All Is Not What It Seems

Chapter Three

With the thought of another drink in mind, Nikki swiftly takes his leave, ditching the dark glass bottle on the empty chair that the drummer had been sitting in up against the far wall, and fast tracks it to the bar.

The length of the bar counter is lined with people seated in lofty stools, whilst others stand by, meandering, nearly pressed shoulder-to-shoulder as they waited to be serviced. There isn't a lot of room to work with, but Nikki's need for another drink is dire. So, with a little effort, he shoulders his way between two bodies, almost instantly feeling their radiating warmth through his own clothing and taps his fingers against the counter as he tries to locate a bartender to flag down.

He's able to order a stronger drink, eventually, the barkeepers having been swamped by the post-performance rush. He turns around to make his retreat back towards the room behind the stage, but his gaze sweeps over the platform, and he sees that Tommy is virtually finished with disassembling pieces of his setup, only now tucking bronze cymbal discs into padded cases and folding collapsible stands for easier stowaway.

He figures he's got a few more minutes to spare before he needs to journey back to their designated meeting spot. He redirects back towards the bar, but not before he begrudgingly discerns that he has a hard time tearing his eyes away from Tommy's backside. His eyes, in opposition to his own defiance, had transfixed themselves on the subtle outline of muscles contracting beneath the drummer's form-fitting t-shirt.

He procures another drink, the same as his last order, but this time, it's a double. He downs it without reservation.

Two drinks quickly become three, and three soon becomes four and, fuck, he wasn't ordering a fifth...

Just give me the damn bottle.

Is what he bluntly tells the bartender that time around — a different girl than the one who served him and the oddball janitor guy earlier that night. Candy...no, Sandy or Manny, was it? Fuck if he remembered.

Next thing he knows, he's drained enough of the bourbon-tinted booze that he's feeling the warm blanket of a gratifying buzz, and it's such a comforting feeling in comparison to the nauseating dizziness of emotional tribulation that he'd endured earlier — just from making fucking eye contact — that he has no qualms when he reaches for the black and white branded bottle and polishes it off, welcoming the sharp, tasteful burn that lights his throat.

He's more than a little intoxicated; he's flat-out wasted, having drunk a bit too much, just a bit too fast. The vivid, neon effulgence of snowy white summits and golden equestrian clouts and crimson crests crowned with aureate luminaires on the walls around the bar begin to distort and blur together, and there's a thought that nails him for a moment — musing over how the electric buzz of dynamic pigments beholds an almost beautifying ambiance when they swirl into such a robustly colorful medley.**

But the thought is only fleeting, for his mind begins to scramble when his eyes cross every time one of the bartenders whizzes by behind the counter.

Yep, definitely shouldn't have taken the bottle.

But, fuck, he needed it. He pushes the empty bottle away from him, a smidge too forcefully, and belatedly registers as it skitters right off the slick bar counter and onto the floor behind it, landing with a resounding shatter as the glass bursts into thousands of double-edged fragments.

"What the fuck?!" One of the barkeepers exclaims as the merry chatter around the bar subsides into hushed whispers and glances full of confusion and curiosity.

The bartender looks up to find the culprit and, unfortunately, meets Nikki's incoherent gaze, angrily calling him out.

"Hey, you! The fuck are you doing, asshole? You got a problem or something?"