It had been a few days since Phil had been at McKay’s Taphouse, the place where he’d gotten his start with the now defunct Coulson Jazz Quartet and he figured he should go and see what Mick was inflicting on the poor customers.
Mick had a tradition that if someone could sing the “song of the hour” without looking at the words, then everyone in the bar got their drink free. Few people succeeded…but Phil always did.
He usually came on Fridays but it would be fun to throw a spanner in Mick’s works by coming on a night he wasn’t expecting.
Smirking as he walked in the door, Phil hung up his jacket and fedora on one of the wall pegs before cracking up at Mick’s dramatic cry of, “Noooo! Phil! How could you do this to me?!?”
“Suck it up, Mick.” he laughed as he teased the former NYPD detective and accepted the microphone from Magda.
As soon as the opening notes struck up, Phil howled. “MAGDA!”
The older woman just smirked. “Sing it, baby!” she cackled and Phil bowed his head in shame as he began to sing.
“You’re insecure, don’t know what for. You turn heads when you walk through the door-or-or…”
She’d been told, if you wanted to sing without being pelted with unmentionable things, this was the best place — the secret best karaoke place in New York. If nothing else, it looked like a great place to hang out and have a good time.
So the evening was by no means going to be wasted — and then Summer opened the door to a truly glorious male voice making perfect gold out of probably one of the worst songs currently popular in the world. It took her two tries to get her mouth to shut, and then she edged around and through people to get a glimpse of the singer.
Phil f-ing Coulson.
Dear gods and little fishes.
Snagging a seat as close to the mini stage as possible, Summer set her chin in her hands and prepared to enjoy a darn good show.