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This hangout is never a disappointment. There is a bar and a bevy of beauties, which makes achieving the top two objectives not only possible, but probable on any given night.
“Cade, over here.” Blake yells from the corner. Mike, Josh, and Dan stand nearby chalking up their cues. A pile of twenties sits on the green felt of the pool table waiting for the DD to be chosen. Most call that person the designated driver, but that’s not how we roll. We call the chosen one the designated dick because that’s what he needs to be to survive. It is his job to stay sober, pay the bill, and make sure everyone lives through the night.
The practice started after Blake got wasted and disappeared for a day. The base was notified when he was found lying passed out and naked on Waikiki beach. Needless to say, his call sign changed from Badger to Streak.
“I refuse to be the DD tonight.” I toss two twenties on the felt and pull the single sheet of paper from my back pocket.
“It’s official,” I wave my divorce paper around like a victory banner—one little piece of paper that was more of a starting point than a finishing line. I have a new beginning, a new life, a new vision for myself. I slap the folded sheet onto the pool table feeling like I’ve been pardoned. “I’m single,” I shout.
Several women crane their necks to see who’s yelling. I shake my head. Note to self, stay away from the right side of the room. That’s where the Hickam Harem leans against the wall to scout out new recruits. They are much like the Puget Debs from An Officer and a Gentleman—women who are looking for a man to save them. I am no one’s savior.
“It’s about damn time.” Blake shoves a mug of beer into my hand and raises his glass in a toast. “To a weekend of drinking and debauchery.”
This side of the room rings out in robust affirmation. Dan racks the balls while I take in the surrounding scene. The place is crawling with women. It is a regular smorgasbord. Short, tall, blonde, brunette, young, old, plain, and tatted. There is even a girl sporting a mane of spiky green hair, but she isn’t for me. My attention goes straight to the bar where Betty Boop leans over the counter. Her breasts spill from the top of her red polka dot dress like an offering. She’s new.
“I’ll be back.” I turn to walk away when Blake reaches out and stops me.
“Where the hell are you going? You just got here.” He is my co-pilot and always has my back, except that one drunken night in Las Vegas when I saddled myself to Satan. That night Blake was glued to the craps table while Diane and I said I do in front of Elvis and a handful of strangers.
“I’m on a mission with two objectives—get drunk—get laid.”
His eyes follow my line of vision straight to the woman who is pouring a pitcher of beer from the tap. “Good luck with that one. She has that I’ve-got-your-number look to her. The one that says, ‘I’ve seen it all, move along.’”
“She doesn’t have my number—not yet. But she will before the night is over. I’ll have her on speed dial and in my bed.”
At the mention of a challenge everyone gathers around.
“Fifty bucks says you’ll fail.” Blake tugs his tattered wallet from his pocket and pulls out several bills. The others follow suit. Mike collects the money, and the bet is on. Before the night is over, I better have that bartender in my bed, or I’ll be out two hundred bucks. Anything less than success and these guys will change my call sign from Hawk to Squawk.
“Watch and learn.” I toss back the rest of my beer and walk to the bar with the empty mug. The worn wood creaks and groans as I slide onto the barstool and watch the woman serve the men at the far end. She carefully rims four shot glasses with lime and salt and then pours a round of tequila shots for each. By the glasses that are piling up, they are already on their second or third round. Let’s hope alcohol makes them happy—not stupid.
“Drink up, boys.”
The guy at the end of the bar hands her a twenty-dollar bill that she tucks between her beautiful breasts.
Her smile is brilliant, full red lips designed to bring a man to his knees. She turns my way and my heart stutters. She is fierce in the way she approaches me—trouble is written all over that shimmering smile, but I don’t flinch, I got the call sign Hawk because I’m a predator, not prey.
“What’s it going to be?” She leans forward giving me a birds-eye view of her recently acquired Andrew Jackson. I pull my gaze from her breasts, letting my eyes rake over her body. Up close she is perfection. Her curves are candy to my simple male mind. She is pretty enough to paint on the side of my plane if that was still allowed.
I push my mug toward her. “I’ll start with another beer.” I could throw down the gauntlet right away and ask for her number, but I’m not interested in a quick crash and burn. My money and my reputation are at stake, so I add, “and your name.”
She points to the nametag pinned below her breast. “Betty.”
“No way.”
“You’re right, but it’s who I am tonight. Regular beer or light?” My mug disappears under the counter. A frosted one appears in its place.
“Do I look like a light man to you?”
She lifts her eyes and purses her lips.
“No, you look rather regular.” With a tilt of the tap she pulls the perfect beer. I love a woman who knows exactly how much head a man needs.
“Betty,” my voice drips with sex appeal, “I’m anything but regular.”
She gives me a non-committal shrug and walks away.
“Any luck?” Blake stands beside me with an empty pitcher.
