The sound of someone knocking on the front door gradually penetrates my dream, first weaving its way into the storyline and then, as it continues, waking me.
Sitting up, I look at the clock across the room and ascertain that it's just past one. With a heavy sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and reach for my bathrobe. The sound abates for a moment, and I say a little prayer that I can just go back to sleep. Then, just as I'm about to lie back down, the banging resumes.
My head feels fuzzy, very likely a result of the three cocktails that I'd consumed soon after racing out of the Odeon. I'd taken one look at the blonde drummer canoodling a stunning brunette and instinct kicked in, my legs carrying me away as quickly as possible. I didn't stop until my ass was seated in a barstool at the tavern across the street, a gin & tonic in front of me.
Part of the reason that I had fled was that I felt like an idiot. After weeks of trying to keep my distance from Roger, I'd genuinely been excited about seeing him. So much so that I convinced a colleague to switch overnight shifts with me. Then, just to double down on the stupidity, I stood outside of the theatre for an hour trying to convince concert-goers that they should sell me their ticket for an exorbitant price.
The other reason was that I was jealous. The moment I laid eyes on Roger with a girl on his lap, I felt sick to my stomach. Even though I had zero right to feel jealous, I did. And that meant that I'd grown too attached, so it was time to get the fuck out.
So I did. And now it's the middle of the night and someone--most likely one of Jenny's friends from art school--is causing a ruckus at our front door.
Switching on a lamp in the living room, I walk to the door and peer through the peephole. I squint and blink, certain that my eyes are deceiving me. Because, unless I've finally gone crazy, Roger fucking Taylor is outside my door tapping a hand nervously on his thigh.
I lean my forehead against the door and debate pretending that no one's home. It seems like a good plan, and, just as I'm about to creep back to bed, I hear his voice.
"I know you're there, Skylar. C'mon, I just want to talk."
Cursing softly, I fling open the door. The drummer stands in front of me, a knowing grin on his face and a cautious look in his eyes. I expect some sort of cocky one-liner, so I'm surprised by his first words.
"You were there tonight," he says softly, his eyes brightening. I can't help but notice that his eyes rove up from my bare feet to my silk bathrobe to my eyes, which are shooting daggers at him.
"Yeah."
"I wish I'd known," he replies as he leans over to give me a hug. As tempting as it is to give in to his warmth--damn, he's a good hugger--I pull away.
"Why? It looked like you had quite a few, um, fans fawning over you. No need to add one more," I mutter, feeling ridiculous as soon as the the words leave my mouth. At best, I'm someone who happens to be around when he's in the mood to chat before shows. At worst, he thinks of me as a groupie who won't even put out.
"I'd have rather you been the one fawning all over me," he replies with a smirk. I roll my eyes and look down at the floor, the icy wind causing me to shiver.
"What do you want, Roger?" I ask. By now, he's figured out that I'm feeling rather stroppy, so he doesn't respond right away. Irritated, I start to close the door, but he quickly shoves his foot in the way.
"Are you always this annoying?"
"I've been told as much," he replies with a toothy grin.
"Are you always this persistent?"
"No," he responds more seriously, giving me a long look. "Can we just have a chat? ...it's bloody cold out here, Skylar."
"I think we've done enough chatting." I try to kick his foot out of the way, but he doesn't budge.
"Go away, Roger, I'm tired. I have to be at the hospital early in the morning."
"Oh, come on," he says, giving me that cocky smile once again, which I'm beginning to think is his response when he doesn't feel particularly confident but wants to appear to be.
I pause and, for reasons that escape me, I nudge the door open with my shoulder and walk over to the sofa. Roger softly closes the door, shrugs off his coat, and comes to sit across from me in an overstuffed armchair. He leans forward and puts an elbow on his knee, propping up his chin on his fist.
"How are you?"
"I'm great," I reply tartly, earning an eye roll from him.
"Let's try that again. How are you, Skylar?"
I return the eye roll. "How are you, Roger?"
"Well, if you must know, I'm pretty knackered, having just played two shows back-to-back, then forced to hobnob at the record label party, and then hightailing it here to see you."
"Maybe you should go home and go to bed then," I suggest. The drummer lets out an exasperated sigh and stands to walk in my direction. He leans closer and, a second too late, I realize that he's going for the lamp on the table behind me. Before I can stop him, the room is shrouded in darkness.
"What are you--" I start to ask as I feel him sit next to me. His hand brushes over mine, and he leaves it there for a second longer than necessary before moving it to his lap.
"I've noticed that we get along better when we can't see each other," he says with a laugh in his voice.
"That's ridiculous," I reply automatically before realizing that perhaps he has a point. He doesn't respond immediately, and I can feel his gaze on me.
"How are you, Sky?" he asks softly. "You're never around anymore; I've missed chatting."
I exhale, his directness surprising me. "I'm pretty knackered myself," I reply. "I sort of underestimated what a 12-hour overnight shift really means."
"But you like the pediatric rotation? That's what you're doing now, right?"
"It's brilliant," I reply, a smile lighting up my face. Okay, okay, Roger does get brownie points for remembering. "I love it. The kids are so sweet, and, I dunno, I guess I feel like I'm really making a difference, even though I'm just a glorified nurse at this point. But yeah... I like it a lot."
"So how'd you manage to come to the show tonight? I'd have left a ticket if I'd known."
"Oh, it's not a big deal." I exhale shakily. "My friend was able to switch shifts with me, and I bought a ticket off a student just before the show.... You guys were great."
"Yeah?" I could just see the outline of a shy, proud smile on his face.
"Yeah," I affirmed. And I wasn't just saying that. Queen had been amazing; they had honed their performance since I had last seen them. The guitar riffs were slicker, the vocals more decadent, the banter more confident. I couldn't believe that so much had changed in a few short weeks, but I suppose playing a million gigs in a row could do that.
And this guy right here. Don't even get me started. I could barely take my eyes off Roger the entire show as he played his drums furiously and generally just looked tantalizing. How could that man on stage be the same down-to-Earth guy with a sharp wit and understated soft side that I'd gotten to know over the past few weeks? It didn't make sense.
We sat in silence for a few moments; I wasn't unsure what to do or say. "This is weird, Rog."
A gruff laugh escapes his lips. "What's weird?"
"Well, for starters, we're sitting in the dark having a chat."
Unexpectedly, I feel him scoot closer to me. "What's so strange about that? Friends sit in the dark together all the time."
His voice gets softer, and I can feel his breath tickling my face as he moves closer. His palm brushes my cheek, and I close my eyes, wanting this kiss. Our lips are almost touching, but he hesitates as if asking my permission.
I exhale slowly and pull back. I— I just can't. Not with him. "That' s-- that's not a good idea."
"I'm pretty fucking sure it is," he replies cheekily.
"Roger, I-- I was serious when I said that this isn't going to happen. You're a great guy, but... you're just not for me. I'm sure you're going to make someone--or, more likely, a lot of someones--very happy--"
He groans irritably and pulls away. "Is this about that groupie? Because nothing--"
"No, not really," I reply. "I mean, yeah, sort of. But also, no, not at all."
"What does that even mean?" He lifts a hand to run it through his hair. "It's like you're talking in woman code."
Fair question and I don't know if it's one that I can answer. I'm not an idiot; of course, I don't expect Roger to suddenly be a one-woman man just because we've had some phone chats. Sure, yes, they had gotten rather personal, and I did look forward to them. But they were just phone calls while he was on the road. It wasn't real life.
"I'm just not looking for any drama." My response sounds pathetic, even to my own ears.
"Why do you assume everything with me has to be dramatic?"
Suddenly, I realize how foolish we are, sitting here in the dark. I reach behind me and quickly switch on the light, causing us both to wince. Once his eyes adjust, he looks at me curiously.
"Is there anything I could do to make you trust me?"
"It's not just you," I say as kindly as possible. "You have a lot of baggage, but so do I."
He mulls this over for a moment before shrugging. "Alright, then. Friends?" He looks up at me and extends his hand towards me, making me giggle.
"Friends," I reply, shaking his hand.
"Friends who snog occasionally?" he suggests hopefully.
"Friends who snog never," I reply with a grin before I straighten my face and reach over to lightly touch his shoulder. "Hey, it's not personal."
"It's not personal that I'm so much of a slut that you won't even give me a chance?" he asks, one eyebrow arched.
"Well, when you put it that way..." before I can say more, he reaches behind me and turns off the light, and we're once shrouded in darkness. "What are you--"
"Stop fighting everything," he tuts softly. As my eyes adjust, I can see that he's nestled back into the sofa and propped his long legs up on the coffee table. "Now that we've established that we're friends, then you can tell me about what's gone on since we last talked."
I don't respond right away, thinking about the fact that we're once again sitting alone in the dark.
"Oh, just pretend we're on the bloody telephone," he exclaims, a grin in his voice. "Go on."
After a beat, I settle back into the sofa and pull my knees up to my chest, facing him.
"You go first." My response makes him smile--I can just see the shadow of it in the dim room--and he mimics my position.
"Where should I start?" he wonders out loud before he launches into a diatribe about the last few shows of the tour: something about the stage monitors and a broken bass string and Freddie's relentless perfectionism.
As he speaks, I feel my eyes growing heavy. I struggle to keep them open, wanting to listen because, really, I could listen to him talk all day long. However, despite my best efforts, Roger's voice seems to get further away. I finally embrace the fatigue, my mind slipping away from reality.
The last thing that I remember is the feeling of someone kissing the top of my head and putting an arm around my shoulder before it all fades to black.