Chapter Three

"He plays an old guitar with a coin found by the phone"

~-0-~

The first thing I taste is the stale and almost sweaty air that this bar has recirculating through its vents.

I look around the darkened room, a few warm subtle lights are peppered throughout, and for the life of me can't find anyone from work, not even that weird guy that eats lunch on his own out of a brown paper sack. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, because of course I'd be at the wrong place - this was my day from hell, after all.

There are a few seats empty at the bar so I take one that's close enough to see the stage but not be the focus of the crowd that is slowly building. A cute guy in a tight black shirt, with ice blue eyes and blond, spiky hair - obviously far too much product - smiles at me and asks what I'll have to drink. For a moment I think he's trying to pick me up, and as the usual put down falls from my lips, he chuckles and points to the insignia on the left side of his chest right about where his heart would be.

It reads Charlie's Place with his name, Mike, underneath and I realize he's a member of the staff.

Just like my ego needed another blow tonight.

He laughs at my apology, claiming people do it all the time and it's okay, it's how he met his boyfriend of two years, anyway. Mike must see the change in my demeanor - from uptight and protective to relaxed - because he pats my hand, telling me he'll fix me something and informs me that I'm safe with him.

Which, really, is probably the best thing I will hear tonight.

It's also kind of sad really, considering I'm actually happy that the first guy in forever to talk to me outside of work or family obligations isn't into women at all.

I really do need to get out more.

There aren't that many people at the bar and, for the next hour, Mike and I chat and let the two waitresses do most of the work. Mike, it turns out, is really sweet and, thankfully, likes talking about himself a lot more than asking me about my life. It's nice to just listen and laugh at someone else's problems for once and, as Mike continues to place whiskey sours in front of me one after another, time passes quickly.

All of a sudden, the dim lights are darkened even further and a spectrum of multicolour lights shine on the small stage. Before I can ask Mike what exactly is going on, a white spotlight shines on the microphone and a familiar toned body with gelled hair out the wazoo - my bartender for the evening - is welcoming the crowd to another karaoke night at Charlie's. While I've been drinking, I haven't even noticed that the bar has filled. Nearly every seat is taken, as well anywhere vacant for standing.

I'm kind of happy I came in when I did earlier, because there is no way I would have bothered pushing through all these bodies if I arrived now. I like crowds about as much as I like going out with the girls for end of week drinks. In other words, not much at all.

Mike introduces the first act of the night, a rather demure looking girl with frizzy brown curls and if it wasn't for her vintage Jimmy Choos, I would have assumed she was a man based on the rest of her outfit.

Then she opened her mouth and sang.

All. Woman. Power.

I've never heard anyone sing Aretha Franklin's "Respect" with quite so much gusto. Everyone is cheering and clapping and I gather Jessica is a regular. Mike thanks her for an amazing opening and then calls the next name on his list. This huge, brawny guy with muscles surely on top of the muscles he already has makes his way through the crowd and I expect him to open with maybe some Mellencamp, or even The Boss.

What we get is the most moving version of "Bridge over Troubled Water" I've ever heard. Everyone is silent as he holds the last note pitch perfect and then the entire bar erupts in applause. I can make out one word, Felix, being chanted over and over.

Then the word encore follows Felix and before Mike and his little clipboard can continue with the next victim - Mike's word not mine - Felix is ripping into an almost violent version of "Black Betty."

The bar shakes as everyone joins in and even I can't help but sing along. At the end, Mike does wander out and, with a cautious smile in Felix's direction, takes over the mic and calls the next name.

And so it goes on for I don't even know how long. In Mike's absence, Vicky has been pouring my drinks and I know that I'm going to need the ladies room soon because no one can drink as much as I have without needing to break the seal.

I hate breaking the seal.

I hate waiting in lines, too, but breaking the seal means more lines so I tell Vicky to switch me over to ice chips - thus providing me with an anti hangover cure for the following morning and a little sobriety - I hope.

It's about a quarter to eleven and Mike and the crowd are now pleading for someone named Ben to join the stage. Apparently someone has added his name to the list without his knowledge and Mike pleads with the crowd to woo him with promises that we'll all be kind.

I can hear some wolf whistling and the standard jeering from across the room and for a second the spotlight flashes in the direction of the cat callers.

It takes me a moment in my slightly blurry-eyed state to focus, but when I do, I see the girls from work and realize that Ben, now talking to the guy at the piano, is also Angela's Ben. I've found them after all, or they've found me. Whatever the case, I'm kind of glad to see familiar faces, even though they are way across the bar from me and I don't have a hope in hell of teetering over to where they are without falling on my ass at least once, so I stay put.

Ben has a good voice. He keeps the crowd happy with a 'love dedication' to his girl and I fight a nauseous roll in my stomach. It's only when the opening keys to "Tiny Dancer" are played that I start giggling and the entire bar is singing along like we're a hundred strong membership of Stillwater on Doris the tour bus in Almost Famous. There's even an extremely drunk hairy guy who gets on stage with Ben and acts out the Russell Hammond roof scene by stealing the mic, proclaiming he's a golden god and diving into the audience.

It's a poorly played out plan because the inebriated crowd parts like the red sea and the tubby bearded man falls flat on his face. I'm now laughing so hard I actually fall off my stool, knocking into a suit. He helps me up, his hand resting on my elbow a little longer than I deem necessary and, before this twinkly brown eyed wonder in Armani can say a word to me, I shake him off and turn away from him in my now righted seat.

Suits. You can't trust them.

It took me a while in my youth to see past the romantic idealism of a well tailored wool suit with silk ties and a double breasted jacket. What was that saying? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on me?

I was that saying.

Which was funny because, for some reason, my Subway Stranger is the epitome of what I now loathe. Yet suits on him, ties on him, they're sexy. Maybe it's the way he always looks like he wants to take it off rather than put it on that makes him so different.

I know that I, for one, would love to help him with the removal of said thousand-dollar office wear.

I live through a version of Miley Cyrus's "The Climb" and a hacked up version of Coldplay's "Yellow" and then Mike announces the final act of the evening.

The crowd really starts to get loud, whistles and hoots aplenty, and they're banging on tabletops while repeating a name, much like they did with Felix earlier on, so I assume that is who they're chanting for. Mike announces that this is the one they've all been waiting for, and the stage darkens. The only light in the bar comes from above where I'm sitting - presumably so the bar staff can see what they're pouring and count their cash.

Everyone quietens, and you can almost hear a pin drop. Well, you certainly can hear a few clinking glasses, but otherwise it's quiet. There's almost a hush of anticipation and, just as I'm on the edge of my seat, throwing the last of my ice chunks in my mouth, a guitar is strummed and this voice is softly singing.

"I'm hanging on, here until I'm gone. I'm right where I belong just hanging on."

Full. Body. Shivers.

A second voice joins the first and their light harmony is mesmerizing.

"Even though, I watched you come and go. How was I to know, you'd steal the show."

I'm entranced and I can't even see who this liquid sex voice is coming from. It's making the hairs on my arms stand on end and, if I'm not mistaken, there is definitely a headlight problem going on in the front of my silk shirt.

Thank god it's unnoticeable with the entire club cloaked in darkness.

"One day I'll have enough to gamble. I'll wait to hear your final call, and bet it all."

I lick my lips and wish I could breathe quieter because these lyrics that I love, being sung by this... sex god voice… are beautiful. I lean forward in my seat as a blue light cuts through the black and I can make out shapes on the stage.

"I'm hanging on, here until I'm gone. I'm right where I belong, just hanging on."

The blue is joined by a green and I can faintly see the side of a face, a sharp jaw and broad shoulders and hair that is everywhere, almost glowing in the twin lights. He's got an acoustic guitar resting on his knee and, as the key changes, the mood lighting casts his fingers an otherwordly pale turquoise as they play over the fret board.

Fuck. Me.

Sex god voice, that could most likely sing a nun out of her habit, and he plays a guitar.

Why have I never come out with the girls before?

I suddenly have no reasonable answer for that.

"You'll ask for walls, I'll build them higher. We'll lie in shadows of them all. I'd stand but they're much too tall, and I fall..."

The lights flash on brightly with the crescendo, a wall of loud sound. Electric guitar and cymbals crash, and the smooth velvety sex sound is now a rumbling roar.

I'm fairly certain I'm squirming in wet panties on this bar stool. My whole body is aching to know this voice, to feel it on my skin. From the sweet, slow rumble in the beginning to the intense animalistic growl and shout from natural highs. I want that voice whispering warmly in my ear of all the things he's going to do to me, and I want him to wake up the neighborhood calling my name, just like he pours everything into the chorus of this song.

I, Rosalie Lillian Hale, am in lust with a voice.

It's then I realize that I've somehow managed to close my eyes during this almost orgasmic experience, and when I open them...

When I open them, I can't believe who the sex sounds belong to.

Him.

My Subway Stranger.

Sans tie - and I automatically wonder where it is.

Sans top three buttons of a crisp white shirt - enough space to see a smattering of chest hair peek through. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to hint at well formed biceps. The tendons in his forearms flex, catching the now white lights that surround him on the stage as he and his little band of three tear into the last part of the song.

I'm on my feet. I'm watching him.

Staring, really.

I will him to stop staring at the floor, stop staring at the microphone low in front of him where his gorgeous dark brown curls have fallen across his forehead, hiding his eyes from mine.

Not that I believe he could see me across the room from where he is.

But it's relatively safe for my ogling and plus...

Now I've heard him sing.

I need to see his eyes, I need to feel more of a connection.

Just as I'm giving up on that idea, he raises his head.

"FEBRUARY STARS! FLOATING IN THE DARK!"

It's like he's singing just to me. The next three repetitions he sings, growls, roars, fucks me with his voice and those deep blue eyes are only on mine.

The moments between each syllable and chord become longer and longer as I can't break our gaze. The wide grin on my face actually hurts. I force the muscles into shapes they haven't had to make in a flirtatious way for such long time. I hope to god I'm not drooling because this. is. fucking. hot.

My heart is pounding against my chest, its imprint I'm sure is going to be permanently fixed with just hearing this song, feeling him sing it at me for the rest of my life. Not that I care because right now, I'd do anything to keep his eyes on mine.

I can almost feel the courage to go and speak to him welling up from the inside out, connecting disused lines of communication in my brain that haven't been needed for ten years, as I keep my eyes on his. My feet actually itch with the need to push my way through the drunken, swaying mob just to get to him. To feel his words caress my flesh as I produce a hand and introduce myself.

He would take it, he would perhaps touch the small of my back and set my body alight with a simple generous offer to buy me a drink. I'd accept and we'd laugh and look at each other some more. I'd ask where his tie was and even as I'm staring at him now during my romantic look at a possible future, I can see the red of it knotted around his arm like some sort of tribal mark.

The song ends and my reverie is broken with the word, "thank you," then he's off the stage and I lose him in the insane crowd. I stand on the little foot rest of my bar stool and push on some guy's shoulder who happens to be lucky enough to be beside me, and I attempt to look over heads to find him as the crowd returns to normal.

But I can't. The body I'm balancing against tells me to get down before I fall. I can't even see Mike in the hubbub of twisting and turning bodies, so I give in and right myself on my chair. I can't breathe. I rest my head on my hands, my elbows on the wooden top that is sticky from my drink and countless others, and I convince myself it's for the best.

I can't have a relationship. I can't have a fling or whatever people my age have.

Not that thirty-two is old, but I guess in the dating game it's getting a little long in the tooth.

At least, that's what it feels like.

I check my phone for the first time tonight and find a message, yet another reason why I shouldn't have been looking for Subway Stranger and his sinful sex sound.

I have responsibilities. I have other people to take into account, other people that look up to me and that I should be setting a standard for.

I settle my tab with Vicky, who hands me a bottle of water for the road.

Not that I need sobering up. I feel quite hollow with my five minutes of real life smacking me in my face. I can even walk straight.

Exiting the bar into the crisp early, early morning air, I wrap my arms around myself and signal a cab, wishing I'd brought a jacket. It'll be a little bit extra to get me all the way home, but at this hour and feeling as low as I do, I just don't care.

On the way back home, the driver has his own music playing. It sounds Middle Eastern, filled with sitars and words I can't understand sung in lilting refrains and, for the first time, I'm incredibly relieved by this. Not being able to recognize familiar words means I won't have to think about what happened in that bar tonight. I won't have to think about him like that, and he can return to just being the Subway Stranger.

The Subway Stranger with a to-die-for orgasmatron of a singing voice, but the Subway Stranger all the same. I head into my building and lean my head against the cool metal of the elevator wall after paying my exorbitant fare. The regular time it takes to reach the top floor, my home away from home, seems even longer than normal now that I'm crashing from the high I had experienced in the bar, and not just from the whiskey. I will definitely feel that when I wake up later.

Finally, the doors open and I walk inside my sister and her husband's home that I share with their three daughters. It's still quiet, and for 4:00 a.m. it should be, but you can never tell with their youngest, Charlotte. She's three and gets into all sorts of mischief including escaping from her bedroom as soon as her eyes open and terrorizing the pantry. She eats all the marshmallows out of the sugary cereal that Carlisle is supposed to keep on a high shelf specifically for that reason. For a forty year old male with a doctorate in dentistry, he is completely clueless when it comes to kids.

I stand at the large picture windows that frame our view over Prospect Park. City lights are still dancing as the sky turns that funky white-blue signifying dawn is well on its way. Yawning, I head up the staircase to what should be the master suite but, seeing as my sister and brother-in-law are the best relatives you could ever ask for, it's mine. They sleep on the main level of the apartment in one of the three bedrooms. Charlotte has her own room while Kate and Irina share. It's not the best living arrangement, but it is what it is, and I know for a fact Kate loves sharing with Irina. She has strange nightmares sometimes and loves that Irina is just on the bunk below her if she gets scared.

I don't bother flicking the light on when I drag myself up the last few stairs. I can see my way around and, after living here for a decade, I can usually maneuver around the place on even the most sleep deprived mornings without stubbing my toe.

I strip off my clothes on the way to the bathroom, brush my teeth, quickly wash my face and it's only as I find my own violet stare in the mirror that I remember another set of eyes that I was lost in tonight. A faint lyric fills my ears, as does his husky tenor, and my heart stutters for a moment. Through the mirror, I catch sight of a lump in my bed through the door and I splash a second handful of cold water on my cheeks.

Stupid ideas.

Stupid Subway Strangers are just going to have to stay that way.

Yet, one week later I'm in another silk shirt, plum with a bow at my waist, and I'm waiting to see if he'll show.

After all, it's Friday, and I know he won't be at the station. Obviously he goes somewhere and, if I'm right and last week wasn't a one off...

He'll be there.

Again, he's the last of the night with his two other 'band members' and this time he's sexing me up with a Steely Dan song.

The next, he has me in tears walking through fields of gold.

The week after, it's a beautiful day and I'm chuckling because someone in the crowd throws him these huge bug-eye glasses and he looks like a fuzzy haired Bono.

The Friday after that I think he actually searches the bar for me before smiling, deep dimples and all, launching into the tale of a love struck Romeo and his Juliet.

That night? That's the night that changes it all.

a/n Much love to Lighstardust and SubtlePen for their epic red pen and prompts to get this chapter (and the rest) all pretty and less full of aussieisms than it should be ;o)

HUGE love to hmonster04 for still loving me even after I've made her wait for ev er for the next installment and end of this story that she bought.. oh at the start of the year.

And TONS OF SNUGS AND COOKIES to those of you that got this update and still clicked through and read even after all this time.

Till next week!

Boo