#Beach maxi skirt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

roosterbruiser · 1 year

Text

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐂𝐡. 𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move; jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record.

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

Before I knock on the open office door, I look down at my skirt. It is what my mother would call a smart piece of clothing. An olive-colored linen, somewhere between midi and maxi, steamed early this morning when the morning light was still blue. I pick a piece of non-existent lint off the fabric, wasting time.

The door is solid and strong under my knuckles--the noise is a resounding one, not hollow like the door to my shared office. Everything in my office feels hollow, especially the flimsy desk they assigned to me.

“Come in,” he calls from inside.

My heels click the wood floors and even they don’t sound hollow. His office smells like leather and tobacco, like I’ve just walked into a cigar shop. It’s dark and its wood is heavy and polished, each piece of mature furniture carved meticulously. The windows, which face the tarmac, allow the late afternoon sunshine into the room. There is not a speck of dust on any of the wood.

I salute one time, straightening my back, keeping my place in the doorway.

“Admiral,” I say, short and bold--loud.

“At ease,” Admiral Simpson says softly.

The Admiral is standing with his hands fastened behind his back, his uniform crisp, his eyebrows and mouth flat on his face. He gestures to the leather chair, his blue eyes very serious, very calm. His age is stamped beside his eyes in creases.

“Please, take a seat.”

I cross his office silently and sit poised in the chair even though it sinks with my weight. I cross my legs at the ankle, hands folded in my lap.

“Lieutenant Ledger,” he greets, sinking back to his chair, his back impeccably stiff.

“Good afternoon, Admiral,” I smile.

“We’ve been over this,” he says, more casual than before, “Cyclone.”

I nod one time, never intending to call him by his call-sign.

The corner of his mouth raises, just a hint, and I know it is the most he’s smiled all day. He has a soft spot for me. I know this. He is the one that extended my bereavement leave--the one that offered me a position as a researcher. Admiral Simpson, through all his impeccable discipline and hard exterior, has done more for me the past few years.

He liked Maggie more than me, before she died. She challenged him, truly challenged him--we were always the last jet to be shot down during drills. One time, we had even gotten tone on him. It doesn’t matter now, though.

“Your research--has it been fruitful?”

I nod, clearing my throat. Admiral Simpson is briefed on my research weekly. It’s his conversational equivalent to me picking invisible lint off my skirt.

He narrows his eyes, just slightly. It makes me straighten my shoulders, which are already straight. My file is sitting on his desk, right beside a thick legal pad and a heavy-looking gold pen. It is open. I swallow hard.

“Yes,” I hum, dancing around addressing him, “yes, it has.”

He nods, just once, then sits back in his office chair. One of the windows is open and a hot gust of wind makes the blinds quiver. It touches the hair framing my face like it’s trying to get a good look at me.

“Let me be frank, Lieutenant,” he starts, “you are a gifted backseater. Navigating, weapon-system operations--it comes naturally to you. You are a gifted researcher, too. You’re precise…careful…obedient. You hold your own. You’re an excellent example of what the Navy wants--what it needs.”

My fingers curl, my blood running cold. Fuck.

“Thank you, sir.”

He pretends not to notice.

“There is an upcoming mission, one set to deploy in three weeks time. Training starts bright and early Monday morning,” he sighs, “and unfortunately, I have been backed into a corner. I have chosen Captain Pete Mitchell to lead the training for this mission.”

“Maverick?”

Maggie’s portrait hangs in Memorial Hall, where all the fallen aviators are memorialized. One day, very shortly after Maggie’s death, Maverick and I silently stood in Memorial Hall. He was on one end, studying the portrait of a Nicholas Bradshaw, call sign: Goose. I was on the other end, examining Maggie’s shit-eating grin in her fresh portrait. We said nothing to each other. We were both crying.

I wiped my wet face with an ineffective hand when Maverick started towards me. He simply clapped a hand over my shoulder, one time, very softly. Then he kept walking.

Admiral Simpson seems to stifle an eye-roll. He nods curtly.

“Maverick was not my first--or second--choice for this mission. He will be tasked with training an elite squadron--all Top Gun graduates, of course.”

He pauses, swallows, his eyes flickering to my file. My fingers are numb with cold now. Fuck.

“Si-Cyclone, if you are asking me to get back in the air, then I--” my breath catches in my throat, belly full of wool.

He holds a hand up, furrowing his brows and shaking his head.

“No, no. No one is asking you to get back up in the air. All I’m asking is that you observe and record for the Official Record,” after a beat, he adds, “and maybe keep an eye on Maverick.”

I deflate in the chair, blood starting to pool back in my fingers.

“I trust your judgment, Clover,” he remarks, “and if things were different, it is you I would want in the air.”

His eyes are soft under his furrowed brow as he searches my face. I nod a few times, eyes falling to my file then back up to his face. I smile very politely.

“You flatter me,” I say.

A bit of his seriousness fades. I think I even see his left shoulder drop a centimeter.

“Flattery is not in my nature,” he declares, leaning back into his chair, “I take it you accept your position in this mission?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods to the door.

“Dismissed, Lieutenant Ledger,” he drones.

As I get out of the chair to walk out of his office, he pretends to write a note down on the legal pad. He does not raise his eyes to mine when he says, “And if you need anything, please do not hesitate.”

☾ ☽

The call comes as I’m walking into my house. Stevie is already sitting in the foyer, looking blankly at me with slanted eyes, her white tail wrapped gracefully around her paws. We stare at each other for a second, my leather bag slung over my shoulders and sweat dotting my hairline.

“I’ll feed you in a minute,” I whisper to her, “don’t look at me like that.”

She blinks at me, one time, very slowly. Unimpressed, as per usual.

My phone is singing in my purse--Elton John. Robert From Major Authors it reads, unchanged since my senior year of college.

Hold me closer, tiny danc--

“Hello?”

“Faye?” Bob says on the other line, his voice soft.

“Hey, Bob,” I greet, biting a smile back, “it’s good to hear from you! I really need to change your contact name.”

He laughs on the other end as I close the front door, turning the heavy lock. Stevie is as still as a statue, regarding me with an air of elitism. I set my purse beside her, fanning myself. It’s very hot in my house.

“I’m still Robert From Major Authors after everything we’ve been through? Is that all I am to you?”

I slip my loafers off, the tile in the entryway cool under my bare feet. It makes me shiver.

“Maybe it’s a subconscious thing,” I try, “what am I on your phone, then?”

I start up the stairs which open to the living room. The curtains are all drawn, shielding my precious furniture from the ruthless heat outside. It is dark in the living room with the shades drawn--I blindly reach for the wall, my eyes still adjusting from the July sun.

“The clover emoji, of course.”

I groan.

“So, I am an asshole.”

Bob laughs and it sounds very familiar, very warm. It makes the heat in my throat spread to my chest. A familiar voice is something I treasure--all the squadrons filing in and out of Miramar like it has revolving doors. No one seems to stick around for very long.

My fingers tingle as I feel my way to the kitchen door, which is one of the only rooms in the house with working air conditioning. The air fills me with an instant euphoric solace--I bite my lip to keep from moaning as the kitchen tile ices my feet.

On the notepad I hang on the fridge, I write air conditioner guy right beside dishwasher guy and lock guy.

“What are you doing right now?”

I survey my kitchen in the early evening light. It’s just past six and the sky is only just beginning to consider dimming. My kitchen is my most recent renovation and it still smells vaguely of wood shavings and metallic screws. My house is an antique one, but the previous owner’s did not regard it as an important piece of history, not like I do. When I bought the house, five years ago now, everything was painted beige and there was brown carpet covering almost all the original hardwood floors.

The house is getting better slowly, as I have time to restore. The kitchen looks more like mine now, more accurate to the decade the house was built. My copper pots and pans, which were my grandmother’s, hang above the gas stove which I opted for instead of the gaudy electric thing that used to be there. The avocado-green oven, which is original to the home, is freshly painted. The Smeg fridge, which gives me goosebumps when I remember the pricetag, is in its final resting place among the wooden cabinets. The countertops are copper, brand new, and it gleams beneath the low lighting.

I pull the fridge open, debating.

“Standing in my kitchen, basking in the window-unit air conditioning. Regretting how expensive this tiny fridge was. Thinking I’ll make curry for dinner. What about you, Bobby?”

He sighs on the other end of the line and I can practically see him sitting in a hangar somewhere, hunched over his desk, holding the phone to his ear and listening to me like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do.

Bob is the kind of person who can only be described as good. He doesn’t interrupt, he doesn’t talk over, he looks in your eyes when you’re speaking to him. He was the only boy in our Major Authors class at Temple University. He was summoned almost two years ago.

“Well, I’m at the Hard Deck.”

I freeze.

“I’ve been called back to Top Gun.”

An elite squadron of Top Gun graduates.

I slam the fridge door shut, skittering across the kitchen to scoop a heaping mountain of cat food in Stevie’s plastic bowl. She is sitting before it now, like she knew I would succumb.

“Give me thirty minutes!”

☾ ☽

The Hard Deck looks the same as it did when Maggie used to drag me out here every chance she got. A building that oozes casual--brown wooden slatted siding, chipped white trim, palm trees sprouting in the patches of grass before it, a faded blue sign with blinking neon letters swirling the name of the bar.

There is a photograph of Maggie there, under the sign, when we were 24. The American flag is waving in the wind above her, a blur of red and white and blue, and she is mockingly saluting the camera, a pout on her lips.

The Polaroid lives there, in my wallet, in between my social security card and coffee shop gift cards. I rub the soft leather of my wallet, imagining that it’s the glossy front of the photograph.

The sun is beginning its descent, casting everything in a warm gold. The ocean glitters behind the bar, waves lazily rolling to shore and dousing the sand. Lilac clouds sporadically float across the sky, heading West with the sun.

Even from the outside, I know that the bar is crawling with Naval aviators. Not just because it always is, but because Sister Christian is pulsing--a favorite of the cocky pilots.

You're motoring / What's your price for flight? / In finding Mister Right / You'll be alright tonight

I know everyone will be talking over each other, yelling back and forth over a game of clattering pool. There will be peanut shells on the floor, empty bottles lining every flat surface.

If Maggie were here, she would be buying everyone drinks, slapping down her credit card and winking at Penny. Maggie used to corral everyone to the dance floor while I queued songs on the jukebox. People would really dance with us when we danced. Maggie was never embarrassed to dance and it made me not embarrassed to dance. I gained somewhat of a reputation as the Jukebox Queen--from the moment I walked into the bar until the moment I walked out, people would donate their quarters to me.

There is a fleeting pinch in my heart. The lump in my throat feels impossible to swallow. The warm wind blows through my hair again and I hold very still, letting it wash over me.

“It’s Friday,” I whisper to myself, “buck up.”

The rumble of an engine pulls my eyes away from the door.

A cyan colored Bronco screeches into the lot and swerves into a parking spot. The top is soft and the windows are all rolled down. The driver is blasting a song, tapping his steering wheel as he throws the car into park. It takes me a moment to place it--an Otis Redding song. Tramp. It stops very abruptly as the driver cuts the engine.

With all the swagger only a pilot could embody, the driver steps out. The first thing I see is the Hawaiian shirt. It’s somewhere between hideous and gorgeous. It is open, layered on top of a crisp tank top, a pair of dog tags between two massive pecs. Tanned skin shimmers with a sheen of sweat; probably because the jeans he’s wearing are of a good grade--thick denim. He’s smiling, pearlescent teeth glowing under a thick mustache. His hair is made up of a blonde that is as golden as the sunset. He’s wearing black aviator sunglasses.

He starts gliding towards the front door, but seems to stutter when he sees me standing near it, looking in his direction. He approaches me slower, glancing from me to the door a few times before smiling. He’s close enough so that when the wind blows, I can smell the cologne he wears. It’s peppery and deep.

“You going in?” He asks, quirking a brow.

He is still smiling, his nose thick and straight.

“Debating it,” I answer, toeing the sandy gravel.

He nods, squinting. If he was in a hurry before, he is not anymore. He puts his hands on his hips and turns towards the door so our arms are almost touching. He looks the bar up and down, studying it like I am.

“It’s been a while,” I tell him, swallowing.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “me too.”

A beat passes; somewhere in the distance, a seagull cries.

“What’s holding you back?”

What a question.

“Can’t decide if it’s intelligence,” I say, tilting my head, “or rationality.”

His laughter booms--loud enough for me to hear over the chatter inside the building. His arm brushes against mine when he laughs. His skin is warm.

“Maybe it’s a little bit of both,” he replies.

We both suck our teeth and shake our heads. The lump in my throat has dissipated without me even swallowing it. The sun kisses my lips, my chin.

“What’s holding you back?”

He sighs, shaking his head.

“A little lady who can’t make up her mind,” he says.

I scoff, shake my head. He’s watching my eyes, my face.

“People these days!”

His smile deepens. He nods to the door. He has seemingly made my mind up for me.

“Can I get that for you?”

I pretend to think about my answer--he’s looking at the side of my face, maybe at the white scar that traces the bottom of my jaw. I imagine it’s glowing under the sunset, not unlike the neon Hard Deck sign.

“Might as well,” I say, gesturing for him to walk ahead, “tramp.”

He is in front of me when I say it, but he stops again and bites a grin over his shoulder.

“What did you just call me?”

He is amused. His eyes seem very deep in his face behind his shades, framed with dark eyelashes that I can barely make out through the tint. They glimmer with enjoyment.

“Tramp,” I repeat, “Otis Redding. You were just listening to it, right?”

He nods, his face stuttering from a smile to an impressed frown back to a smile. There are scars along the left side of his face, a few crooked lines, and they glow under the sunset like I thought mine would--like neon.

“Thought my reputation preceded me,” he sighs.

In a few strides, we are at the door. He opens it wide and I step over the threshold with a careful foot.

The lump in my throat has returned as soon as I see the inside of the building. The wide-plank white pine floors are almost entirely covered with boots and heels and sneakers. What little pieces of it worm into my view are polished and dirty at the same time, like a used aluminum can. The brown rafters are entirely covered with hanging white mugs, the mugs Maneater and Jagger used to insist on drinking from every time we came to the bar. The old wooden bar, the velvet chairs, the jukebox in the corner--I absorb it all, feeling suddenly naked without Maggie holding my hand.

There is such a crowd that it overwhelms me just to think about discerning all their faces--everyone is an amalgamation of a singular face, blurring from one broad nose to another’s sculpted cheeks. And khaki--so much khaki.

Hawaiian Shirt taps my shoulder. I hope he doesn’t notice the tears clouding my vision as I turn to him. I plaster a toothy smile to my face.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” I yell, “can’t hear you over the music!”

Sister Christian has finished and Let’s Dance has begun.

He’s looking down at me with a silly grin that makes me want to grin. He bends over so his lips are close to my ear.

“You here with anyone?” He asks.

I nod, searching the crowd.

“Meeting a friend,” I say, swallowing hard, “how about you, tramp?”

I can feel his lips bite into a smile.

“Nothing serious,” he says, “hey, I didn’t catch your name?”

I pull my eyebrows together, coming closer to his ear.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” I say.

Then I pat one of his pecs, meet his eyes again. His cheeks are dusted with pink. I salute him, then start for the bar. It smells like beer and my shoe sticks to some parts of the floor as I navigate through the sea of bodies.

Penny is behind the bar, her back facing me. She’s talking to someone with her arms crossed, a frosty mug of beer in her hands. I have to stand on my tip-toes and crane my neck to see the patron on the barstool she’s talking to. It’s Maverick--his black hair speckled with gray, the lines around his mouth pressed deep from the grin he’s sporting.

Penny turns suddenly, her face flushed, and sees me almost immediately. Her eyes widen and her grin spreads. She holds a finger up to Maverick and crosses the bar to stand before me.

“Do you know how happy I am to see your sorry face here?” She chuckles, her hands on her hips.

My cheeks redden.

“It’s been too long,” I say, “feels good to be back.”

I’m not really sure if it does feel good to be back, but I think I would say anything to make Penny smile. She used to cut Maggie’s free-drink charade at $200, handing the card back at the end of the night with a tight-lipped smile. Maggie was none-the-wiser.

“How’ve you been, kiddo? Staying alive?”

She asks this and then her shoulders slump, her hip un-cocks itself. Her smile is beginning to falter and the color drains from her cheeks. It’s what happens when people say something to me accidentally, something about death or sisters or plane crashes.

I grin, pretend like I don’t notice her sloping mouth.

“Alive and well-ish,” I say, “guess I couldn’t stay away.”

Penny recovers, smiling again. She leans her elbows on the bar and brings her face closer to mine so she doesn’t have to shout.

“I missed you, Clover. Don’t be a stranger,” she says this with all the affection of a mother, which makes a coil wrap tightly around my throat again, makes my fingers cold. Then she snaps back and tilts her head, a playful smile tugging on her lips. “Bloody Mary, right?”

I stiffen. Bloody Mary was what Maggie drank. I nod, though. Penny turns around at once and makes a very bloody Mary.

Maverick watches her from his spot, his eyes soft. When he catches my gaze, he smiles in a small way, nodding. I send him a half-hearted salute and it makes him chuckle.

“One bloody Mary,” Penny says. She nods towards the pool table. “Bob’s waiting for you. Keeps asking me to keep an eye on the door, as if I can even see it from here.”

I fight my way to the pool table, relying on muscle memory and my precision to keep my white shirt white. When I break through the crowd and see the pool table for the first time, it is a gaggle of khaki-clad aviators that greet me. I skim over their faces until I see him. Bob is lining a shot up in pool, his glasses perched on his nose, one eye winking in concentration.

I wait there for a moment, sipping my drink. Oh, God. How did Maggie drink this?

Bob makes his move--there is the clattering, not unlike the clattering of marbles colliding, and not one ball makes it into a pocket. The aviators around him are watching him with their arms crossed over their chests, all their hair combed and coiffed.

A tall blonde man claps him on the back, a hyena grin contorting his pretty face.

“Shoot,” Bob bites, blushing.

“Lieutenant Floyd,” I call over the music, leaning against the stack of chairs beside me, “you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Bob’s head snaps to attention when he sees me standing in front of him with my putrid drink, smiling at him. His smile makes me ache. It suddenly feels like it’s been years since I’ve seen anyone familiar. I want to hug him, want to kiss him, want to take him home to my house and keep him there with me. It makes my throat tight.

Bob isn’t the only one looking at me--my declaration has captured my entire audience of aviators, who regard me with cocked eyebrows.

“No,” Bob laughs, “but I kiss your mother with this mouth.”

The blonde man’s smile is replaced with wide eyes and a lacked jaw. There’s a unanimous jolt among the aviators, each of them awe-struck and pleasantly surprised by Bob’s quip. I immediately understand that Bob hardly knows these people--that they are not really his friends like I am. They’ve never experienced his quick wit.

Bob and I are grinning at each other.

All the eyes on my face are making me hot. Perspiration is starting to gather in the pit of my arms, my legs.

Bob crosses the table quickly and wraps his arm around me. I have just enough time to jerk my drink away from us before I hug him back. He smells like a freshly-washed baby. My eyes fall shut for a fraction of a second and I rack my brain, trying to remember the last time I was hugged by a friend.

“It’s so good to see a familiar face,” I sigh, “missed you, Bobby.”

Bob releases me, holding my shoulders for a beat, searching my face for anything new. Still me, Bob! I want to say.

“I haven’t seen you since…” he trails off before shaking his head, “since too long ago, that’s when.”

“Bob, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” A voice pipes from behind him.

It’s the blonde haired man, the one that clapped Bob on the back while he bit back a cocky grin. He’s grinning at me now, eyes flickering to where Bob’s hands, which are still lingering on my shoulders.

“Right,” Bob says, releasing me so I can be beheld by the entire group, “allow me to introduce Lieutenant Faye Ledger, call-sign: Clover. We went through the academy together.”

I ease over the aviators crowding the pool table with friendly eyes. Only a few women, only one of them engaged in the conversation. Her hair is sleek and dark, her expression fierce but friendly. All the men drip with ego, with the angular cheeks and cut jaws to match.

Maggie would hate how the men outnumbered the women.

“Sausagefest,” I can practically hear her spitting.

“Clover of Crimson and Clover? Twin-aviator-extraordinaires?”

A man with black, curly hair chopped short says this, his lips parted

Bob’s smile weakens. I take a long, long drink of the bloody Mary. The acidic tomato juice burns my nostrils. I nod.

“In the flesh,” I say, “half, anyway.”

Bob sniffles a smile.

“That’s Hangman,” Bob introduces, pointing to the blonde man with his arms crossed, “and beside him we have Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback, Coyote, and Rooster.”

I follow his fingers, trying hard to nail the names to faces. When Bob’s finger lands on Rooster, I almost stumble in place. It’s Hawaiian Shirt. He’s beaming at me, a foggy beer bottle in his fist. His head is slightly tilted back--his Adam’s apple is pronounced and glistening with sweat.

“Lieutenant Ledger,” Rooster says, “didn’t take you for a pilot. You know, with the indecisiveness and all.”

I sigh, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, tilting my head.

“Sister was the stick jockey. I was just the backseater.”

“One of the best backseaters,” Hangman adds, “everyone’s heard the stories.”

Hangman has his arms crossed and he’s regarding me with his eyebrows knit, his mouth slightly ajar. Maybe he’s surprised that I’m not in uniform, or maybe he’s surprised that half of me is missing. I’m never sure how much anyone knows about Maggie.

I am flushed, but I’m not sure if it’s the sudden attention or if it’s the heat radiating off the sea of bodies all around us. Maybe it’s the vodka. Penny makes a strong drink.

“Impossible,” I say, “not when Bob’s still kicking it. Right, Bobby?”

Bob laughs and it makes me think of Maggie, the way she would make Bob clutch his belly when she did cartwheels all the way to the Uber after close. Or when she would do her Elvis impression, feet bare as she planted herself before him, heels long since forgotten as they were toted around by whatever uniform she was going home with.

I gulp the rest of my drink. My throat vibrates.

“What are you drinking?”

It’s Rooster that asks, striding towards me. I shrug, looking up at him. The sunset has given in to dusk and the warm bulbs above his head turn his hair a brighter blonde than I saw outside. Up close, his scars seem more pronounced, like unnatural wrinkles. He’s still wearing his sunglasses.

“Whatever Penny makes me,” I shrug.

He starts for the bar, but I suddenly tug on his Hawaiian shirt. He turns around, eyebrow quirked.

“Not another one of those,” I whisper, grimacing.

He nods, saluting with his free hand.

“Understood, ma’am.”

He disappears in the crowd.

I turn to Bob.

“What brings you back?”

Bob shrugs, biting his lip. His glasses are perched higher up now that he isn’t focusing on a pool ball.

“All of us were called back for the same assignment. Not sure what it is yet, but seems pretty serious. Everyone dressed in khaki here,” he points around the bar, “top of their class, or damn-near close. Best of the best here.”

I consider telling Bob what Admiral Simpson told me, but I keep my mouth closed, pulling my brows together.

“Must be pretty crucial.”

Bob nods, raising his eyebrows before taking a swig of his beer. He licks his pointed lips then shrugs.

“That’s what we’ve gathered--!”

“Clover,” Hangman interrupts, “you game?”

He points to the pool table. Hangman’s eyes are on mine and the intensity of his gaze feels like standing in front of a fireplace. Phoenix is looking at Bob with wide eyes, nodding for him to play covertly.

I shake my head.

“Not very good,” I call, “these hands aren’t what they used to be.”

“Can’t be any worse than Bob here,” he grins.

His jaw is so toned--it looks like he chews a pack of gum a day.

“Play nice,” Phoenix commands, “rack ‘em, Bagman.”

I nod to the pool table when Bob catches my eyes again. His cheeks are red.

“Give ‘em Hell,” I whisper.

Rooster returns as Bob re-engages with the group. He hands me a wet glass full of something purple and girly. I smile down at it. It’s a lavender limeade with tequila. Penny realized her mistake.

“Thanks,” I call, softly bumping him with my elbow.

Rooster stays put beside me, still smiling, a few drops of sweat racing down his neck and onto his collar. His elbow is touching my bicep.

“Didn’t know you were the Clover Ledger,” Rooster admits, “could’ve told me that before I called you a little lady.”

I suck in a breath through my teeth, taking a long sip from my drink. The tequila instantly warms my throat, loosens my limbs.

“Where’s the fun in that, lieutenant?”

He laughs.

After a beat, I add, “I knew you were a pilot the moment I saw you.”

Rooster looks down at me, searching my face with a bemused expression.

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

“The swagger gave it away,” I answer, “the Bronco, the sunglasses, the song, the shirt.”

Rooster holds his hand up in offense.

“What’s wrong with the shirt?”

I shake my head, innocently shrugging.

“No, no, I like it,” I declare, meeting his tinted eyes, “really brings out your eyes.”

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes glimmer. He likes to be teased.

I gulp the limeade. My toes start to feel fuzzy.

“You here for the mission?”

He rests part of his weight on my arm. The heaviness of his arm makes a certain warmth pool in the pit of my belly.

“My mission is to observe and record,” I say, straightening my shoulders and squaring my jaw to imitate Cyclone, “for the Official Navy Record.”

Rooster whistles, feigning impression.

“How can you live with the pressure of it all?”

I shrug, stirring my drink with my finger before sucking it clean. He’s watching me, a perpetual grin tickling his mouth.

“I’m an alcoholic,” I retort.

Rooster laughs loudly--the same laugh from outside. Phoenix and Bob glance up at us from the pool table, quiet smiles on their lips. Bob glances at Rooster, then flickers his gaze back to me, narrowing his eyes just slightly while nodding. He’s saying oh, yeah. He’s a good one. I’d almost forgotten about that secret language we share; the secret language of old friends.

“So…you’re sitting this one out because it’s below your paygrade, then?”

I blink up at him. He cocks his head.

“You’re the best of the best,” he remarks, “isn’t this mission for the best of the best?”

My belly turns sour. I finish my drink again, setting my glass on the stack of chairs. I wipe my damp palms on my dress, studying the floral print as I chew my bottom lip. I can feel my cheeks gathering redness, can feel the lump growing again. Rooster watches me think.

“Aren’t you a cocky creature,” I tease, “is that what all this Rooster business is about?”

Just as I return his gaze, just as I recognize how fuzzy and warm I feel, there’s a tap on my shoulder. Rooster and I turn at the same time.

It’s a man a few years older than me, dressed in a khaki uniform. He’s smiling like he knows me, and leaning closer to say something to me.

“You’re Clover, right? Not the other one?”

Not the other one. I nod.

“I think so,” I say, pretending like I can’t see Rooster beaming.

“This is for you,” he shouts, holding his closed fist in the air near my face.

I lay my hand flat in the air, palm-up. He drops three shiny quarters in it.

“Oh,” I say, feeling flustered, “oh no, that’s okay, you shouldn’t--!”

The man is already walking away, immersing himself in the crowd. I stare down at my open palm, the quarters ringing as I force them against each other.

“What was that about?” Rooster asks, gingerly picking a quarter up and studying it.

I close my fist and let it fall to my side.

It doesn’t seem possible without Maggie wrangling everyone in, doesn’t seem possible to pick the right songs and dance without being embarrassed.

“Secret’s out,” I sigh, “I’m also a hooker. A bad one.”

He bites a grin. I hold a finger up to him.

“I’ll be right back.”

I muscle through the crowd with my hand still closed around the quarters. As soon as I make it to the bar, Penny meets me, like she was waiting for me.

“In need of some serious liquid courage,” I tell her, “two shots of tequila?”

Penny nods, not asking any questions. After she pours the shots and hands me a lime, she glances over her shoulder at Maverick. He is on his phone and I almost warn him, but it’s too late--he sets it on the bar.

Penny rings the bell with a smirk. The bar erupts in cheers, a few men clapping Maverick’s shoulders. Penny points to the sign and before I can chicken out, I bottom out the first shot glass and suck the lime. Maverick sits at his seat with a look of disbelief, mouth slightly ajar.

“Did you know about this?” He yells to me.

I grin something fierce, hold my shot glass up to him.

“Cheers, captain!” I bottom the other shot, grimacing.

The sour lime cuts the tang of the tequila. My belly sloshes with liquid.

“Penny, my dear,” Hangman sings, “I’ll have four more on the old-timer.”

Hangman is standing behind me, his scent strong. He smells like the outdoors, if the outdoors was freshly polished and sanitized.

“Why do they call you Hangman?”

Hangman registers my presence and smiles down at me in the way men do when they see something they like. He leans against the bar, looking at me, my empty shot glasses.

“Long story. They call you Clover cause you’re lucky?”

Lucky. I almost laugh in his face. Blood rushes to my ears.

I’m too drunk to feel upset, to feel angry. My lips never lose their smile.

“You know, I actually read a Cornish legend about clover,” I say, leaning towards him, “a young maid put a fistful of clover on her head to alleviate the pain of carrying a heavy pail of milk and got instant relief. Not only that, but she could suddenly see dozens of fairies and elves all around her.”

Hangman considers my story, cheeks dimpled.

“So, if I put you on my head, I’ll be able to see fairies?”

I shrug, blushing.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

Penny hands the beer to Hangman and glances at me. I can hear my own heart hammering in my chest. Hangman turns around to rejoin the group, but first sends a wink my way.

“Maggie would have ate him alive,” I laugh.

Penny doesn’t laugh--just smiles sadly. The pit in my belly grows. She touches my hand softly, squeezing it. I wonder how much Penny knows. After Maggie, I came to The Hard Deck rarely--first opting for a harsher scene, then no scene at all. Maybe Penny still feels fresh about Maggie.

“I think I’m drunk,” I tell her, waving myself off, “I should close out my tab.”

“Rooster put your drinks on his,” she waggles her eyebrows.

Just as I muscle my way back to the group, Penny rings the bell. More cheers erupt from the crowd and Hangman and Payback trample to the bar with ornery grins splitting their faces.

Bob is still in the middle of a game of pool, chatting with Phoenix. Rooster has disappeared. I sink into the stack of chairs, not bothering to turn around and crane to see what’s happening over the bobbing heads of the bar-goers. Everyone is chanting the same thing and I strain to understand it.

Overboard! Overboard!

Suddenly, the jukebox blinks off. A chorus of groans echo. I drop the quarters into my dress pocket.

Somebody starts to play the piano--I’ve never seen anybody play the piano here. Phoenix grins across the room and I follow her eyes. Rooster is sitting on the piano bench, fingers working the keys effortlessly, beautifully.

“C’mon, guys,” she says, giddy.

Bob glances at me and I wave him off, giving him my best I’m totally okay smile. I am alone by the pool table. It still smells overwhelmingly like beer. My chest is growing warmer and heavier by the minute, my cheeks a deep read. Crimson.

“You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain,” Rooster croons.

His voice cuts through the bar like a pair of heavy scissors. The patrons are all starting to flock towards Rooster, who is basking in the attention, smirking.

“Too much love drives a man insane! You broke my will, but what a thrill!”

The pool table is abandoned. I think of all the times Maggie slinked around the table, putting on her best pout, waiting for someone to let her in the game. She would play the first round or so cluelessly, letting men put their arms around her to help her shoot. It wasn’t until there was money put down that she revealed her talent. Maggie was good at everything.

“Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!”

Other people are singing with Rooster now.

I make my great escape, stepping on cracked peanut shells and cocktail stirrers as I cross the bar. Not one person is watching me, not even Penny.

The night is warm outside. Without the competing conversations and booming jukebox, I can just barely hear the ocean. Salt prickles my tongue, the air holding me close.

I sit there, under a palm tree, looking up at the star-dotted sky. Something metal clatters beside me. It’s one of the quarters. It shimmers under the moon and I bring it close to my eyes, squinting to see the date.

1992.

I whimper softly, eyebrows pulled together. There is no evading the lump in my throat--no Rooster to dissipate it, no friendly face out here in the lot. My tears are hot on my cheeks as they race down my face.

With quivering lips, I bring the quarter to my mouth and press a kiss to it.

“Hi, Maggie,” I whisper.

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: like this if you cry every time

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

177 notes · View notes