginary hat. The lights rose, and the manager thanked everyone for coming out and that the establishment hoped to see them all again in two weeks.
"Have a great night," Roman called to the couple out the door. He took apart one of the cappuccino machines and ran a white rag through each metal piece. It didn't take him too long to notice Lunatic—God, I really need his name so I can stop calling him that—to notice Angelic Guitar Playing Guy—oh yeah, much better, Reigns, you fucking wuss—arriving at the counter. He never did this. Usually just packed up his stuff and left with the others.
"Hey again," he said.
"Hey, yourself," Roman breathed. He racked his brain for a conversation starter. Anything. "You did really well tonight."
He beamed. "Thanks, man. So did you."
"Huh?"
"That mocha you made me was killer. I feel like you added a little extra extra caramel just for me."
Roman had. How he'd detected that, he had no idea. "That good, huh?"
"Oh, you bet. I'd order another one if y'all weren't closing down."
Roman craned his neck. His manager was in his office counting money. Dolph was doing dishes in the back. "Tell you what. I'll let one more slide for tonight."
"Really? Sick, man. You're awesome."
"Thanks. It's my area of study."
He snickered, his tongue gliding between his teeth. Now that the lights were on and he was standing close again, Roman caught onto features he'd missed before. How damn sexy that little tongue sticking out was. A tiny silver earring in the left ear. His blue-green eyes, the color of a tranquil sea. The dimples in his cheeks when he grinned like that. Roman had to turn away before he caught onto the very obvious fact that Roman was ogling.
"You in college?"
"Yeah."
"What's your real major?"
"Excuse you, awesome is a real major. Right now I'm enrolled in Badass 204 and Kindness to Strangers 171." Roman grabbed the necessary ingredients for his drink.
"I feel like we need a Kindness to Strangers course in every university worldwide."
"Think a lot of people might flunk it. It'd be a waste of resources."
"Might be right about that, Roman."
Roman's name sounded delightful across his lips. For a moment he fell into idiocy, wondering how this guy had the advantage of knowing his name. Then he remembered he was working. Name tag was a traitor.
"What about you?" Roman asked, seeking out an opening for more information. "You got a major? Other hobbies? Or even a name?"
"Name?"
"You never really introduce yourself. Just hop on stage and do your thing."
"Guess that's true." Half his lips raised into a smile. "Dean."
Dean. Simple but strong. Dapper. Handsome. "Nice to meet you, Dean."
"You too, Roman. I like your ink."
He supposed that's all he was getting out of Dean, for now. Oh well. It was progress. Roman noted the half-sleeve on his right arm. It extended to his chest, but his shirt hid most of that. "Oh, thanks. It's my family's tribal tattoo."
"Where you from?"
"Samoa."
"Oh." Dean nodded. His hair fell in front of his eyes, and he swept it away with a head shake. "Exotic. Very cool."
Roman seized the a near-empty bottle of caramel and drizzled extra sauce atop Dean's drink. Then he added whipped cream, then even more caramel.
"Ooh, you're trying to kill me, huh?" Dean asked, chuckling softly.
"Well, something's gonna do you in eventually. Might as well enjoy it if you can."
Dean laughed. "That's a fact. Caramel is one of my weaknesses. I'm gonna have to hit the gym pretty hard tomorrow."
"Oh, where do you work out?" Roman slid the drink across the counter to Dean. He had yet to pay. Roman didn't mind.
"My apartment's shitty fitness center. Composes of a flatscreen TV, a treadmill that works forty percent of the time, and the heaviest weights, my little niece could bench."
"That's a pretty shitty fitness center," Roman agreed. He still couldn't believe they were having an actual conversation after months of strangerhood. "You should try my gym."
"Should have known you work out too, with those guns. Where do you go?"
Roman looked at the dismantled cappuccino machine, pretending to wipe it down as a blush crept to his cheeks. "Sometimes I work out at UC's gym. Other times I tag along with my roommate at his gym. Lifetime Fitness, over off Briargate. It's a decent facility."
"Might have to check it out sometime."
"Hey, Reigns." It was Dolph. Roman knew he was busted. He spun around and saw Dolph lingering in the doorway, dish rags slung over his shoulder.
"Gonna make me close all by my lonesome?" Dolph jabbed.
"If you wouldn't mind."
"Ha ha." Dolph whipped one of the rags at him. "Cappuccino machine takes ten minutes to clean, at most. Move it, partner."
"Oh, yes, sir."
"I'm sorry to keep you," Dean apologized.
Roman waved a hand. "Oh, don't worry about it. He just likes to bitch about everything."
"Oh, I guess I should probably pay for this before I run off and rob you."
"Don't worry about it," Roman said as Dean reached for his wallet. "It's on me."
Roman caught a twinkle in his eye. "Really?"
"Yeah. My boss is counting money now, anyway. Can't have any more sales."
"Have I mentioned how awesome you are?"
Roman grinned, biting his lip. "Told you, it's my major. If I wasn't good at being awesome, I'm in the wrong friggin' industry."
"Least you'd get your thousands of dollars back. Hopefully."
"You coming back in a couple weeks?"
"You act like you know me so well, then throw a question like that at me." Dean clicked his tongue teasingly.
There was still a great deal Roman didn't know about this surreptitious guitarist. Still, he'd take this conversation over any other night where Dean just left. He wondered what made him stick around this time.
"'Course I am," Dean said at Roman's silence.
"Good, I'll be sure to order some extra caramel on our next delivery."
"Man, to hell with the mocha—just gimme a bottle and I'll guzzle it down plain."
Roman made a face, then laughed. "That's quite the weakness you've got."
"One of 'em. Not my strongest."
"Reigns, I swear to God I'm about to throw you into my dish pit!" Dolph's voice screeched.
"Geez, Dolph, fine," Roman sighed.
Dean grinned sheepishly. "Guess I'll see you around?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good."
Roman walked Dean to the door to lock it behind his last customer of the night.
"Nice talking to you, Roman. We simply must do this again sometime."
"Think we might."
Dean didn't offer a handshake or a hug. He tipped that invisible hat again and rolled out the door, case in hand. Roman watched him go, then locked the door.
"I'm gonna kick your ass, Ziggler," Roman said, pushing into the kitchen.
"Bring it!" Dolph cried over the rotating water in the heavy washer. "Oh, and before I forget. Roman and Dean sitting in a tree and all that."
"Bastard."
"You can't stop smiling, you freak."
"Shut the fuck up." But Roman couldn't deny that fact. His insides were buzzing. He did dishes at Dolph's side, not paying any mind to their condition at the end of the wash. He had a name now. Dean. How nice it sounded.
And they'd talked.
Progress had been made.
Not that Roman expected it to go anywhere.
Still. A gym rat like him could appreciate any and all forms of progress.