Alleyways, Cigarettes, and Stories

I walked down the familiar alley back to my normal panic spot when far ahead, something, no someone, caught my eye. I saw legs that seemed to be the length of my entire body and then some covered in skinny jeans that just had to be girl’s although they were definitely the legs of a man. An outraged, “Fuck!” came from the direction of the man, so summoning my courage, I walked back and sat myself down against the brick wall, opposite the stranger.

There were most certainly tears on the tan, possibly Hispanic, skin of his face, but that didn’t seem to be the source of his anguish. An unlit cigarette dangled from his once again abnormally long, and also tattooed fingers. All thoughts of anxiety flew out of my head, when I saw the expression of pure, unadulterated sadness on the man’s face when he finally looked up at me.

“Need a light, man?” It wasn’t much to say, in all honesty, but it was something. Averting my gaze, he nodded. I dug through my bag and pulled out the purple lighter I’d carried since I was 16, tossing it to the man who didn’t appear like he really wanted to be touched or confronted, and who frankly scared the living shit out of me; totally covered in tattoos, at least six feet tall (and that’s just an estimate from sitting on the ground), with numerous studs on his face and a backwards snapback. Yeah, he was hot, but also intimidating as hell and probably straight. I was startled by the feeling of something hitting my face kind of hard, but not enough to hurt.

“Shit man, I’m sorry.” The stranger commented while puffing out a large breath of smoke.
I smiled warily. “It’s all good.” I felt him watching me as I tucked the lighter back into my messenger bag with an expression of confusion.

“You aren’t gonna light up? Shit man, if you need a cig I can give you…” I cut him off with a small laugh.

I shook my head lightly. “No, I don’t smoke. Never have. It just doesn’t appeal to me.”

"But you carry around a lighter?" I shrug. It's not like he's the first person to ever ask me about it. Maybe it's a weird habit. But this lighter's gotten me to meet some of the best people I know. This guy too, probably. Smoking brings people together.

He certainly seems like an interesting kind of guy. He definitely has some sort of story to tell; that I know.

I flash him a little bit of a grin, seeing that his tears have subsided. "It's a good way to meet people. I'm generally not very good at that. So, what's your story?" I pull my knees up to my chest and prepare to listen.

Well, that certainly wasn't what he was expecting to hear.

A pretty little smirk finds it's way onto his perfect lips and I have to physically tear my gaze away from them. "What makes you think I've got a story, stranger?" And it's my turn to smirk. Although I know for me it's probably just a silly little crooked smile that makes me look like I'm on the edge of insanity.

I shrug, though, trying to keep up a cool appearance even though I'm sure he's seen through it already. "Everyone's got a story. You seem like someone who's got a good one. Now if I'm wrong, I can go and leave you to smoke in the alley alone. But something tells me I'm just not wrong." He smiles at me this time, a genuine smile, and oh wow for someone who smokes like he does those are really white teeth and is he really smiling at me like that? Jesus Christ.

I'd started to think I'd ruined her. I was never into anything crazy heavy, but I did like to party. And maybe I was just trying to absolve the blame from myself when I said it, but she fell into this herself.

Yet here I am, trying to drink away my guilt of her life on my hands. I'm sick of cold, empty mattresses and stars that shine too bright. I've tried to get her to stop, or at least slow down. Dragging her inside from freezing nights; saving her ass more times than she could even remember.

I can't help it when my shoulders slump as he begins to tell his tale. Of course he's straight. I mean, that really shouldn't be my main concern right now, but come on. Literally the hottest guy I've ever seen.

I'd been really on edge lately. She knew it too, so she simply avoided me more. It was terrible, and my bandmates including my brother saw it all. They just didn't know how bad I was. They didn't know that she was only half the reason I kept getting drunk.

I was the only other reason. I kept getting stuck inside my own head. Sitting around pondering taking my own life had more meaning than any conversations I'd had in months. And it was like she just didn't give a damn that I was self-destructing. It was always the same to her: party upon party. I started to get really tired of dragging her back inside. I just wanted to save her. But I had lost her already.

I stand up, and he looks worried, like he thinks I'm going to leave him. But I'd never, not when I've heard that he's struggling this much. So I walk over and take a seat next to him. He tries to smile, he really does, but it doesn't happen.

There's nothing I can say. Not yet, anyway.

Then one night, after fighting with myself for hours on end in Palm Springs, she called me to come find her. I told her to tell me exactly why I should, and she gave me her story of the night. It was the final straw.

'I was dancing and then I got in a fight and somehow lost my shoes and I can't find the hotel. Come on sweetheart, I need you.'

She hadn't needed me in months. I was pretty unimpressed, and I let her know so. Still, I went to get her. Found her fucking some random guy.

So I said goodnight and goodbye.

He lets out a shaky breath and pushing past not only my boundaries but probably his, I grab his unoccupied hand and give him a shaky smile. Just to let him know that it's all okay. Or that at least it will be.

So I'm forgetting her. Or at least I'm trying to. There are much better ways to spend this life; to find my way to go. That night was months ago, and she still calls. Leaves voicemails of her adventures.

She was in Palm Springs again last night.

His breathing's uneven again so I move so I'm sitting in between his chicken legs and stub out the cigarette on the ground so I can take both of his hands in mine as I force him to look me in the eye.

"Hey, look at me. Can you tell me your name?"

He barely manages to choke out, "Mike."

"Well then, Mike, I'm Chase. And if you don't mind, I'm going to tell you exactly what I think of your story." He doesn't pose any objections, so I carry on. "You're right. You've got to let her go. Not forget about her, because you'll never accomplish that and it'll only keep hurting you. And you've got to tell your brother and your bandmates everything, okay? Hey, don't frown at me like that. I said I was going to be totally honest."

"I don't want to even think about you hurting yourself or even considering it, Mike. I know we've just met but I actually, genuinely give a fuck about you. I mean, I personally think it's stupid to get involved with girls in the first place, but you straight guys..."

Mike wipes his tears that I notice have finally stopped pouring and a little side smile appears. "Bi, thank you very much."

I try to mask my appreciation and surprise, but I must not do a very good job because he lets out a not-so-masculine giggle.

"Point is you deserve better, Mike. So let's get you cleaned up. You got some place to be?"

The prominent smirk makes another reappearance. "Yeah, this concert venue. I'm a drummer." Of course he is. God damn.

"Can you get there yourself?"

"Oh, I certainly can, but I won't. You're coming with me. I'm not ready to say goodbye to you yet, sweetheart." Normally the pet name would piss me off, but coming from his nicotine-stained lips, it's fucking magical. Then the words actually sink in and I go to protest but he's already stood and helps me up and wow he is so fucking tall and adorable.

He leads me in a side door, over to three guys who have been pacing nervously. The shortest, a guy whose facial features bear a striking resemblance to Mike's who I assume is his brother, throws his arms around Mike, effectively pulling my hand from his grasp.

"I'm glad you came back. Who's your friend?" He turns to me and without giving Mike a beat to speak, he introduces himself. "I'm Vic. Thanks for bringing my baby brother back safely..."

"Chase." I finish for him, smiling at the Hispanic man and shaking his hand firmly, as well as the other two who I find out are Jaime and Tony, the bassist and guitarist respectively.

Mike smiles down at me. "Boy, have I got a story to tell you guys..."

Notes

Mike's story was based off of I'm Low on Gas for a contest on Mibba. This is part 1, and I'm not sure how many others there will be or when they'll be up, but they're coming.