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My thoughts go back to Kai and his mother, Jillian. Where will they stay tonight? What will they eat tomorrow? My stomach growls at the thought of food. One wing and a fry don’t fill me up, but I’m not at risk of starvation.
“Smile,” Alana says. She is back with her tray and her next order. I look over her shoulder. The last pool table is now occupied by new arrivals—Air Force guys, if my guess is right. I swear they all went to the same barber—some guy that trims their hair one strand at a time to get the perfect look. Never too long. Never too short. Just above the collar, but still within regulation. Damn sexy if you like guys in uniform. Not me, I swore them off for life.
Next to the new arrivals stand a group of wallflower women, they lean against the jukebox waiting to be noticed. My eyes skirt the room and then come back to my best friend.
“Sorry.” I clear my head with a shake. “Deep in thought.” The presence of women means my bartending skills will be put to the test. Girls don’t order drinks straight up, they order drinks with cutesy names and a ton of ingredients. Alana asks for Two Screaming Orgasms and a Sex On The Beach. I’ve never had either in the figurative or literal sense. Hope springs eternal. I pull the vodka and peach schnapps from the shelf and grab the cranberry and orange juice from the refrigerator.
“Did you get the utility thing figured out?” She plucks maraschino cherry from a nearby container and pops it into her mouth. The guy at the end of the bar watches with rapt attention while she rolls and twirls it between her lips. It disappears, and in its place, comes out a stem tied into a knot. He bites his lip and tosses her a five-dollar bill. Note to self … work on that skill.
“I did that thing where I wrote a check to the gas and electric company, and then I put them in the wrong envelopes on purpose before I mailed them. I figure that should give me a week or so to come up with a plan or learn to love candied cherries.” I nod toward the guy at the end who seems to be waiting for round two. “They’ll either think I’m an idiot, or they’ll catch on to me since I did the same thing a few months ago.”
“I think you’re a genius.”
I garnish the frou frou drinks with cherries, which excites Mr. Fiver on the end. I’m pretty sure if one of those wallflower girls has even a tenth of Alana’s oral skills, she’ll be set for the night.
Chapter Two
Cade
There are only two reasons a man would come to a bar like V-Day. One is to get drunk, the other is to get laid. Every guy inside will give you a hundred reasons for being here. Justifications range from meeting with buddies, to liking the food, but not one of them will tell you the truth.
With its flashing, pink neon V, sitting prominently on the rooftop, next to the nose of a plane buried wing-deep in a mock up hangar, the place screams sex. Men don’t come here for the burgers, they come here for whiskey and women, in that order.
My eyes adjust to the darkness as my ears tune into the sounds of big band music coming from the jukebox in the corner. The smell of chicken wings and sweet perfume float through the air.
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.”
