Purple Hearts(4)

get a spot at Petey’s open mic

get another amp

get more hours at bar / make more $$$

Nora breezed past in jeans as tight as a second skin and a cropped Stones T, glancing at my list. “Big plans?”

I tapped the list. “No more block parties where we get paid in gift certificates. We need actual gigs, at actual venues, opening up for touring bands. That’s how we get real money.”

She looked around toward where a group of office workers stared at us, huddled at a high top. “No opposition from me! But—”

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved my hand. I knew what she was going to say. “I’ve been too obsessed with getting the EP perfect. I see that now. We just need to go for it. A whole album of new songs is better than four, like, perfected songs, right?”

“I agree!” Nora glanced behind her at the table again. “And now that you’ve—”

I finished her sentence, feeling my giddiness rise. “Now that I don’t have the office job, we can practice more, and I can work during the day on getting us more gigs! Right?”

“Right, but—” She pointed behind her.

“No more ‘buts.’?” I threw up my hands. “But what?”

“I need three gin and tonics and a Lone Star for the high top.”

“Oh.” I started to scoop ice into three glasses.

“You’re on a tear, huh?” Nora said. “I like it. Jobless Cassie waits for no man.”

Yes. My true form. “I just think a couple years of fucking around is long enough.”

“As long as we can still have Fleetwood Fridays.”

“Of course.” I pretended to cross myself. Every Friday-evening practice, Nora and I wore witchy outfits and warmed up with songs from Rumours and Fleetwood Mac’s self-titled album. Considering Toby, our drummer, had been around for only six months, he hadn’t yet opted to participate, although sometimes he wore a vest.

A sudden wave of rumbling laughter hit the door, growing as a big group of buzz cuts walked in, already pretty hammered judging by the level of comfort they had when touching one another.

“Firefighters?” I said to Nora as I filled up a pint glass with amber.

“Soldiers, I think,” she replied.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said in an exaggerated accent, loading more drinks on her tray. Then I lowered my voice and leaned toward her. “I’m gonna make us some money.”

“Go for it.”

“Hi, fellas!” I called, opening my arms. “What can I get y’all?”

The soldiers stood behind the row of barstools in formation, their gazes drifting from me up to the TVs showing SportsCenter.

“Cassie!” I heard a man’s voice call.

I looked around. Wedged between two muscled men, with a buzz cut and cheeks that were losing their roundness, was a face I recognized. He extended his arms across the bar. “I know her!”

I laughed in disbelief as I stared into his big brown eyes.

Frankie Cucciolo, Blue Power Ranger to my Pink. The closest I had to a brother growing up. Mom cleaned his neighbor’s house while we shot water guns at each other and watched Free Willy over and over.

I came around the bar to hug him. He smelled the same way he did when he used to pour sand down my shirt—like potato chips.

“How the hell have you been?” I asked. We were close a long time ago, before I left for college, closer than close, but I hadn’t seen him in a few years.

“Great! I’m on leave right now,” he said.

I took him by the shoulders. “On leave? You’re in the army?”

Frankie, a soldier. I stopped myself from asking him if he was for real. I got back behind the bar.

“Yeah!” he answered. “We’ll be shipping out in two weeks.” At this, Frankie slapped the shoulders of the guys who had inserted themselves into the spots next to him. I counted fifteen or so and braced myself. They lined up at my bar. I made conversation with each one, trying not to sound too much like a friendly robot:

“Fort Hood, huh? Wow, neat.” I have no idea where that is.

“What am I? I’m Puerto Rican.” I’m human. Oh, you mean what ethnicity am I?

“Oh, thank you! So sweet!” Sure, my shirt is nice. Especially since my breasts are inside it.

Toward the end of the line was a shorter, young-looking guy with a barrel chest and high cheekbones. He stuck out his hand. “Soy Armando.”

“Soy Cassandra. What are you drinking?” I said over the noise, glancing at the guy next to him.

“Budweiser’s good,” he answered, but I was already distracted.

Armando was cute, they were all cute, but the guy next to him had broad shoulders and dark hair barely visible on a close-shaved head. Built like a wire. Long-lashed eyes and pouty lips. Sun-browned skin, almost as dark as mine.

When he realized I was looking at him, he took his eyes off the Rangers highlights.

“Hi,” I said, out of flirty phrases. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, um. Not beer.”

I laughed. “What kind of not beer?”

“Uhh . . .” He looked over my shoulder at the posted list, then to my right at the taps. “I actually don’t know. Sorry, it’s been a while since I was the sober one.”