Lindsey

Living alone and without a job, you have a lot of time to yourself. A lot of time to waste by feeling unproductive, a lot of time to spend doing pointless things that fill up the emptiness.
I'd been working on one project for almost an entire day, taking breaks only to feed myself and use the bathroom. It was strenuous work, particular. Every paper had to fit in just right, or else the entire thing would go to shit, which would mean I wasted all that labor on shit.

L.A was fun to explore at first, but I soon got tired of going out. At first I had been craving any human interaction, but after going a while without being surrounded by friends and people I stopped needing it.

I still miss Jimmy and Kitty and Chantel and all the rest of my friends, but the texts and phone calls actually began to sate me to an extent. So much had happened—and nothing at all—since I moved that I don't miss them and Brooklyn as bitterly as I first had.

I'm kind of alright with being a hermit for the time being, okay with this hiatus of sorts. It's strange not being in the studio almost every day, strange to be using my hands for art instead of on my bass.

Tonight though, I feel something different. Maybe it's because I've been working on one thing all day, but I want to go out. Tonight. I've never been a party goer, not really. I'd go to bars and partake in the fun, but always with multiple friends.

While I finish gluing some more paper mache to project, I entertain the idea in my head. I could dress up, go out alone and leave after getting a few drinks. Sort of mysterious, you know?

Alone?

The night in Los Angeles is the most exciting, the time that everyday people come out of their everyday apparatus. The clubs, restaurants, and bars are filled with normal people dressed to the slutty tee, people who would never be seen like that during the daytime.

I get up, dusting my gooey hands on my jeans. I look down, face twists into a frown.

Nah.

Pants come off, and I saunter out of my living room and to my bedroom to go find something else to wear that isn't so conservative. I've got a large variety of dresses—casual, short, flowing, long, and mostly dark colors or red which I think compliments my skin tone.

For the occasion tonight I pick out a lace dress that's see-through through the arms and shoulders, short enough and has a comfortable flare. I slide on sheer black tights, find a pair of nude high heels with vicious spikes to support me up.

I view myself briefly in the mirror, running my hands down my waist and letting my skirt spin around my thighs for a moment. I stop, staring blankly at my reflection.

“You're getting used to this,” I say to the girl in the mirror. “Maybe you're better off alone.”

I feel like I'm my own mother living alone, always remembering to eat three meals, always making sure I brush my teeth and shower. All day long, I remind myself to do these things for myself, because I have no one to tell me to take care of myself. It's sad, but in a short amount of time I've become accustomed to having to be the one that cares about myself.

Tonight, I do a dark smokey eye, darker than I wore my makeup to go out with Gerard the first time we met again. I decide to let my hair down loose, instead of doing anything fancy or intricate to it. I want my appearance to look free, but sophisticated in a sexy way.

I only bring fifteen dollars in my pocket-book because I'm expecting for some men to buy me my drinks; double check to make sure I have red lipstick and I'm out the door.

*

If you want people to buy you drinks, you have to make sure you enter the bar at the proper time. That is, when the guys are to tipsy to care about their cash flow and will gladly spend it on any prospective-looking female.

Before I'd come to this bar, I'd selected it carefully I knew would have a higher male to female ratio. Aka, more thirsty people without enough thirsty people to buy drinks for. Aka, more free drinks for incredibly lonely but somehow not lonely Lindsey.

I'd timed it perfectly, arriving past eleven-thirty when I figured people would already have a few drinks in them. Tonight, it seems especially crowded and I'm not sure why; but I confidently scan the area for the place that seems most populated with the opposite sex.

Bingo.

Striding confidently in, I find myself a stool with two empty ones besides it.

One of the keys to getting a free drinks (or multiple free drinks) is to already have one you're drinking. You don't need to drink it fast, simply have it in front of you and sip it so that people know you are going to be drinking. If you're obviously alone, and you look like you're just nonchalantly people watching, someone will probably hit you up.

“How you doing tonight?”

I look up into the face of my bartender, who smiles at me while he finishes wiping out a shot glass. He looks fashionable, clean; like he shouldn't be a bartender but instead working in retail. He has slick hair, buzzed on the sides but long on top. Clean shaven with a strong jawline, cheekbones evident but not protruding.

“Good,” I nod. “Hit me up,” I say, smile demurely.

I start with a scotch mist, the scotch burning the back of my throat at first but I get used to it as I sip it leisurely. I sit with my elbows on the bar, legs crossed and eyes alert.

Within five minutes, someone is sliding into the stool besides me.

Without looking up at the prospective person besides me, I finish the last bit of scotch and ice at the bottom of my glass with flourish, place my cup down not all that quietly.

“Bartender, make it two.” I glance over, look at him beginning at the bottom and making my way up. He's holding up two fingers, eyes averted forward.

Not to much to look at, but he's holding himself with a lot of confidence which can either be good or bad. He seems to have a short stature, not to heavy but not lean like the bartender; a happy medium. His hair is messy, blonde and he has blue eye shining from beneath it; his face seems friendly. Definitely not the picture of sexy I had in mind, but I can manage.

“I'm Patrick,” he says to me as our bartender slides our drinks to us while raising his eyebrows at me without my new companion noticing.

“Lindsey,” I say, give him a coy smile. I do the quick once-over his hands, and I see no rings or gold bands. Good, he's probably not taken.

Which means more drinks for me.

“I'm guessing you like karaoke?”

“What?” I take my first sip, don't bother hiding my confusion.

He laughs, shakes his head. “It's karaoke night, Miss Lindsey.” He's obviously flirting, not in a sensual way but more of a teasing way. “It's open mike in about ten minutes.”

“I can't sing but I can appreciate the music.” I shrug, take a deep sip from my drink.

“You into music?” His eyes follow me while his actions mirror mine; deep drink.

“I'm sort of in a band.”

There's so many famous people in Los Angeles that meeting a band member isn't uncommon, but he still seems impressed. His blue eyes light up, and he leans in closer to me.“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

I go on to tell him about Mindless Self Indulgence, not in great detail because I'm starting to want another guy to buy me a drink since he doesn't make a move to do so when I'm getting low. I tell him about touring, how I'm not on tour currently so I'm residing in L.A, and about some of our songs and how long we've been together. Basic things.

By the end of my brief summary of my band, he has a distant smile on is nodding like he understands. “Sounds like you guys are doing pretty well.”

His statement strikes me as a little bit odd, the way he says it like he knows and understands us. I'm a little bit fuzzy up in my head from the few drinks I had so far, so I don't think about it to much.

I'm about to thank him for the drink and then excuse myself to go to the bathroom, when the first few shaky notes of music drift towards us from the other side of the bar.

This mischievous happiness—for lack of better words—completely changes his whole face.

“Karaoke time.”

Apparently I don't need to be the one leaving. “You going over to laugh at shit-faced people sing?”

“No,” he scoffs. “I'm going to sing.” He pats himself on his chest, nods affirmatively.

I can't help but laugh. “You?”

“Whenever I'm in Los Angeles I come to this very bar every Saturday just for this reason.” He slides his stool out, gives our bartender a thanking nod. “You want to see?”

I don't know what to expect, but if he's going to be making a fool of himself I want to watch. I know that sounds terrible, and I feel a little bit guilty that I follow him for this reason as he makes his way across the bar. Some people nod at him while we go towards the sound of the music and terrible voices, a lot of people raise their eyebrows when they see me.

“Alright.” He grins at me over his shoulder, flexes his fingers. Underneath the neon lights that are there for what seems to be blinding anyone watching, the microphone stands.

I give him a thumbs up as he makes his way on the stage, try to casually ease towards the back for a quick exit if need be. As he reaches the platform, a few scattered people in the crowd mulling around clap, someone whistles.

When the first few notes of 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' blare out the loud speakers, I know my friendly new acquaintance is a goner. Inwardly, I cringe for him. Coming from someone who has been around many musicians, I know how hard those high notes are to reach. A skilled singer can, but an everyday, mildly intoxicated person shouldn't even attempt it.

Well, at least he seems happy with himself. Kudos for having an ego. I think.

Somethings happens when he starts to sing; what happens is that he is absolutely amazing. I can't even describe it, but everyone of the floor goes nuts. Drunk people a cheering, clapping their hands not in tune with the song, and just generally freaking out.

Patrick cradles the mike with one hand, uses the other to make gestures; and then switches hands every few moments. His shoulders move with the music, his whole body is in sync with the song and his voice. It dawns on me that he's done this before, can't possibly be only another person at the bar. This guy knows what he's doing, giving something as simple as karaoke night at a bar a full on stage performance for an audience of drunkards.

When he's done, I haven't moved an inch but am still standing there.

The crowd erupts into clapping.

I'm speechless as he approaches me again, face frozen in shock. “I don't know, I thought I was a little hoarse. What do you think, Lindsey?”

I shake my head. “Hoarse?” I choke out. “You were...you were incredible.”

“I don't know about that,” he smiles at the compliment. “Ya think?”

“Tell me the truth,” I demand. “Who are you really? You're not some random person singing—if you are you better know I'm getting a label to sign you tonight.”

“Okay,” he throws his hands in the air, preening a little underneath my awe. “I'm Patrick.”

“I know!”

“Patrick Stump.”

I rack my head, the name is familiar and I know that I should know it.

From a few hundred feet away, someone shouts out, “HEY! Patrick!”

Glancing over my shoulder, someone raises their hand and waves it at us. I'm saved from the awkwardness of having to admit I can't remember.

“Gerard!” Patrick shouts through the crowd.

This is shaping up to be a very strange night.

I stand there, but Patrick pulls on my arm. “You gotta meet Gerard.”

Oh, I already have.

We wind through people again, until we're to a more private corner of the bar. I could see Gerard hanging out back here; he'd be the type that would come alone and not want to initiate in any conversation with any strangers.

“Hey, man.” Patrick says, Gerard gets up from his stool to give him a hug. “What're you doing here? Getting wasted or karaoke?”

“Karaoke night sinc—” Then he notices me.

“I need to introduce you to my friend Lindsey,” Patrick begins to say.

He looks better than he did last time I saw him, that day when he'd been so wasted that he'd barely gotten dressed enough to open the door. Now, he looks neater, hair pushed back and wearing a loose charcoal sweater over jeans, a pair of glossy Doc Martins.

It's not just his appearance that looks better, it's his overall being. I don't know how to explain it, but he almost seems healthier. Happier. The only thing is, he seemed alright when we first met up again at the restaurant, and only a few weeks later I was scrubbing stains out of his carpet with Frank.

My eyes are drawn to this tiny, tiny smudge of blue underneath his eye. I realize I'm not the only one who had been making art today, and I instantly warm to him.

Four years ago, he had these dark circles under his eyes; he still does now. I want to reach out and touch them, rub the paint from there. I want to ask him what he'd been painting, if it came out the way he wanted, if he liked it.

“Lindsey,” Gerard says, almost shyly.

“You already know one another?” Patrick asks.

“Y-yes. We definitely do.” I pull my attention away from Gerard's eyes, manage to smile widely.

I don't know how to act now that I'd seen him as such a mess, and I can tell he doesn't know what to say or do also. I'm glad for Patrick to be here, who seems thrilled by the fact that we know one another. As long as we got this Stump person with us, we won't have any awkward conversations because we won't be one on one.

“Great!” Patrick wraps his arm over my shoulder and then the other of Gerard's, pulls us close to him and veers us towards the bar. “I think we need a round of drinks.”

By drinks Patrick meant vodka shots.

Gerard resists politely, gets a diet coke over some ice instead and says he can't drink tonight. My pride for him doesn't last long, because a shot glass is slid to me by our bartender and I'm bracing myself for the taste.

Patrick plants himself between me and Gerard, asks me if I'm ready.

Round one, and I choke it down. I go along with shots because I'm feeling flustered by Patrick's performance, the awkwardness of seeing Gerard on such a short notice, and the flashing lights are giving me a headache.

Round two goes down easier.

Round three and my tongue is tying itself in knots for no good reason.

I'm not to much of a light weight, but I don't drink often because I hate feeling stupid. Tonight, I can tell I'm buzzed by my second shot but I feel obliged to take another when the bartender puts it in front of me.

In the beginning Gerard was contentedly nursing his Diet Coke, by the end of my third shot he's looking at me with a few worry lines in his forehead.

“Who's driving you home tonight, Lindsey?” Gerard asks me over Patrick, who has the forehead on the bar to try and get our last shot down easier.

It takes a moment for me to register his question, my head is spinning from the sound of karaoke, the alcohol, and the lights. “Myself,” I pat myself on the chest. “Me.”

“That's what I was afraid of...”

Patrick pulls himself back up, opens his eyes wide and raises his hand. “One more,” he says to the bartender, who looks at us like he's been dealing with this type of thing all day.

“I don't know if Lindsey should—”

Shot four is like water.

The next thing I know, I'm tripping in my heels, bumping into strangers. Gerard is no where in sight, but Patrick is happily on my phone besides me.

“Whadya...?”

“I'm giving you my number.” Patrick smiles sloppily. “I don't wanna bang ya...but living in L.A is lonely and you're kind of cool. Friends?”

Even in my drunken state, I recognize the voice over the loudspeakers as Gerard's.

“One song,” Patrick holds up his finger, wrinkles his nose. “And he says he's...getting you a cab.”

“No-o-o.” I shake my head. “Not home.” I'm about to protest further, but his punctual voice is mesmerizing me. I can't see him on stage, but for some reason I envision what is must look like as the opening performance he did four years ago.

It plays behind my eyelids, the passion he showed when he preformed despite his fear behind stage. The way he gave it all, did his best because he felt honored to be opening for us. The way he moved, the livid movements and the weight behind every word that came out of his mouth.

“Lindsey?” Someone is gently pulling on my arm. “I got a cab for you.”

I open my eyes, trip on my heels and fall into Gerard's shoulder.
“Don't kill yourself in those heels.”

I don't resist him as he hooks his arm in mine, guides me away from the neon lights and the crowd. I don't say anything, don't have anything to say. I don't really remember what happened next, but I remember standing in the parking lot with him, him helping me into the cab. I remember him talking to me a lot outside the bar while we waited, but I don't remember what he said.

All I can remember is his mouth moving as he spoke, remember his eyes turning sad. Remember my stretching up on my toes despite my heels, and kissing the paint smear.

Then the cab came.

And that was how my night ended.

Notes

i like just started listening to fob yesterday im not a legit fan yet don't stone me

yay chapter got a lil longer