Karaoke
XxX
(Bella: 6 months earlier)
"Karaoke?"
It's not Bella's thing, but she's not turning down a Friday night with Rose. Before getting out of the car, she checks her lipstick in the visor mirror – Cherry Frost is in full swing.
"Sure. I won't make you get up and sing. C'mon, it's dumb and different."
Bella pats herself down one more time. Finally, after all these years, she can wear her favorite sneakers without judgment or expectation. She's not a kid anymore but she has the body that's five years behind in age. She's not stupid and takes advantage with the skinny jeans and a thin, v-neck tee.
It's a change she's getting used to. It feels good but it doesn't stop the nerves. Only when Rose holds her hand, and pulls her in does she become centered.
The bar is crowded and reeks of recklessness. Like any bar, the girl-to-guy ratio benefits no one. The pick-up lines are all the same. The moves are borrowed, recycled and eventually accepted.
Two camps drink their drinks - those who know how to play the game, and those who will bluff their way until last call.
Bella and Rose take seats at a tall round-top near the stage where the lanky and dreadlocked DJ sets up the mike. A top-forty mix plays in the background.
"You okay?" Rose, out of character, has been walking on eggshells with her long-time friend. It's a rare day that Rose keeps her opinions to herself, but Bella's marriage has tested the elasticity of their friendship.
Rose has learned when to pull and when to let go. Tonight, it is Bella's turn to let go.
"Yeah." There's that fidgeting with her ring again. It's like a third limb, she's not even aware that she still has it on, thinks Rose, but instead says, "What are we drinking?"
The waitress shows up and Bella is not ready with her order. Ordering drinks, and playing it quick and cool, in the social spotlight is a habit from an older era.
She is rusty.
She's forgotten her drink of choice and fumbles with an answer. Rose is quick, and orders for both of them; taking the reins before her friend sinks into insecurity again.
After ordering their gin and tonics, the noise increases, the room bounces with music and Bella people watches. It is too loud for true conversation.
She notices the long, oak bar at the other end of the room. Behind the bartender, bottles of liquid greens, pinks, amber and gold line the shelves.
The seats at the bar are empty, save for one. Everyone else prefers to mingle around table tops and by the stage.
"Bottoms up, B." Rose says with a reassuring grin.
They pick up their glasses of cold and clear forget-it juice. Bella's smile reaches her ears, makes her face flush. Her entire body relaxes.
This is it. This is where she should be, not at home, waiting for the door to open.
Yes. This is it.
"To you, B. Trust. You'll be okay." And that bit of Rose-love nearly tests Bella's mascara. It is a genuine and welcome toast.
They tip back and drink.
XxX
She's been sneaking looks at him all night. She's not hiding it from Rose. "Switch seats with me, c'mon." The gin and tonics have teased out the brave in her along with her inner Mick Jagger. Guys have been stepping up to them all night and declaring the next song is theirs, "We'll sing whatever you want, pretty ladies."
They've managed to fend off the more aggressive come-ons. The ring idly plays its part.
Bella tries on her flirt suit, taking advantage of their smiles with requests for every Rolling Stones song in the DJ's playlist.
After, one Sympathy for the Devil and two Paint it Blacks later, she is done belting out lyrics that set memories aflame.
Her brown, cat-like eyes zero in on the quiet man at the end of the bar. He's been sitting there most of the night, looking up at the large flat screen mounted behind the bar and ignoring the scene.
She's memorized his profile. He's dressed entirely in black.
On occasion, he'll turn his head and she'll catch deep eyes. He has nice hair, dark and reddish under the warm bar lights. It's dismissive of the tamed and molded fashion that surrounds him.
During the caterwauling of a 'so you think you can sing' contestant, a burly hunk of a friend sits next to him. When they hug, it is like family and not the postured welcome of male acquaintances.
She watches as they alternate between the television and conversation, heads leaned in – one dark, one burnished bronze. A sports channel is on.
They're in their own world, oblivious to her stare and every other hot-blooded woman inspired by the two handsome men. She watches when other women approach. Every one of them, sent away politely.
"Stop being so obvious." Rose snaps her well-manicured fingers in Bella's face.
Looking behind her shoulder, Rose's understanding is immediate. "Oh, shit."
"Yeah." Bella's lost her words, she's flustered just looking at him. She drinks more.
"You ready for that?" Rose says, contemplating her friend. The booze has loosened her tongue and she can't help letting out a small jibe to test the waters; both girls used to tease each other mercilessly.
"What about Jake, B?" The waters have been murky lately, though.
"What about him?" Bella's jaw tightens, her sudden irritation is new, but it's there now and she cools herself with it. She chews the inside of her bottom lip.
"If you do this," Rose says gesturing at the object of Bella's fascination, "how are you going to be tomorrow?"
"I'll be fine." This talk is old and now she's anxious, ready.
Had her friend not acknowledged it, Bella may have ignored him the rest of the night. But Rose, familiar with Bella's buttons, is glad that her comments have opened a door.
"Let's not go there now, okay?" She holds up her empty glass at Rose and asks her if she wants another one.
"Sure. One more." She is slightly contrite about bringing up Jake, but Bella's little fire is a lovely sight.
"I'll go up and order. Can't see the waitress," says Bella.
With that feeble excuse, she sidles up to the bar next to the stranger, his friend having left.
XxX
Never has Bella experienced the charge of anticipation like she does in this very moment. Never will she forget it.
Bellying up to the bar, between a stool and this striking man, her heart beats in her mouth. Her throat is dry. She is dwarfed by his presence, as if a cloud passed over the moon. His heat darkens around her.
"What can I get you, darling." Her mind, tricky, fools her for a petrifying minute. She thinks it's him, but it's not, and again she fumbles in the questioning eyes of the bartender. Trying to be cool, she improvises on an old, flirty phrase from her college days.
"Um, what kind of shots do you like to make?" She says, with an unnatural sideways smile. Her confidence wavers.
She's entirely my type, thinks the bartender, but I'm in the weeds, so if she's asking, "Whiskey." He's curt, but he's working the bar alone and the line is deep with hyped-up revelers. He's hidden the blender under the counter.
"Oh," not what she was expecting. "Then, um, I'll take a double?"
"I'll have the same, Mike."
It's him, and his voice is a room she steps into eagerly.
Carefully, he reaches an arm around her. She stiffens: the stress of wondering what he's doing coils within.
He pulls a stool out and offers it to her, "Sit?"
"Um, sure. Thanks. I guess he'll be a while before he gets back."
Mike has moved on – nodding at orders, pulling draughts, and closing tabs.
"I don't believe we've met. I'm Edward Cullen." He holds a hand out to her and it takes her too many beats to reconcile his formality in this meat-market.
His smile is unburdened and lively, with intense green eyes.
"I'm Bella." Her speech is coming back, the headiness loosens its grip, her breathing regulates. Taking a secret breath, she shakes his hand and revels in the urge to wrap it around her in a warm hug.
He smiles and turns back to the TV screen as if they've been sitting together, doing just that, all the while.
Rose walks up and hugs her friend from behind. "Bella, I have to take off," she whispers to her friend conspiratorially.
"You okay?" asks Rose while slyly eyeing Edward with admiration.
Bella sinks into her friend's arms and nods her head, breathing in the smell of Rose for courage.
"Thanks. I'll cab it. Call you tomorrow?" her voice is weak but determined.
"Yeah, babe. Call me." Rose wants to say more, but leaves it. It will play out how it's meant to play out, and the stress of Bella's life was taxing even for her.
"Your friend seems nice," Edward says, putting an arm on the back of her stool. His black button-up is rolled at the sleeves and his arm, sinewy and aggressive with muscle and hair, makes her blush.
"Did you lose your ride?"
"Yeah. It's okay. I don't have anywhere to be."
"Oh, no?" He frowns with a little smile. She cocks her head, about to ask what has him bothered, when their shots are placed in front of them, followed by two rock glasses of ice water.
"Oh, I didn't order…"
"It goes down better that way. Mike knows how I take it. You'll like it. Add a little water to it or an ice cube. It will help smooth it out."
Bella watches his finger fish out an ice cube from his glass and plunk it into her whiskey. It's no less familiar than having him cut her steak.
Angling his long torso over her slight frame, he brings his glass up for a toast.
"Cheers," she pipes, recognizing the gesture coming toward her.
"Nostrovia." And he drinks half of the whiskey before setting it down. The remainder is to be nursed slowly, enjoyed sip by sip.
The drink does go down smoothly. So smoothly, she drinks half as well. The fire inside blooms and takes charge.
"You're right," she laughs, breathless and newly spirited. The whiskey works its hands on her tense muscles.
"What does 'nostrovia' mean?" His eyes are engaging and she talks right into them. It's her defense against staring at his lips.
"It means, to good health. It's Polish or Czech, I'm never sure."
And the conversation flows.
She finds out he's a travel writer for a magazine she overlooks at airports, hidden at the bottom of the shelves. His job sends him on mountain-climbing expeditions and impressive outdoor adventures. He's excited about a new assignment and speaks to her like someone pulled tape away from his mouth.
He's making her laugh, and play with her hair, and fidget with her lip.
His life is fascinating, she thinks, like hers used to be. He asks her questions about it. She digs for her best, thrilling stories in boxes long since stuffed away, in dusty photo albums deteriorating in storage.
Internally, she marvels at the girl she used to be. Her stories are old and faded, and when she falters walking through them, his voice loops around her, bringing her back into their moment.
She barely keeps up, getting distracted by his mannerisms, his long limbs gesticulating in emphasis, his body circling around and above her, closer.
Every movement orbits nearer until his legs are open, and she's laughing, and her body enters his sphere of influence.
They have gone through a lot of whiskey.
"Bella." He tugs on her shirt. "I like that name. Bella." He takes another sip, staring at her, and saying her name like it's the first time he's tasting it.
He's asking the one thing she fails to remember.
"I come with baggage," she blurts out in haste and sorrow, cradling her head in her hand, watching for his reaction.
His eyes move to her left hand. It dawns on her that she's forgotten and her stomach is a cage of hummingbirds.
"Then lose it," he says quietly. She almost doesn't hear, but when she does, the cage opens.
He smiles at her parted lips - a little pocket for his lustful gaze.
She slips off the gold band, tucking it into her back pocket.
He'll never see it again.
A/N:
Cesca Marie and WriteOnTime talked me off the ledge this week as well as schooled me on punctuation but if I listened I wouldn't need them would I