The Meeting

February 1st, 2012.

"IDs, please."

The bartender was attractive. Shiny copper-colored hair, almost auburn in the dim overhead light, hung straight and sleek down her back. A tight tank top and low-slung skinny jeans outlined her slim body, the top exposing an inch or two of perky cleavage. Well, there were worse ways to spend a Friday night than admiring that appreciable body.

"Sure. Here you go." Phil's voice seemed unnaturally deep.

Michael almost snorted. Phil and Danny slid their "drivers' licenses" across the varnished wood, fingers secretly crossed in their laps. He stared futilely at a glossy black menu. Chance's had a decent selection of food, and the cocktails were reasonably priced.

"Hmm." The bartender, sounding unconvinced, held out her hand to him. "What about you?"

Reluctantly Michael handed her his own ID, knowing his friends were watching with bated breath. The bartender glanced at it for a second and then leaned forward across the counter, her eyes meeting his for the first time. They were green - wild and almost feline.

Involuntarily, Michael half-smiled. "I'm Michael. Black."

She giggled, a silvery sound that made Michael think of a brook. "Fine. You're cute. You can stay. What'll it be for you kids?"

"Shots," Danny squeaked a little too quickly, relief palpable in his voice. Phil nodded his affirmation, shaggy hair bobbing in enthusiasm. "Jager," he added, and he and Danny fist-bumped under the counter.

Michael's nose wrinkled. "Ew. Don't. I'll have a gin and tonic."

"Two Jager bombs and a G 'n T."

The wind was bitingly cold up here on the terrace, yet the crowd seemed to be thriving. Sets of corporate-looking adults and well-dressed college students unable to find a vacant booth or even bar seats, hovered in the smoking section by the waist-high parapet. Pearly-grey wisps of smoke from their cigarettes drifted overhead in slow motion before being swallowed by the night.

The bartender finally stopped staring at him and turned around, beginning to reach for bottles on one of the higher shelves. One was just out of her grasp so she stood on tiptoe, the tight top sliding up to reveal a strip of pale skin. Michael, despite himself, ran his eyes over her back and shapely legs, barely noticing when someone slid onto the stool beside him.

"I'm Casey. Chance." The bartender smirked at Michael over her shoulder, artfully tossing the hair across her neck as she did so.

Michael grinned back but before he could answer, the customer on the neighboring seat spoke.

"Hey, Casey Chance."

Before Michael could point out to this rudely interruptive stranger that he, indeed, had been pursuing a conversation with the lady, the bartender gave a squeal and flung herself across the counter.

Boyfriend? Michael thought curiously.

The man kissed Casey on both cheeks, and she ruffled his hair, pulling away with a beam.

"Anyone would think I was a long-lost lover, not the brother you saw three days ago," the man remarked. He had a low, husky, almost musical voice, but the tone was dry, as if he were delivering the punchline of a sarcastic joke.

And yes, of course they were related. Michael could see it now; the burnt-scarlet hair was identical, a messy thatch on him and a silken sheet on her. Their underlying facial features were the same in principle - except hers were delicate and elfin, his sharp and chiselled. Casey blew her brother a flying kiss with one hand and handed Michael his gin with the other.

"Aw. You know how I adore you," the good-looking man said easily. "Doesn't the co-owner deserve a drink after a long hard Friday at work?"

Wow, he owns this place? Michael glanced around the sleek rooftop bar, impressed.

"Well I think he can get it himself, considering the other co-owner is busy serving paying customers." Still, she reached under the counter and produced a bottle of Johnny Walker. "Neat, Ray? It's too cold out for ice for tonight."

"That's perfect, sweetie." His full lips curved into a lazy smile, dark-red hair tumbling over his forehead.

Casey leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, laughing. It wasn't sexual, simply affectionate - only a pervert would have been misled.

Michael checked 'Ray' out in the mirror behind Casey, taking in his crisp grey suit and trying not to breathe too obviously. He wore an eau de toilette - it was too light, too intoxicatingly subtle to be an aftershave. Unless he was mistaken, it was the Burberry Weekend collection. Whatever it was, the effects were delirious. Michael cracked open the can of tonic water and took a grateful whiff, the sharp citrus odor giving him a momentary urge to sneeze. The lemon wedge in his glass rose right to the surface, sparkling with the kind of mysterious allure gin alone seemed to possess.

Suddenly the green eyes in the looking glass swiveled to meet his, and Michael choked on the first sip of his drink, mentally cursing himself.

"Like what you see?" Ray gave a smirk, identical to the one his sister had given him not so long ago.

"Oh, Ray, have you met Michael?" Casey said, pouring out the whisky with a slightly exaggerated insouciance.

"I guess I have now." He swiveled his glass around slow in circles, the swirling honey-colored liquid catching stray moonbeams. "I'm Raymond Chance, of Chance's." He gestured vaguely about, then grinned, a dazzling display of dimples and white teeth. "Here's to you, Michael...?"

"Black," Casey prompted helpfully, but Raymond had already taken a sip. "And you don't know what you're talking about, Ray. Michael here hasn't been able to take his eyes off my breasts since he got here."

Michael felt his face redden. "I think you misunderstood," he said hurriedly. "I'm not into girls. But if you were my type, I'd be all over you in a heartbeat."

He pretended to be very absorbed in what Phil and Danny were doing with their phones, which on closer inspection turned out to be Tinder. Arianna, 22, worked at Starbucks, 3 miles away. She was sweet-looking, fair haired and chubby. Phil swiped right.

"So I'm your type, then?"

Maybe the gin was strong. Suddenly the red-haired stranger seemed brighter than his surroundings, as if he was the lone source of light in the room. He was pale, paler even than Michael with slightly bloodshot eyes and shadows under his cheekbones. Ray lit a cigarette with a black, sophisticated-looking metal lighter. Michael thought for a moment of the cheap plastic disposable ones he used to have until one leaked fluid and a stray spark melted his shampoo bottle. Fancy bar, fancy lighter... wealthy guy?

"Yeah. You're absolutely my type." Michael's face continued to burn, so he took another sip of gin and shook his hair out to cover as much of his cheeks as possible.

"Oh, how nice!" Casey crooned, pinching his cheek. He was surprised and pleased at her familiarity. "Out, proud and simply adorable. See, Ray, he even looks a little like Justin."

Raymond rolled his eyes. "Can't believe you still watch Queer as Folk reruns."

"So do I," said Michael happily. "Really though? Justin? I'm like, a foot taller."

"Yeah," Casey said conversationally, "but you're pretty enough to give him a run for his money."

Michael raised his glass to his lips again and received a mouthful of half-melted ice cubes. The gin was gone, but for the moment so were his inhibitions. "I can see why your brother adores you," he drawled. "I mean, I would too. With skills like these -" he nodded at his glass, which had mysteriously been refilled, "and a face like that-" he pointed at her chest, "I'd never let you out of my sight."

"Come on Case, just give him your number already." Ray's voice was half-exasperated, half-joking. "You can have a new fag to dress up and boss around."

"You heard him, Ray," Casey said brightly, handing a Tinder-engrossed Danny and Phil a couple of Heinekens. "He's into you, not me."

Raymond chuckled. The world weaved in and out of focus in perfect syncopation with the sound of that low, rhythmic, almost melodic laugh. "Whatever you say." He produced an iPhone from his pocket and quickly became immersed in it, much to Michael's disappointment.

"So," Michael said, "You guys own this place together?"

"Sure," Casey said, taking a seat behind the counter, "us and - ah - a friend of Ray's."

"He's not Voldemort, Case, you can say his name out loud." Raymond glanced up from his phone a second to give her a wary look."But then again, the two of them do share a lot more similarities than meets the eye."

Casey was twiddling her thumbs, looking as if she'd regretted mentioning "the friend". "Craig," she said. "There you go, Craig. If it makes you happy." Michael was hurt for a second, then he realized she was talking to Raymond, not her.

"It doesn't matter," Raymond said shortly.

" I need a cigarette," Michael breathed. He did not trust himself to speak beyond this, as currently gin was the only filter between his brain and his tongue. He retrieved his pack from Phil's jacket and lit one. Casey was still staring agitatedly at Raymond.

"So," Raymond finally said, "did you need stitches?" He reached out and touched the skin above her chest, pulling her top down an inch to reveal an angry-looking cut.

Michael didn't think he was part of the conversation anymore. He turned his body away from them but continued listening in intently on their conversation. Then he took a deep pull of his cigarette and sent the smoke billowing toward Phil.

"No," he heard Casey sigh, and her fingers touched the hand that was holding the cigarette. "Michael, honey, be careful with that. The last thing we need is another fucking fire hazard."

"What happened to your shoulder?" Michael asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

A manic gleam appeared in Casey's eyes. "Look under the counter," she cried, nearly jolting the gin and tonic out of his hand. "Right there, by Ray's barstool. Look!"

"Case, would you let it go? Someone's coming in to look at the woodwork tomorrow."

But Casey was still gripping his arm, so out of politeness Michael peeped under the table. The wooden supports on the other side of Raymond, which probably used to be intricately carved, were now blackened, singed and twisted. He took an extra moment to admire the outline of Raymond's calves against his trousers, then resurfaced appropriately with, "What on earth happened here?"

"Couple of dumb, drunk kids," Casey grumbled. "They spilled vodka, and instead of telling me, they wiped it with a napkin and then didn't notice it dropping on the floor. When one of them lit a cigarette, a stray spark landed on it and the post under the bartop caught fire."

"Then they used a bottle of beer to smash the casing to get the fire extinguisher," continued Raymond, "and guess who was in the way?"

"Me," said Casey with asperity. "Neither of those two morons got splintered, but I did."

"They were probably around your age," Raymond added to Michael, looking askance at his sister. "She thinks she's doing a social service or something by letting kids in here-"

"Keeps those bratty drunken menaces off the street," Casey joked.

"-but doesn't realise it could, oh, cost us our alcohol license or, I don't know, land us in prison."

"If they can go to the trouble of paying for a fake driver's license as well as the alcohol, that earns them a right to drink!" she answered jovially, but her smile was fixed.

"Listen to yourself, Casey, are you high? Or is Craig filling your head with this crap?"

Abruptly, Raymond's tone had transitioned to resentful. Michael felt acutely uncomfortable, squirming on his stool and stirring his drink with far more vigour than required.

"I hate this," Casey said in a low voice. Michael pretended to be absorbed in his phone. She continued after a pause, "I think if you guys just talked, you could figure out a way to resume at least at professional relationship-"

"At least?" Raymond spat. "And eventually we go back to being one big happy family?" He laughed harshly. "Is that what he's been telling you?"

"Yes." Casey sounded shaky but determined. "And maybe if you gave Craig a chance to explain, Ray, he's been thinking things over and-"

"And I think you can stop interfering in a non-relationship that doesn't concern you."

"Raymond, please. I know this is hard-"

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Michael heard the hard thud of glass slamming down on wood. Alarmed, he glanced up from Danny's Tinder chat screen with Linda (19, Unemployed) and saw that Ray had risen to his considerable height, fist held clenched over the counter.

"I did not come here to be lectured. If I wanted to talk about Craig, I'd talk to Craig. I'll see you tomorrow."

And in one, sweeping angry moment Ray was gone.

"Screw you," Casey muttered. "Screw you both." She began aggressively shaking a steel flask, its contents rattling ominously within.

"Michael! Mike! Mike! The hot girl matched with me!" Danny thrust a phone in Michael's face. A spandex-clad brunette smiled at him from the screen. "She's at The Escapade, a couple of blocks from here. She's got friends too, if you're interested. Come on, we gotta go!"

Casey Chance glowered before him, cracking open eggs with a vengeance. It did not seem like Ray would be returning.

Michael sighed heavily. "Yeah, we might as well."