School breaks and server issues delayed me for a little while, but I'm back. I swear, the entire story will be posted in the next two weeks or so. Reviews are adored and appreciated.
The song lyrics here are from Thieves' Crossing's "Bring Me Home". The name One Year Lease is borrowed from a theatre company in New York founded by recent Vassar grads. That's all I stole for this chapter, except for the characters, who belong to Jon Larson.
III.
"What time is it?" Mark said, leaning toward Maureen in hopes that she would be able to hear him over the din of the crowded bar.
"What?" she returned loudly, cupping a hand around her ear.
"Nothing," Mark said. She gestured toward him confused, and he waved his hands in the air. "Nothing," he repeated, raising his voice. She nodded in understanding, sipping at her drink.
Mark turned back to the beer that he had barely touched since they had arrived at the bar, twisting it idly between his fingers. Alcohol didn't appeal to him that much normally, but he needed to have something in his hands. He was beginning to feel less and less supportive about this whole gig thing. Mark could practically feel the room shrinking, pushing all of its crowded, drunk, smoky inhabitants closer in toward him. He wondered if maybe he had social anxiety disorder or something. He wondered if he should be on some kind of medication. He laughed silently at himself, smiling down at the tabletop. He wondered if everyone was as neurotic as he was and just hid it better.
He was seriously considering going to catch a breath of fresh air outside when Roger walked out onto the stage. The musician threw a casual smile out at the audience as he sat with his guitar, adeptly adjusting the microphones around him. Mark was always amazed by how comfortable his friend seemed to be with so many eyes on him, how naturally it all came to him. Roger plucked at his guitar strings for a moment, checking to make sure the instrument it was tuned properly. Mark could tell from hours of listening to this exact sequence of notes that it was. Then he leaned forward and introduced himself briefly to the crowd, squinting past the lights for a moment to spot Maureen and Mark by the bar. A small smile just for them lit his face. Mark felt the corresponding pulling at the corners of his own lips. Then Roger began to sing, and the rest of the smoky room disappeared for Mark entirely.
"I can feel your
eyes upon my face
all the way over here..."
There was something about watching Roger sing that had always fascinated him. He used to just sit on the couch and watch him practice for hours, never seeming to tire of it. It was the charisma in Roger's voice, which made him so hard to turn away from, that had led them to being friends in the first place. Mark used to set up the sound system for a bar near the loft where Roger began to play regular gigs, and he would always stay for the intense, young-looking musician's sets. Ostensibly he was monitoring the equipment, but in reality the deep eyes and honest voice of the guitar player intrigued him. After a few weeks, they began to talk between sets and found that they had more to say to each other than either would have imagined.
It was the honesty in Roger's felty, hypnotic voice that had hooked him. It conveyed the sort of truth that Mark had always tried to bring out in his films, but he was never able to refine it as perfectly as Roger did with his music. Roger's solo material had always been softer and sadder than the music his band played, more a reflection of the perceptive man who felt and understood things deeply that only Mark and a few other people had come to know. The harder, edgier rock of the band corresponded perfectly with the protective shell Roger had fastened for himself out of apathy and a quick temper. But truly, he was a poet hiding in the guise of a rock star.
The red and blue lights of the club were dim and subdued on Roger, casting color across his face and hands as they moved lightly, reverently, over the strings of his guitar. All of the pain and anger that had been etched into the lines of his face seemed no longer visible. Mark wished passionately for the Nikon he had pawned almost a year ago. He wanted to be able to keep this image of Roger forever, the way he looked when the tragedies of this year had dropped from his face and deep eyes. The way he had looked before, when she was still there, when Mark hadn't had to miss either of them.
"I know I've
seemed so far away
the past couple of days, what can I do?
It's kind of nice, in a way
but I'm just sorry that it has to hurt you..."
Maureen casually glanced over at Mark but froze at the look in her boyfriend's eyes. He was so intent on his musician, focused in a way that was usually reserved strictly for his work. She knew he had forgotten that she was even there, sucked back into the world he had created for himself out of idealized memories and subliminated desires. She wasn't entirely sure if she wanted to laugh or cry.
"I don't know
what's kept my silent somehow.
It seems my heart wants to say something that my lips won't allow..."
Maureen's attention flew back to Roger, the words of the song finally infiltrating her ears. Jesus, was Mark even listening? He couldn't be. He wouldn't have such a calm and dreamy expression if he were actually hearing the words that were coming out of Roger's mouth. Christ, it sounded like Mark wrote them! But, she figured, it was just as well. She wasn't sure if she could sit here next to Mark as he listened to Roger's singing such words, watch him innerly hope and debate if they were about him.
"But my heart
can't hear the singing,
or maybe it just doesn't like the song.
Although it's heard it all along..."
The scared and reluctant confession of roommate to another. But she knew better. Roger was undoubtedly and unequivocally straight and, more importantly, far too self-absorbed to realize that his best friend had toppled stupidly in love with him.
"So I lay low for
now, for tonight.
I lay low my sweetheart now tonight."
And she would have continued to believe that with complete confidence if Roger hadn't looked up in that moment and stared straight at Mark.
*
Between songs Mark turned to where Maureen should have been sitting only to find her gone. Her purse was still beside him, so she must have just slipped away while he was watching Roger. He didn't think anything of it. Roger began playing moments later, and Mark turned his attention back to his friend on stage. He recognized the opening notes of the song as one Roger had written over a year before during a blizzard that had kept them basically trapped in the loft for several days. He hadn't heard it since April died.
"Roger! Please! Must we listen to this song over and over?" April demanded, throwing a couch cushion at him.
"Yes," Roger replied, smiling, as he parried the cushion with ease. "The only way I can fix it is to work on it." He began to strum the same chords.
"So help me God Roger, I will throw the guitar out of the window if you don't play something different!"
Mark laughed softly from where he was sitting, cross-legged on the kitchen counter, reading. He didn't even have to look up to be able to see the entire scene perfectly in his head. April was half reclining on the couch, biting on a highlighter, trying to read a journal article for class the next day, and Roger was half-sitting on the table with his guitar in his arms. He was trying not to laugh at her as she ran her fingers through her hair the way she did when she got frustrated. It would only take a few more measures of the song for her to lose it.
"Give me that pick!" she cried at that moment, laughing as she flung herself across the room. "I swear Roger, it's gone! It's out the window!"
But Roger was too quick for her. As Mark looked up, he stashed the pick in his pocket and caught her around the waist, disarming her of her highlighter, and pulled her into a sweet, teasing kiss. When their lips parted, April's eyes flew to Mark. She saw the expression in his face and sent him her most comforting look.
"I love you," she mouthed as Roger returned to his song.
Mark smiled sadly. "I love you too."
That night he woke up as she slipped into bed beside him.
"How are you?" she asked softly, curling up against him.
"Okay," he sighed. "It's just hard. I don't know how much longer I can hide this."
"I know."
*
Maureen savagely ripped a paper towel from the dispenser in the ladies' room. Mark hadn't even noticed that she had left, hadn't so much as looked up. He was too tightly wrapped in his own little dream world to see anything but Roger. And it was a dream world, of that she was certain. It didn't really mean anything that Roger had looked at Mark while he was singing. Wasn't it natural to seek out a familiar face in the crowd? She did it often enough. He probably couldn't see anything with all of those lights in his eyes anyway.
But it didn't change the fact that Mark wanted someone else. That thought deflated her vehemence a quickly and surely as anything could. Her shy, loving little Mark didn't want her; he wanted someone else entirely.
Someone he could never have.
She almost felt sorry for him. He would never see what was so patently obvious to her, that Roger would never want him, or love him, the way that he hoped.
Mark wants someone else.
Well, she thought bitterly, he isn't the only one.
She involuntarily looked up to meet the eyes of a pretty young redhead in the mirror. As her gaze lingered on the girl's full lips, she almost laughed aloud at the hysterical irony of her own thoughts.
*
Half an hour later Roger's set was over, and Mark was formulating an excuse to leave. Whatever appeal the bar might have once had was quickly evaporating. Maureen had returned and was on her third drink, a fine line creasing her brow, and Roger had been downing shots consistently since he had come to sit with them. It made Mark almost irrationally angry watching his friend diligently set himself to the task of getting drunk. He knew this would be one of those nights when he helped Roger stumbled into bed or waited up all hours because he never came home at all. He supposed he knew why Roger did these things, but he could never fully understand it.
Mark stood and laid his hand lightly on the small of Maureen's back. She turned to look at him, and he was again struck by just how beautiful she was. Even with that touch of boredom and aversion in her eyes, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
"I need to go," he said. "I completely forgot, I have to pick up a piece of equipment, and the place closes soon."
She frowned. "Do you have to do that now? Can't it wait?"
"No," Mark lied, surprised and actually somewhat touched by her annoyance. "I need it for shooting tomorrow, and I'm really behind. Greg needs the footage for editing." Mark worked periodically with One Year Lease Prod., a small production company in SoHo owned by three progressive young filmmakers. "I shouldn't be long," he continued, "but if I don't make it back here before you guys leave, I'll see you at home?"
She nodded, still pouting faintly. "Sure."
He kissed her forehead and turned to leave when she caught his arm, pulling him back to her.
"Tell me you love me Mark," Maureen said, her eyes serious, her grip around his arm firm.
"I love you Maureen," he said curiously, his confusion over her sudden mood change apparent.
She looked at him evaluating, and he was vaguely uncomfortable under the weight of her eyes. He didn't know what she was looking for, but apparently whatever she found satisfied her. She pulled him down for a brief kiss and let him go.
Mark turned and headed for the doorway, pulling his coat on, puzzling over Maureen's behavior. He was halfway to the door when Roger, returning from the bar, stepped in front of him and blocked his way.
"You leaving?" he asked, his voice calm from the alcohol in his system.
"Yeah," Mark replied. "I have to go pick up--"
"That piece for your camera?" Roger interrupted, a kind of amused challenge in his eyes.
Shit. He knows.
Mark smiled tightly, upset that Roger had seen through him so easily. "Yeah."
"I figured you could go about a day without filming anything," he replied, taking a long drink from the beer in his hand. "See you later."
Mark paused for a moment before laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You were great tonight Roger."
"Yeah," Roger replied flatly. "I guess."
Mark opened his mouth to respond but realized that he didn't know what to say. He squeezed Roger's shoulder and headed out into the cold.
*
"Where is Mark?" Maureen snapped, slightly drunk and more inclined to be irritable for it.
"Mark?" Roger laughed, turning to look at her. "Mark is gone."
"But he said he was..."
"Jesus Maureen, did you really believe he was coming back? You know he hates these kinds of places," Roger answered.
Roger and Maureen had been sitting next to each other at the bar ever since Mark left but had barely exchanged a dozen words. They were wary companions and both in dark, silent moods. They concentrated on their drinks, occasionally glancing over at the other. Roger had spent the majority of the night being further occupied by a pretty blonde fan with three earrings in each ear and glittery eye make-up.
"Yeah, he hates these places. But he came here for you," Maureen muttered, catching the eye of the bartender she had been silently flirting with since Mark left. She smiled slowly in a way that had never failed her before, and he smiled back as he slid another drink across the surface of the bar toward her.
Roger watched the entire scene, shaking his head. "You certainly seem heartbroken that he's gone."
"Fuck you Roger." The remark was sincere but lacked energy.
"You know," he returned flatly, "it's good thing I never really liked you, or that might have hurt my feelings."
"Why don't you like me?" she asked seriously, turning to look at him. He was drunk too, she could tell by the far-off look in his eyes.
Roger leaned in close to her. She could feel his breath against her face as he spoke, and she suddenly became intensely aware of their proximity. "Because I know you're going to hurt him."
"What makes you so damn sure?" she stiffened.
He laughed, a deep, languid rustle in his chest. "I'm not stupid Maureen. I can see what's going on."
Really? I bet you're not as perceptive as you think!
"Mark can take care of himself," she said.
"Not when it comes to you," Roger replied, moving closer to her. His knee was pressed against her thigh, and she could practically feel the heat radiating off of his body. "Listen, I know your type but he doesn't. He actually believes you love him."
"Who's to say I don't?" she asked with an infuriating smile. She knew that she wasn't the only one who was aware of how close they were sitting. She could see the hunger in his suddenly unguarded eyes, and it gave her a strange thrill of power.
"Would you be here now if you did?" Roger demanded quietly. "Look Maureen, I'm hardly in a position to tell you how to live your life. I just want you to know that I don't buy the act."
"Point noted. You know, you sure are an asshole when you're drunk," she continued, in the same vein of honesty. "I thought it might loosen you up a little, but you're always the brooding musician aren't you?"
Roger smiled slightly. "It's part of my rock-star image."
"He smiles! Un-fucking-believable."
An hour later, Maureen and Roger stumbled back toward the loft together. They had sniped at each other through a whole new series of drinks, finding that once they began talking the jibes they could direct at each other were nearly endless. The alcohol coursing through their systems had made Roger reckless and Maureen inviting, and by the end of the night they were laughing, glancing surreptitiously at each other from the corners of cautious but craving eyes.
"Mark's not home?" Roger mumbled, finding the front door of the apartment locked. He dug into his pockets until he unearthed his keys. As he was struggling with the lock, Maureen stumbled and fell against him, laughing sloppily at her own clumsiness. Roger caught her and held her up until she was able to regain her balance.
Later, neither could be sure of how it happened or who instigated it. They were standing so close, and Maureen remembered feeling for a moment Roger's hot breath against her face, coming quickly and shallowly, before their feverish lips met. They stumbled through the door, wrapped in a bruising, feral embrace. Maureen tugged impatiently at Roger's clothing as he wound his fingers tightly into her hair. Somehow they had both known that the night would end this way from the moment that Mark had walked out of that bar.