The Piano Man (Patreon)

I have two commissions to give you guys this week from people on the Legendary Tier.

This is the first part of one (second part tomorrow). The other one will be posted on Friday, Ivygate on Saturday, and I'll be continuing older series next week, and getting started on one or two of the series that I've posted recently!

Enjoy!

All characters are consenting adults (18+)

I could count on one hand, the number of people sitting around the bar. A woman sat alone, texting on her phone and shooting entire glasses of red wine into her gullet. She shook her head occasionally, became angrier and angrier with the recipient of her frantic messages, and ordered more wine.

Across the room, an elderly man stared into his pint of ale. I couldn’t tell if he was depressed or simply too drunk to lift his eyes from it. Two seats over, a younger couple looked to be on a date, though neither of them had spoken much since I arrived.

I’d been here every Friday night for the last three months, and I was almost certain that the audience had actually become smaller since I’d started. Patrick Connolly, an Irishman with a face that looked as though it was made of old leather, twisted a towel inside one of the glasses from behind the bar. He owned the place, and was becoming increasingly frustrated at my broken promise of filling his bar every weekend. I was halfway through one of my sets when I noticed him approach.

“You’re killing me, kid” he said, and the mic picked up his voice, allowing the patrons to have a front row seat, not just to my singing, but to my humiliation, too. “Don’t get me wrong” he continued, with an accent so thick I had trouble understanding it, “you’ve got a good voice on you, but look around, son, do you think that these sour fucks need anymore reason to cry into their drinks?”

He was right, I supposed. The fact may have been a little too blunt for the lady with the wine, however, because she up and left in a hurry, leaving even less people to dislike my singing. Patrick smiled apologetically.

“Can you do something a little more upbeat?” He asked, and although it wasn’t exactly my forte, I was a twenty one year old, broke college student, and if Patrick Connolly wanted me to sing the Irish national anthem backwards, I was willing to give it a go.

“How about something a little more lively?” I asked the dwindling crowd, and the only response came from the old man.

“It’s about time” he croaked, “it’s like being at my own fucking funeral over here!”.

Patrick returned behind the bar and I set up the backing track on my laptop. My mom had always insisted that I learn an instrument to go along with, what she called, my angelic voice, but I’d never been much of an instrument guy, so when the instrumental for Jolene by the amazing Dolly Parton began, I tapped my foot, and began.

Within seconds, the old man threw his hands in the air and left, and I watched from the corner of my eye as Patrick shook his head. I was cooked, and so the only thing I could do before being given my marching orders, was to have some fun with the last song I’d sing in Connolly’s Bar.

By midnight, the place had emptied out completely. I packed my things away and slouched over to Patrick who stood with his shovel like hands on the bar, and a small towel draped over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Daniel” he sighed, “I just can’t afford to keep you on if you’re not bringing in the crowd”.

“I know” I nodded, because although I was disappointed that my only source of income was coming to an end, I understood. He pulled one hundred dollars from the cash register and slid it across the bar.

“Good luck, kid” he smiled, and I smiled back as best I could, and left Connolly’s Bar for the last time.

Patrick had been good to me. New York wasn’t exactly the easiest city in the world to break into as an unknown country singer with no guitar and only a laptop and a microphone. I didn’t blame him, but I was increasingly blaming myself for not listening to my mom. I had a good voice, and everybody who had ever heard me sing, agreed, but I couldn’t rely on fairytales anymore. If I wanted to pay rent and eat, I’d finally have to accept the fact that, just like my old man had told me, I was destined for a fast food job.

The city was only coming alive as I began the long walk back to my shared apartment. As I lugged my equipment in an old bag over my shoulder, I watched as people whizzed by me, excited for their night to begin, while mine was already over. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself, and when the first droplet of summer rain hit me on my forehead, I took a deep breath and mumbled typical under my breath.

It became heavier and heavier until I felt it soak through my clothes and drip down my face. A taxi hit a pothole and soaked my leg, only adding to my misery, and as the dark sky above exploded with lightening, I decided to wait it out in the closest place I could find.

I’d walked by Preston’s hundreds of times, though I’d never given it much thought. It was one of those swanky upper class bars, where rich people drank expensive drinks in cocktail dresses and suits. I was certain that I would have been refused entry had the doorman not been preoccupied, but I slipped inside and hid in the closest booth I could find until a barman took my order and returned with my drink a moment later.

It was a far cry from Connolly’s. The place was huge, and unlike the Irish bar, it was packed. I looked around at the countless tables, where real dates were happening. People laughed, joked, spoke in serious conversation, and did all of the things you’d expect people to do on a night out, and then I heard something that sent chills up my spine.

I knew the melody instantly. a Passenger number that I’d sang more than a few times in the shower. I smiled to myself as I sipped my overly expensive vodka tonic, and waited for the singer to show me what real singers sounded like, but the words never came.

The pianist hit beautiful notes, but remained quiet throughout the set, and I couldn’t deny that in a place like Preston’s, the instrumental was perfect. Yet, the more the person played, the more I wanted to hear a voice, and so I looked around to find the source, and my heart soared when I found it.

A young man who wore a pair of pressed black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a dark waistcoat sat behind the grand Steinway. His eyes were closed tightly, and a glistening shimmer of sweat coated his brow as his fingers danced across the keys so naturally that he didn’t even need to look. The music that he played so effortlessly, made every person in the bar stop and listen.

Every sound that poured from the grand piano made the hairs on my arms stand up. I watched him from afar as Let Her Go turned to Skinny Love, and found myself singing along under my breath.

Not only was the young man an exceptional pianist, but he was also the most perfect specimen that I had ever laid eyes on. His dark hair was combed neatly across his head. His sharp features looked even more beautiful under the dim light, and the way in which he moved, gave me chills. He looked barely a couple of years older than me, and the more I watched him, the more I became hypnotised by the handsome piano man.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t seat you here” a sharp voice called, snapping me from my fantasies. I looked around to find the doorman glaring down at me, and opened my mouth to apologise and announce my departure, before his eyes landed on my bag. “Oh, god, I’m sorry!” He half laughed, “you’re with Tristan, right?”

I didn’t manage a word. The middle aged man picked up my wet bag and my glass, and hurried across the room, beckoning me to follow. I looked around, almost willing somebody to help me out, but followed him toward the stage.

“I uh… I’m not actually –”

The man stopped next to the beautiful pianist who I now knew to be Tristan, just as the song came to an end. I felt my cheeks burn red as he began to speak to him, and suddenly the young man’s dark, stunning eyes landed on me and he cocked a brow.

My heart raced in my chest. Perhaps if he wasn’t so painfully handsome, the situation wouldn’t have felt as awkward as it did, but when they both stared at me, I felt my stomach churn.

“I um… I was just –”

“Yeah” Tristan said, keeping his eyes on me, “yeah he’s singing with me tonight”.

The blood drained from my body. The doorman nodded and set my bag down on stage next to the grand piano, before scurrying off a moment later, and all I could do was gawp as Tristan flashed a smile.

“I hope you’re ready for this” he said, as his fingers slipped across the keys, “because things are about to get wild”.