The bar is called
It’s within a few blocks of David’s hotel, and, according to the sign posted on the window out front, it’s open until two a.m every night.
It’s not too crowded from what little David can see of the inside, just a few people sitting at small round tables, the lights dim and welcoming,
hazy wisps of smoke trailing from a group of patrons by the window, cigarettes dangling from their fingers as they talk. A glance at his watch shows David that it’s ten minutes past eleven.
He’s supposed to be in bed.
He adjusts his hood, pulling it down so that it hides his face a little better.
He doesn’t think he’ll be recognized – this doesn’t really look like the type of crowd that would listen to his music – but he’s still a little paranoid,
as if his manager or one of his band mates will suddenly realize he’s not in his room and come looking for him.
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