Red Rock was only a few city blocks away. Described as "a hidden gem" by Winry, it was a small venue on the corner of the street, its parking lot bordered on one side by an alley. They didn't have to wait in line long before they stepped into a vestibule roughly the size of a closet to pay their entry fees, and to receive on their hands a stamped X in red ink.
Three steps and they were inside the main building. A square area was set up with a few high-top tables and tall stools, beyond that and along the right wall was the bar. The stage was perpendicular, and in front of it was a clear expanse for people to dance and be nearer to the performers. Al's pulse calmed. The place was pleasantly more intimate than he imagined.
"Let's get a drink," Winry said, and they crossed to the bar. Al pulled a folded twenty dollar bill from his pocket as Winry ordered for them.
They carried their drinks back to one of the tables. Winry gave Al an excited, toothy smile. "It'll be great!" she exclaimed as she wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and picked her drink up with the other hand. Al returned a soft smile and clinked his clear plastic cup against hers.
The already dim ambiance suddenly became darker, which denoted the band would be making their entrance soon. The place had filled with people. Most clamored to the dance area to claim a spot against the stage. Quickly the bar grew full, patrons filling each seat, leaving only standing room and wishes of luck for anyone else who wanted a drink. Al faced front on his stool with Winry to his right who was too antsy to sit. The billowy legs of her strappy black jumpsuit swished back and forth with the impatient fidgeting of her legs.
Out first was the drummer, who promptly took a seat at what looked like an extremely worn drum kit. Another man walked beyond him to the left of the stage, a bass guitar hanging by a strap, leaving his hands free to adjust an amp on the floor. A third entered from backstage, a shiny black electric guitar grasped carefully by the neck in his hand. The two guitarists fiddled with volumes for a few minutes, here and there plucking a few strings to tune, the drummer rapping gently on each piece of the kit with two hickory sticks.
From a perch high in the back of the open room, streams of colored lights began projecting onto the stage. Vibrant purple dots, crystalline white lines, swirls of cobalt and dandelion flitted across the band, the equipment and the weathered wood stage.
Winry turned her head to him beaming just as the first notes sounded. The guitarist's mid-tempo riff rang out solo for a few beats before the drums entered, followed by the humming bass.
One last member of the band then stepped out from the darkness at the side of the stage, and took his place at a microphone stand up front.
He stood at average height, body lean but with developed and proportionate musculature. He wore a slim black tank top, tight black leather pants and black lug-sole combat boots. Long golden blonde fringe hung middle-parted, the length pulled back in a braid.
His presence must have been subconsciously commanding, because Al couldn't tear his eyes away.
The singer gripped the microphone atop its cradle, emitting the first raspy note. The grungy baritone swelled through the room. He appeared to be fully invested in the experience; his eyes would shut, head tilted, fingers deftly running up and down the length of the microphone stand. Yet his stance was powerful, his feet planted apart, knees bent, core engaged.
Only the cheering of the fans broke Al from his reverie. He blinked the trance from his eyes. When had he blinked last?
He could have sworn he heard Winry shout something.
"Earth to Al!" she shouted directly in his ear. He turned to her a bit too fast to look normal, as if he hadn't been gawking. "I'll be back!" And off she went down to the dance pit, arms up and waving, hips swiveling to the beat.
Al picked up his forgotten cup and took a large gulp. His throat was so dry. Why was his throat so dry?
The first song ended after a short, final burst of drum beats. As weird as he may have looked for it, Al brought his eyes to the singer again. The man's face was unreadable. Even with the crowd at his feet hollering, his expression looked solemn, even dour, eyes hard, brows slightly furrowed. He must have preferred to let the lyrics speak for him, because he said nothing until the band started up again for the next song.
This song was a bit slower than the first, and even more sultry. The bass thrummed, the electric guitar's buzzing notes reverberated along the walls, the drums pounded a beat that could be felt in the chest. The singer lifted the microphone from its stand, gripping it tightly in his fist, and pulled it close to his lips. His lithe frame swayed with the beat, red-bottomed boot tapping along. With each thrash of his head, his braid would whip around and hit his shoulder. Every now and then he would open his eyes and look down on the crowd, but still his expression contained not excitement, nor joy; it was like stone.
Al was tapping his heel against the floor. His arms were folded, resting on the table top, upper body leaned in. He found himself drawn in by the singer's long, sustained notes, when he would toss his head back, arm muscles flexed, neck taut, eyes shut.
"Get a grip, Al," he chastised himself internally, and as the song finished he shifted off the stool to head to the bar.
He squeezed himself past the tightly packed bodies in the corner nearest the stage, shuffling to the counter and gripped his hands around the cool, round edge of the bar top. He didn't measure the time it took for the bartender to notice him, though to him it felt like an eternity. After getting his drink, a barstool opened up beside him, so he quickly snatched it and plopped down. He sat nursing his drink for a time, once in a while glancing around at the crowd. This lone corner was a welcome reprieve. He was so spaced out that he barely noticed the accidental bump against his arm.
He turned his upper half to his left and was suddenly face to face with the singer. The man's arms were rigid, fingers curled along the bar's edge. Every muscle in Al's body tensed. He peered at the singer's face, a gasp hitching in his throat when he saw bright golden eyes glaring at him. And in those eyes Al could have sworn he saw... anger? His eyebrows were furrowed but his eyes were opened wide as if surprised.
The bartender slid a shot to the singer, who promptly lifted it to his lips, threw his head back and consumed it in one large gulp. Al watched the bobbing of his adam's apple as he swallowed. His eyes trailed to the side of his neck, sinewy and tensed, the knob of his shoulder to his tight, exposed bicep, rough, weathered and yet still somehow delicate hands.
He threw Al one more dangerous glare before turning and stomping back to the stage.
Al felt a stab in his lungs. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath the entire encounter. He took one large, deep inhale, shoulders shuddering as he released it. Mystified, he stood from the stool to return to his table.
Winry was waiting for him there when he returned. She could immediately see something amiss about his face. "What happened?" she asked, craning her neck and inspecting him from every angle.
"N-nothing!" he stammered. Why was his throat so very dry? He brought his cup to his mouth and took a giant swig. To quell Winry's worry, he flashed her a smile. Truthfully, it was a forced one but he wanted no more questions.
Thankfully he was spared of any further interrogation when the band started up again. The tempo sped up from their first two songs, notes and beats coalescing to a harder feel.
Al was now determined, albeit from several yards across the room, to analyze the enigmatic singer.
His expression seemed a shade harsher than before. The swirling lights accentuated the crease in his brow as he released gravelley notes, sporadically doing so through gritted teeth. And yet his body belied the fire his face was emitting. He looked every part the practiced, confidant professional when his hips bucked through the air at a particularly strong pump of bass drum, fingers threading through his sweat-soaked fringe, never missing a lyric.
Al had no clue as to why he looked angry, more importantly why he looked angry at him. He had never seen this person, knew nothing about him, would probably never see him again. And he had every reason to look happy - the crowd was full, dancing, some even sang along. Everyone looked like they were having a great time, save for the man with the golden eyes.
And that! Who ever heard of gold eyes? Were they contact lenses for some aesthetic reason? Perhaps he chose to wear them to enhance the 'dark, brooding rock star' persona he was trying to embody.
Something inside of Al compelled him toward the stage. He stood up, grabbed Winry by the hand and guided them to the edge of the pit. He assertively shoved his way through the gyrating bodies, landing them both right beneath center stage.
Call it Liquid Courage, call it being a creepy stalker, whatever the most appropriate moniker, Al stood there stock-still to gaze up at the singer.
They locked eyes and for the first time, the singer fumbled his words. Al saw the briefest flash of pain in his eyes as he recovered and sang on. From that moment, the singer seemed to actively avoid standing in front of Al. He crossed to the left to serenade a trio of swooning girls, crossed to the right to a group of guys banging their heads, and never stayed in the middle for longer than necessary. It played out like that until their last song was through.
Al was utterly perplexed. Winry was oblivious to it. She brushed her long fringe from her damp forehead, wrapping her other hand around Al's wrist and squealing. "Weren't they awesome?!"
"They were," he replied. They were certainly something.
"I'm gonna' stop at the bathroom before we go." She nodded and walked toward the exit to wait for him.
As the bathroom door shut, he took a second to lean his back and head against the cold wall, taking a few deep breaths and shutting his eyes. The click of a lock made him open them again. The singer exited the stall nearest to him.
He made to take another step toward the sinks but paused and looked over to Al, catching his eyes again. This time, Al was certain what he read in the singer's eyes was anger. Not just anger, but a firey rage. Before Al could react, the singer took three large steps, closing the gap between them. He smashed tightly closed fists against the wall on either side of Al's head.
"Why are you here?! You're not supposed to be here!" he screamed, centimeters away from Al's face.
But he didn't wait for an answer. He kicked the door open and was gone. Al's legs buckled beneath him, and he slid down the wall to land, terrified and confused, on the tile floor.