This is probably my longest and fastest update, like, ever but only because this part's basically been finished for a few days now. I appreciate all the reviews I got so thank you so freaking much and Keep. Them. Coming! ;D This chapter and at least one more will deal more with Maureen's complicated issue but this is mostly a Roger chapter. I have come to realize that it is Maureen getting most of drama as of late so Roger gets a little this time, even though it means I've had to generate another random OC. Sorry that I'm sort of churning them out ... What happens to Roger here will come to affect him and his relationship with Maureen, so please don't think this is just me scraping the bottom of the barrel for plot twists. Also, I felt Roger deserved some romance with someone who wasn't A) a stranger [that band mate's sister], B) secretly attracted to girls [Keira] or C) addicted to drugs [April and Mimi].

Anyway, enjoy and please keep the comments coming! RENT isn't mine. And I dare you to guess which TV shows the names of Roger's band mates came from. ;) And I apologise if I get my drug knowledge wrong … I'm still not sure if there's a difference between cannabis and marijuana. xD

P.S. Regarding the end of this chapter, I know some of what Maureen says seems a bit hypocritical but it shall all be explained soon. Thanks for reading!

Flirt With A Stranger

March 1990

The lights were practically blinding him and he could feel the sweat gliding slowly down his neck and face and spine. His fingers were tired and sore from constantly strumming anxiously on his guitar and, after four cover songs, he felt like now he should surrender to his exhaustion, go home and fall on his sofa-bed. But the thundering of his heart matched the steady rhythm of the drums behind him and he could hear the audience in front of his, cheering loudly and dancing and singing along. Roger had never felt this type of rush—the adrenaline, the euphoria—and that alone keep him standing, trusty old Rodolfo in his hands and voice belting out the lyrics over the deafening cries of the crowd.

He knew that this was only a one-night gig at a local club but this felt like the beginning of something far more significant.

After the song, Roger and his band-mates darted backstage, their ears still ringing with the calls of their enthusiastic viewers. With a delighted exhale of breath, Roger swiped at his forehead in an attempt to clear any perspiration and grinned hopefully at his fellows.

"How was that?" he asked. Laughing, Finn clapped him on the back.

"Dude, it was better than awesome!" he declared. Dean rolled his eyes at his enthusiasm before offering Roger a calm smile, "You did great, man."

"You sure you're only nineteen?" Henry questioned, cocking his head a little. Roger snorted a little and nodded, while Dean rolled his eyes again and then smacked Henry upside the head.

"Come on, doofus," he muttered before turning on the spot just as the manager approached.

"Great set, boys," she complimented them distractedly as she, like the band, focused on the notes she was sifting through in her hands, "You can go wind down and load your equipment in the back room."

The four men mumbled their thanks as they eagerly snatched up their rewards. Roger's eyes widened a little as he counted out his twenty-dollar bills. One hundred and fifty bucks? For one night? That's not bad!

Eyes glued on his money, as though it would vanish the instantly he looked away, Roger followed the other members of the Well Hungarians through to the back room, where Dean and Henry fell onto the couch, and Finn stood in front of them, grinning.

"And I've got the perfect way to wind down," he announced before reaching into his pockets and producing a little plastic baggie filled with what looked like moss. Roger furrowed his brow while Henry sat up excitedly and Dean groaned.

"Dude! Tonight?" he exclaimed, "Tonight's the one night I promised Samantha I'd stay sober!"

Finn scoffed, "Not my problem. 'Sides, I've only got enough for three joints, so you just made my job easy," then, ignoring Dean's complaints of unfairness, Finn smiled at a shell-shocked Roger, waving the baggie enticingly, "You in, Rog?"

Roger practically spluttered. He may have been the "bad influence" at school, but that had not gone as far as taking marijuana or, indeed, any other illegal substance. He liked his band-mates a lot, even considered them his first big-city friends, but had not expected any of them—not even sarcastic, eye-rolling Dean—to be into that kind of crap.

"Oh, I-I don't—I'm not—I've never—"

Finn cut him off with a surprised chuckle, "I get it. You've never got high before."

Unable to trust his mouth, Roger shook his head furiously. Dean snickered into his hand and Henry grinned with a wide-eyed innocence that belied his lifestyle.

"Shut up, guys, he's a kid," snapped Finn, before stepping forward and wrapping an arm around Roger, "Come on, I'll show how it's done."

"But I—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know it's bad," Finn interrupted, rolling his eyes, "But this isn't as hardcore as some weed. And it's a ton safer than shit like coke or smack, isn't it? Just give it a go, Rog, and I swear I won't make you take it again."

Roger pressed his lips together and stared for a moment at the pot in Finn's hands before setting his jaw and nodding determinedly. He watched as Finn and Henry expertly rolled the joints and Henry lit his up contentedly. Then, Finn twisted around to give Roger his joint and held out a lighter. Gingerly, Roger held the end of the joint into the flame and delicately took his first puff.

The last thing he recalls until his world exploded was Henry commenting, "Relax, we'll keep you away from sharp edges."

April-May 1990

It was approaching midnight on the thirtieth of April and Roger could not sleep. It might have had something to do with the fact that his last joint had been almost two weeks ago and its absence was making him antsy. He could remember being thirteen and watching his mother try to give up the chain-smoking she had started just after his father died; he remembered she was irritable, more so than usual. He imagined what she felt was extremely similar to what he felt now. At least this isn't a stronger drug or addiction, he observed, rolling onto his side and staring into the darkness of the living room, Kicking the habit after longer than a month must be a bitch. Or maybe there was another reason for his restlessness.

It was the end of the month and, as had been tradition for almost a year now, Nathan had arrived home. He had missed him at the end of February because of his audition for the Well Hungarians, and the end of March due to working at the nightclub at night and practicing all day, so this was the first time Roger had seen him in three months. He was still as odd as ever—in fact, more so. Even Maureen was acting strange around him.

As if on cue, Roger heard a click and a creak as one of the bedroom doors was pushed open. Trying his hardest to be quiet, Roger propped himself up on an elbow and peered over the back of the sofa. He could just make out Nathan's wide form slowly closing his bedroom door before tiptoeing to Maureen's door, opening it and slipping inside. The latch barely made a sound behind him. Roger flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling for the longest time.

He really needed a cigarette.

August 1990

It was the early hours of the morning when Roger first met her. As he had told his roommate way back in February, he was not yet able to quit his bartending job, which was why he was at the club at one o'clock, the busiest time of night, serving alcohol to all the sweaty young people taking a break from grinding on the dance floor. It was late summer so Roger had resorted to wearing just a white sleeveless shirt, his jeans and an ancient pair of flip-flops he had discovered under the couch in order to cope with the heat. But it did not help that he worked in a place filled with body warmth. He was just about to consider calling his break when a young woman waved frantically from the other end of the bar.

"What can I get you?" he asked in as lively a voice as he could manage. The woman hesitated and raked her dark eyes up and down him for a moment, her lips pulling into a smile. She was a young black woman, about Roger's age, with her long hair scraped behind her ears and silver hoop earrings catching the light.

"Three glasses of water," she requested sweetly, throwing her head back to gesturing to the two girls behind her, babbling loudly over the music. She watched as Roger filled up the glasses and set them on the bar, then said something he could not hear to her two friends. They both giggled and were swallowed into the crowd while she remained behind.

"How's your night going?" Roger asked, out of politeness for than anything.

"Not great," she said simply, "I just moved here and my friends and I came here to scope out any hotties," she sighed and then flashed him a flirtatious smile, "As it is, the only cute guy here is the bartender."

Confused, Roger craned his neck to look for the man she spoke of. The other bartender on duty was Kelly, the woman whose performance he had taken Maureen to on Christmas Day. A moment later, Roger realized there were no other male bartenders here except him and, a further second later, realized she was referring to him.

"Oh," was all he could say. The girl grinned.

"What's your name?" she called over the music. Roger cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I, um, I'm Roger," he replied. She lifted her chin slightly, revealing her long, bare neck and smiling that smile again as she introduced herself as Irene.

"Irene," Roger repeated, smirking a little and planting his palms on the counter so Irene's eyes were immediately drawn to them. Predictably, they then skirted up his arms to his shoulders and down his torso, over his legs and then up to his sparkling green eyes. Irene giggled a little.

He was in.

The next morning was, to say the least, strange. Roger woke up in a strange bed in a strange apartment with the stranger Irene curled against him. He carefully untangled himself from her sleeping grip, dressed, and ventured into the strange front room. He was just debating what to do when he discovered a picture propped on the coffee table—Irene with a strange man next to her, his arm around her shoulders. In the corner was a little note: Hey, Irene, just want to wish you luck at NYU and say I love you. Hope you can come home for X-mas! Love Connor xx

It was that note that led Roger to sneaking out of the strange building and never looking back.

September 1990

On a weekend, at an entirely new nightclub, she found him. He had just played a set with the band and was in the back room with them, just lighting up. He had seen her—Irene; after all, it's hard to forget your first one-night-stand's name…oh, wait—in the crowd dancing with those same female friends and was praying to God that she did not recognize him.

Unfortunately, Roger Davis was not someone God seemed to listen to. The door opened and Irene poked her head in, clearly unauthorized and sneaking backstage. Her eyes widened a little when she discovered Roger leaning back on the sofa, one knee pulled up and the hand holding the joint propped on it.

"Hey, I thought it was you," she grinned, stepping in and letting the door shut behind her with a click!. Finn's eyes flitted back and forth between Roger and Irene; Henry was too far gone to notice much except his own hand, fingers splayed in the air in front of his face as he gaped at it in astonishment; and Dean just smirked and coughed a cough that sounded a lot like, "Nice pull."

"Hey," he muttered in greeting, averting his eyes back to his lap. He heard Irene's humming noise, before he felt the warmth of a person next to him and smelled her spicy perfume, and then she was wrapping her fingers around his wrist and pulling the joint towards her. She carefully wrapped her lips around the end, holding his gaze the whole time, and breathed in.

Finn whistled lowly, "Damn."

Henry looked up, surprised, "What? Keep it down, will ya?"

Ten minutes later, Roger and Irene burst into the alley and Irene promptly pressed herself against Roger, fisting the shirt over his hips and leaning up to press their lips together. He fervently reciprocated, cupping her neck and opening his mouth. His tongue pried her lips open and he deepened the kiss, groaning as her tongue ventured out to meet his. She pulled him towards her and stepped back until they hit the wall with a thump that jolted Roger back into reality.

He pulled away from her and rested his forehead where her neck met her shoulder, heaving a defeated sigh, "You have a boyfriend."

He felt her stiffen, and then swallow before her fingers began to thread into his hair.

"I'm going to break up with him," she told him. His hands, which had drifted down to her waist, rounded into fists in his frustration.

"Going to," he repeated sardonically and, for no further reason other than that he wanted to, bit down hard on her neck. She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut, and he realized with a mixture of amusement and irritation that she was enjoying this confrontation.

"That isn't good enough," he sneered, peppering some unbearably light kisses up the column of her neck and then scraping his teeth on her pulse point. If he was not already high, he was quickly getting drunk on her little sighs and moans of pleasure.

"I'm going to," Irene assured him, breath hitching as he sucked on her neck, "I just, ah … wanted to do it in person."

Roger paused in his ministrations, lifting his head to look her earnestly in the eye.

"What does that make me?" he asked softly. Irene bit her bottom lip.

"You're …" she hesitated, "You're …"

With a growl, Roger decided he did not want an answer yet. He was young and happy and felt lust turning his blood to fire and there would be time to think tomorrow. There was always a tomorrow.

"Irene," he hissed, brushing his mouth against hers and leaning back when she moved to capture his lips, "Let's stop talking now."

Then their mouths and tongues and teeth collided clumsily and Roger stopped thinking.

January 1991

Their affair—relationship, trysts, whatever you wanted to call it—continued for four months in absolute secrecy. The only people who knew were Roger's band-mates and Irene's two friends, Jocelyn and Zoe; Roger did not even tell Maureen. It was not that he did not trust her completely or want her to know. It was more that Maureen had suffered when her mother cheated on her father and part of him was afraid that she would immediately see parallels and flip out. Besides, she was busy enough; during the day and night, it seemed an unbroken stream of men and women were filing in and out of the apartment, which frankly confused Roger no end. Perhaps they both had similar problems; she was apparently cheating on all those men and women with Nathan (or was that vice versa?), while, despite Irene's promises of breaking up with Connor, she still had not done so. She was adamant that it be done in person but had not been able to do it during her break or at Christmas because she needed to study and did not want to be away from Roger. The second point was ridiculous and rather defeated the object of her going home, but Roger was not about to complain when he was having regular sex with a gorgeous girl. In the meantime, life continued as normal. He still bartended, played sets and had the occasional joint as well as the more-than-occasional cigarette. He still laughed and joked and drank the old beers usually brought by Nathan with Maureen. He still enjoyed where he was in his life.

In January, however, everything changed. Irene did not have to go home because Connor came to New York.

When Roger came home one morning after work, he was surprised to find Maureen already awake. Even more surprising was the young Asian man on the coach, looking at Roger with reproachful eyes.

"Um, hi?" Roger said, uncertainly glancing between the young man and Maureen, whose arms were folded and jaw clenched. Fuck, she looks pissed.

"Hi, Roger," the man greeted and stood up. Before Roger could ask, he introduced himself, "I'm Connor Aimes. I'm … Irene's, uh, boyfriend."

Double-fuck. Roger took a deep breath, commanded himself to keep a cool head before looking at Maureen, "Uh, Mo, could you—?"

"Got it," she said sharply and Roger cringed. When she flounced past him, the air in her wake just seemed to freeze over. She knew.

"I'm sorry we have to meet like this," Connor stated curtly, "But I felt I needed to—"

"Look, Connor—"

"No, you look," he snapped and Roger's teeth clicked as his jaw clamped shut, "I know Irene, okay? When she got into NYU, I knew this would happen. New York's a big, far away place full of all these different kinds of people and she's … well, she's unpredictable. Wild. As I'm sure you know."

Roger's mouth twitched a little. Hell yeah I know.

"And I thought it would be okay. I thought she'd get it out of her system and still come back to me. But …" he hesitated before looking up at Roger, "when Zoe told me about you—" Irene's friend, the bitch. "—she said you had been … together … since September. September. Is that true?"

A little shamefaced, Roger nodded. Connor closed his eyes with a defeated sound and pinched the bridge of his nose. He then asked in a pained tone, "Do you love her?"

Roger was taken aback by this question. It was one he had often asked himself—when he kissed her, when she clung to him and whimpered for more, when he watched her sleep—but the only feelings he had ever conjured up for her were desire and shame. He wished so badly that he could give her a reason to leave Connor, give Connor a reason to understand, but … he couldn't. Closing his eyes in regret, Roger shook his head no. He heard Connor's little release of breath in relief and heard him step closer.

"Then … please … please. Give us a chance. Give her back to me. Please, Roger."

The note of despair and begging in Connor's voice tugged at Roger's heartstrings and threatened to break them as he suddenly became aware of what pain he had caused this man. This man who, despite being betrayed and disrespected, still loved that girl. He certainly would never want to be in his position.

"I'm sorry," he felt himself say in a strangled voice, "I-I'm sorry."

Connor took in a shaky breath and forced himself to smile, "Thank you."

Schooling his features, Roger nodded, "I'll talk to her, Connor. And I'm—"

"Please don't apologize again," Connor interrupted sadly, "I think, in the end, we were both just foolish."

Roger nodded again and said nothing as Connor thanked him once more and breezed past him, out of the apartment and his life. With a heavy sigh, Roger turned to the phone and picked up the receiver. He would not end this in person. You get what you give after all.

Half-an-hour later, he dropped onto the couch and covered his face with his hands. He had cut off all ties with her, as promised. She had cried and begged and then gone eerily quiet when he harshly told her that her boyfriend had done something similar. He had wished her luck and she him and he had hung up. End of. Except…

"You bastard."

Roger lifted his head just in time to see Maureen scowling at him, hands on hips.

"How could you do something like that?" she demanded furiously, "How could you fuck a girl with a boyfriend? After all the shit we've been through? And you never told me? I thought I could trust you!"

Roger clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, "Maureen, it's nothing to do with you—"

"Yes, it is!" she snapped in return, "It's to do with me and my dad and everyone who's been fucked over by someone they cared about! You always try to get me to open up when you keep closing off and doing shit like—like—drugs and smoking and fucking girls like her! You're such a hypocrite, Roger!"

Inside his chest, Roger felt something rip and he flew to his feet, turning on a surprised Maureen, "I'm a hypocrite? I'M a hypocrite! What the hell do you think you're talking about, Maureen? You keep on playing your little 'my-mommy-cheated-on-my-daddy' card and playing saint while you've been hitting on everything that moves! If anyone's a hypocrite, it's you! You think I haven't noticed all the guys—all the girls—you've been traipsing around here? You've been leading these people on and then, the second Nathan walks through that door, you forget everything else and just fuck him, don't'cha?" then he started laughing—more like cackling—darkly, almost hysterically, oblivious to Maureen's horrified gaze, "Hah, I bet ol' Nathan had nooo trouble opening you up, did h—?"

He was so absorbed in his frenzied rant that he did not noticed Maureen's hand swing towards him until his head snapped to the side and pain flared up in his left cheek. He was speechless for a moment, as was Maureen, until she began to speak in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

"How can you say that?" she asked shakily, her expression somewhere between heartbroken and furious, "How can you say shit like that? God, Roger. You think I fuck him? You think I—what?—begged me to pin me down and … until I … God! You think I asked for this or started this or even want this? Cos you're wrong! And you have no idea what's going on with me, Roger, or what it feels like! You don't—" her voice failed her and she lowered her head, face crumpling. Roger, meanwhile, felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown at him. And then the bucket. He felt sick. Because she sounded so hurt. Because the implications of her words meant that there was something he did not understand and maybe would never understand that was happening. Because he had not noticed.

"What did he do to you?" he asked in a low voice. Maureen's eyes shot up and she looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"Wha—?"

"What did Nathan do?" Roger snarled, stepping forward a little, close enough to see the fear in her eyes.

"Nothing, I…" her voice died again but this time she cleared her throat nervously, "I'm being stupid. It's fine. I can't—"

"No, Maureen," he said, gently but firmly this time, and rested his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her resistance but held tightly, resolved not to let her run away this time.

How long had she been running away?

"Look, Mo, I … I'm sorry. I was stupid and you have every right to tell me that. But you were wrong in thinking you can't trust me. You can trust me. And right now you need to. You can trust me. I need to know what he's done to you, even if it's something small or even if it's huge. Please, Mo? Tell me."