Dance Me to the End: Part One

Dance Me to the End is set in the Magic Revealed universe. It is completely free. I'm posting it as I write it, so it is unedited, but proof-read.

This is Part One.

People filled the pub to bursting. The seats were all taken and unlucky ones who didn't get a seat stood near the bar, drinks in hand. Not bad for open mic night on a Thursday, Jack thought. But he knew they didn't come here for that. They came for him.

            He fashioned a make shift stage out from a bit of the floor that had been raised by a step. Usually, he set a few tables up here, but tonight it held a keyboard, a mic, and some amps. He stepped up to the microphone and the crowd hushed. He felt a rush again like he hadn't in years. The stage felt like home. He knew the steps to this dance and held his bass against him like a lover.

            "Good evening," he said into the microphone. Above the slight feedback, the crowd roared when he spoke. His gut fluttered in anticipation, sending a roller coaster of nerves down through his stomach and into his groin. It was a thrill, like peering over the edge of a balcony or a rooftop. You knew you were safe, but danger loomed past the railing.

            He cleared his throat as the cheering died down and started again. “Good evening. Thanks for being here with us for our first open mic night. If you haven’t already, Sam’s over at the bar with the signups.”

Sam, a blonde wearing blue jeans with a black crop top and a plaid over shirt, waved the clipboard over her head.

“Thank you, Sam.” Jack hated how awkward he sounded, but he didn’t usually do this part. His job had always been to look good and play better.  “Uh, we’ve got Delia and Hank tending bar with Sam.”

Delia was the resident vampire and looked the part, a pale goth with Bettie Page hair. She wore a black lipstick and a black lace dress with combat boots. Hank was, well, Jack wasn’t sure what Hank was. Hank hadn’t offered the information, so Jack didn’t ask. What Hank was though was hairy. His brown fur covered most of his body except for his human-looking face. Like Sam, he wore plaid and blue jeans. Jack assumed Hank wore the clothes more for the human patrons than out of any sense of modesty.

“Please tip your bartenders well,” Jack continued. The crowd waited in silence. Jack sighed. He knew what was coming next, but he put a smile on his face just the same. “And I’m Johnny Mendez.” He braced for the reaction. “I thought I’d start us off.”

            The crowd lost it, screaming louder than Jack thought appropriate for a washed-up, has-been like him. Still, it set fire to his blood and he grinned. He played a couple chords to vamp for time as the audience quieted. He leaned into the mic to start.

            “Play The End of Love,” someone shouted.  That set the crowd off again as they clapped and cheered. Eventually they settled into a chant. “End of Love! End of Love!”

            Theoretically, he knew this could happen. It was one of Valkyrie’s hit singles and one of the only songs Jack sang vocals for. But it was also one of their oldest tracks and not their most popular by a long shot. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Cold sweat beaded at the neck of his shirt. Might as well get it over with, he thought. Maybe if he played The End of Love now, he could play some music he’d written after.

            He played the intro to The End of Love once to thunderous applause. And then a second time once the crowd quieted. It felt like sipping a strong drink at the end of a long day; it kept him wanting more. It held the knowledge of the familiar, but the promise of something new.

            “Meet me at the end of love,” he sang, slower than how Valkyrie would have played it. He liked it better this way, soft and sultry like the woman who wrote it. “After hearts and plates have shattered. After mending rights and wrongs and nothing more has mattered.”

            The lights of the room faded as Jack’s vision set on her.

No one else existed as he sang and watched her mouth the lyrics. He’d know her face anywhere. He’d seen it in his dreams and his fantasies. They were older now, but he knew those keen, gray eyes; that slender, upturned nose; the full, cupid’s bow lips. Her long, chestnut hair had been pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Jack couldn’t remember if that was her actual hair color. He used to sit on the bathroom counter and watch her bleach it in the sink.

            He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she mouthed, “Meet me at the end of love.”

He watched as a tear fell down her face. But her face didn’t settle into sadness, but hardened into anger. She stood and pushed her way through the seated row. Panic rose in his chest. He was going to lose her if she walked out the door. He was going to lose her again.

            “Gin!” he called out without thinking.

He had stopped playing, stopped singing, once he saw her walking away. He absently took off his bass and handed it to someone. His most prized possession and he just gave it away. Nothing else mattered in this moment. He had to stop her. He had to speak to her. Distantly, he could hear the clatter of drinks set down on the bar, of ice clinking in glasses and shakers, the whispers of his confused patrons. But her name drowned everything else out.

            She paused, looking back once, before leaving out the door.