FicWad

It was wet. It was cold. It was another miserable Friday night in New Jersey.
The loser next to me flicked the ash from his cigarette, and tried to slide a heavily tattooed arm around my waist. I quickly shoved his arm off and scooted farther away, disgusted at his touch. He made a pouting face, discouraged.
“C’mon baby, loosen up a little.”
He gave me a slimy, gap filled smile and attempted to pull me into his lap. I stood up and began to walk away. I could feel his eyes on my back-or rather, my ass-as I walked back towards the bar entrance. I couldn’t help but wonder why I had a gift for attracting creeps. Which, really, isn’t a gift; it’s a curse.
Of course, I’d never had the best of luck with men. After searching countless bars, clubs, and singles karaoke nights, I learned that only low-lifes and community wide rejections ever looked my way. My mother had never understood it, but then again, she never understood me either. Content with her simple, uneventful life as an accountant, she never knew why I would ever want something bigger and better. Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be known, and to see my face on magazine covers. More than anything, I wished to see my name, Jamie Brown, surrounded by blinding white lights. Unfortunately, so far my life had been about as interesting and exciting as my name.
It never helped that I never did well in school. I never felt the need to. When I combined my need for fame with an intense passion for punk, rock, alternative, and grunge music, I saw only one possible career option.
A rock star.
Lead vocalist, to be specific. It was the only thing I had a real talent for. I knew somewhere deep down, I was born to perform. Imagining my mother rigid mother ever letting loose and singing was laughable, to say the least, so I always assumed my love for music and ability to sing came from my Dad. Not that I would ever know. He died when I was just a baby.
I pushed open the door of the bar, and immediately took the last open seat at the counter. The bartender was over in a moment.
“What’ll you have tonight, Jamie?”
His eyes glinted mischeviously, and a smile played across his lips. I stroked my chin, doing my best snob impression.
“Bring me a glass of your finest wine, my good sir!”
The grin still visible on his face, he gave me a look that reeked of cynicism, and raised one eyebrow.
“Jamie Brown, a wine snob? Who knew?”
“Just playing, Steve. I’ll have the usual.”
“Thought so.”
Steve moved away to get my drink, still wearing that silly grin. I shook my head. If you’re best friends with the bartender, I thought to myself, you really need to find a new haunt. Sadly, this was the only place in town that offered a substantial selection of rock songs for Karaoke night.
Steve returned with a Guinness, and slide the pint sized glass in front of me. I began to pull out my wallet, but was stopped by the man sitting on my right. He had placed a crisp five dollar bill on the counter and pushed it towards Steve.
“Her drink is on me.”
Steve just nodded, took the money, and shot me a quizzical look. I shrugged, just as confused as he was, but didn’t mind being paid for.
I looked at the man who had paid. His hair was jet black, and his eyes were a crystal clear blue. It felt as though those eyes could pierce into my soul. His bangs just covered the tips of his eyes, causing him to constantly jerk his head to get the hair out of his face. He was relatively skinny, but not scrawny or small. Then I noticed the skinny jeans. I couldn’t tell whether to be excited or annoyed. I’d always personally considered skinny jeans to be a style reflecting modern punk and rock. This could be a guy with major respect for good music. Just maybe, he wasn’t another deadbeat.
Flirting had never been my strong point, so I stuck to what I knew.
“May I ask who is paying for me?” I asked bluntly.
The mystery man turned to me, a slight smirk across his face.
“James,” he replied, sticking out his hand, “James Hart.”
He had a slight English accent, which I found immensely attractive. I shook his hand, and immediately felt the trademark calluses of a guitar player. Boy, this guy just got better and better every second.
“So, James,” I paused, savoring his name on my tongue. I had always liked the name James. “I’ve never seen you around here before,” I continued, “So what gives?”
He chuckled, obviously finding me amusing.
“Well, seeing as I’ve just moved here from Brixton, I wouldn’t have expected you to have seen me around.”
My jaw dropped.
“Brixton? As in, Brixton, South London? Where Mick Jones was born?”
He nodded.
“The very same.”
My eyes became the size of saucers.
“No fucking way.”
“Way,” he said, smirking yet again.
I stayed frozen for another moment, and then shook my head to clear it, embarrassed by my behavior.
Just then my phone’s alarm went off making me, as a result, blush furiously. I quickly shut it off, then turned back to James.
“I’m really sorry, I’ve got to go-” I started to apologize, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“Don’t worry about it. Would you like to meet me for coffee tomorrow?” He asked hopefully.
I felt terrible for saying no, but I knew tomorrow I had a prior obligation.
“I can’t tomorrow. Sunday?”
“Sure,” he shrugged, “Works for me. Call me and let me know.”
He quickly scribbled his number on a napkin and handed it to me. I took it graciously, nodding.
“I’ll, uh, see you around,” I said, turning to leave. James just nodded, disappointed, and I left the bar.
It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized I had been so keen on talking with James, that I’d forgotten to try the karaoke.

(A/N: Thanks for reading! For those that don't know, Mick Jones is/was the guitarist for The Clash. As always, please R&R!)