A hot mess with privilege

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

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… Bob had been in and out of the bar all night that night because as it had turned out, he’d been the designated driver. (Come to think of it, he always is.) Of course, he had offered to make several trips because that’s the kind of guy Bob is; always making sure his friends get home safe and sound. That he’d returned one last time had been a surprise though. “Just making sure I didn’t leave anyone behind,” he’d said before he’d asked “You need some help?”, one of his hands already on one of the many chairs to get stacked on tables.

Of course, you’d replied with “That’s sweet but I can handle it,” and then reminded him “Bob, you don’t have to do that.” And he’d replied the same back then as he did today. “I don’t mind.” And it’s not like you’re not getting something out of this. Other than his help that is. Bob is honestly quite easy on the eyes.

Sure, he isn’t as buff as Hangman or as tall as Payback, nor does he carry a stride like he owns the place. That’s Rooster. Bob isn’t ego-inflated like so many of them are or pretend to be. Nor is he loud. Show-off-man-ship belongs to Jake and Payback, definitely to Rooster, and a little bit to Phoenix. (Okay, let’s be honest, a lot! But Phoenix is different.) No! Bob is gentle and selfless but not in a pushover way. He is kind but not without some sass. He is quiet but not necessarily shy. He is smart as a whip but never makes others feel less. He’s handsome in a ‘Hollywood’s Golden Era’ way but definitely not vain. Add to that that he actually is quite tall and broad, there is no denying that Bob can hold his own in all categories. A solid ten out of ten, as much as you hate using that kind of scale.

So yeah, you’re getting something out of this, and like many times before, you catch yourself ogling him. Bob is a neat guy. That’s not meant in a condescending way. It’s more an observation on your part. His clothes are always pressed sharp and right. His hair, despite its waviness, never seems to have a strand out of place. His face is always clean-shaven. These things are likely military-driven standards, considering everyone else in Dagger squad looks just as neat, but Bob always seems to look just a tad bit neater. There’s also the fact that whenever he stands next to you, he always smells like he’s just stepped out of the shower, which apparently he takes on fresh-cut grass. Cause that’s what Bob smells like: like fresh-cut grass after some summer rain and something distinctively him. Somehow, it adds to the neatness.

Bob also seems to be a simple kind of guy. Again, that’s not meant to be condescending in any way. And maybe simple isn’t the right word here. Bob is neither plain nor basic. And he may appear uncomplicated outwardly, but humans, by nature, are complicated beings. No! Simple in regards to Bob aligns more with not wanting much. He seems content with little, someone who cherishes the small moments in life.

And lastly, there’s routine. You’re not entirely sure if it’s a Bob thing or another military-driven thing. All you know is that he always orders a root beer and a cup of peanuts first thing on arrival. Always quietly joins his friends and colleagues by the pool table after. Always sits on the same barstool towards the corner. And always waits patiently until Phoenix tells him to rack the billiard balls. And then, once everyone is ready to go, always makes sure his friends get home safe and sound.

He'd done so again tonight. Made sure that everyone got home safe and sound. And he’d returned again tonight. To help, of course. The only difference between now and then is that now, Bob doesn’t ask if you need help. He just does. Bob stacks the last of the chairs near the pool table, then unplugs the Jukebox before he shuffles over to the bar. There’s already a root beer waiting for him when he takes a seat on the last barstool to be stacked away. “Thank you.” He smiles then takes a sip, and you feel him looking at you with his usual quiet patience while you tally up the till and card transactions. You chuckle as you enter the numbers for the night, lightly shaking your head when you start dividing the money from the tip jar. Of course, Bob asks. “What’s so funny?” “You know, technically, you’re owed like two hundred bucks.” You lay out a few bills and watch intently as Bob’s face changes from confusion to something akin to horror and dismay. “What?” There’s a pause and when you don’t say anything else, Bob starts to ramble. “No no no… I can’t accept that. That’s your tip. Well actually, the whole staff’s… I can’t… I couldn’t … I… I…” With anyone else, you’d probably have a laugh, but Bob looks and sounds genuinely distressed. So you place a calming hand on Bob’s nervous one atop the counter, gently trace a circle into warm but tense skin. “I’m teasing, Bob.” Bob sighs in relief, his eyes narrowing when he hears your soft laugh. “Not funny.” “It’s a little funny.” You tease Bob again, gently squeezing his hand before letting go, and you swear you catch disappointment cross his face; if only for a fraction of a second. But then Bob smiles his usual angled little smile, takes a sip from his root beer, and you continue counting the tips, keeping an eye on him from your peripheral. Bob always looks put together. Today is no exception. But usually, he’s in his service khakis. On rare occasions, he wears his flight overalls. That only happens after long days. Only twice has he worn civilian clothing. If you remember correctly, that had been for planned events: Phoenix’s birthday and Coyote’s promotion.

You bite back a laugh.

There’d been times -when you’d first met Bob-, where you’d wondered if he actually owned any civilian clothing. And then, one Friday - Natasha’s birthday party to be exact-, he’d shown up in stonewashed 501s paired with a plain white Tee and a pair of well-worn boots, and you’d wondered why he doesn’t show up like that all the time. Not that you mind seeing Bob in uniform. It’s just that he seems a little more at ease when he wears civilian clothing, his shoulders less tense when he gets to cast aside the hard-set rules about in-uniform-etiquette, his stance matching the softer features of his face, if only for a few hours. It did prove your observation that Bob likes to keep things simple. To be honest, he’d kept it fairly simple tonight, too. It’s still a step above casual and there’s no denying: Bob looks good- like really good! - in a long-sleeved powder-blue button-down, dark-washed jeans, and a different pair of well-worn boots. His hair is different, too. Not much. It just lacks the usual precision of the perfect military part, as if he had finger-combed the sun-kissed waves rather than using an actual comb, and the only reason said waves sit near perfect is that they’ve been trained that way over the years. Overall, he seems softer in some ways and sharper in others. And yeah, you know that it shouldn’t be about looks. But you do wonder if Bob realizes that there’d been whispers about how handsome he is. Even Hangman had done a doubletake, snarky comment at the ready like usual. “Well I’ll be damned. Looks like Baby-On-Board is going fishin’ tonight.” “Sometimes, people dress nice just because, Bagman.” “It’s Hangman. And sweetheart, no one dresses like that to go home alone. Especially not tonight.” Hangman’s words had left a bitter aftertaste in your mind. So much so, you had needed a shot of tequila to wash it away. You admit that part of you had thought the same thing. Not that it’s any of your business. Bob can do whatever he wants. Go home with whomever he wants. Especially today. But you’re not going to lie: you’d secretly exhaled in relief when Bob had shut down yet another very obvious request to get out of the bar. He’d been polite, of course. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m here with my friends.” “They’re busy.” “They are. But I’m their designated driver.” “They’re adults. They can handle themselves.” “They are. And they can. Most of the time. But it’s why I prefer to stay, just in case one of them can’t.”

Even now, you can’t help a bit of snort. There’d been a lowly muttered cuss and a jab about how Bob acts like some overprotective dad. But he’d just smiled, then politely added “enjoy your evening, ma’am”, which had earned him a not-so-polite goodbye. Again, Bob asks. “What’s so funny?” This time, you reply “Nothing.” Because you don’t want to delve into that conversation. Not right now. Not tonight. It wouldn’t be fair to Bob, to make him question why you care that you’re glad he hadn’t gone home with that beautiful, size two brunette. For that, the night is too short and the timing so wrong, especially since you’re too unsure of why you care so god damn much.

Always the listener, Bob waits with unwavering and gentle patience to see if you want to say more. You figured out some time ago that it’s a secret weapon of his. People often don’t realize that they’re spilling some of their deepest secrets until it’s too late. And even though Bob isn’t the type to let secrets slip or make fun, the night is still too short and the timing is still so wrong, and you’re still too unsure. So you redirect your mind, circle back to the idea of compensation. “Since you’re not accepting money, how about a drink? On me? You can pick whatever you like and it can’t be root beer.” Your mouth ticks up in a roguish way and Bob seems to squirm under your persistence. “You really not gonna let that go, are ya?” He runs a nervous hand over the back of his neck and you shake your head. “Nope.” You pop the P and smile a toothy smile. “Now, what’s your poison, Lieutenant Floyd?” You sweep a dramatic hand towards the high-end bottles, notice how Bob gulps. “I… uhmm…” Bob stutters in that endearing way when he doesn’t want to inconvenience someone. (When does he ever?) So you reassure him. “Anything you like.” A beat of silence, Bob studies the bottles while you study him, and then it dawns on you. All the times that he’s been here, he’s never had alcohol. Not once. “I can make you a non-alcoholic mixer if you like.” You offer and this time Bob can’t seem to help a soft laugh.

He shakes his head, smiles that angled little smile of his. “It’s not that.” He pauses for a second, contemplation replacing the smile, then says “I do enjoy a good whiskey now and then.” Interesting. “But?” Bob studies the bottles again, nibbling on his bottom lip before he dares to answer. “Penny doesn’t have it.” He mouses out, watches as your eyes narrow. “Penny. Doesn’t. Have. It?” You punctuate each word in disbelief. This is a Navy bar! Penny stocks all sorts of different liquors from all over the world, because her customers have been and are from all over the world. Granted, eighty percent is the affordable mainstream stuff, or else The Hard Deck would’ve gone out of business long ago. Even so, the “top shelf” is anything but mainstream. And combining everything… There is no way… Unless… “Robert Floyd! Are you telling me you’re a whiskey snob?” You know for a fact that you’ve never seen or heard Bob laugh the way he is laughing now. It’s wholehearted, hands-on-knees, nearly toppling off the barstool loud and genuine. It's the best sound ever and you wish he’d never stop because carefree mirth looks good on Bob. So so good. But alas, he calms down, adjusts his aviator-style glasses before he finally answers. “Not intentionally.” It’s quiet again. Just for a second. “How so?” You ask, still not believing what you’ve just learned. Bob’s eyes crinkle at the corners, a memory-stricken smile taking over his features. “My dad was in the Air Force. He was stationed in the UK for a couple of years. Traveled all over. Scotland was a favorite place. And Macallan a favorite whiskey brand.” You whistle. “I see. So he’s to blame that you’re a whiskey snob.” You tease and Bob laughs softly. “Something like that.”

Another beat of silence, you rub your hands together. “Well, you’re right. Penny doesn’t have Macallan. But she has a bottle of Talisker Thirty-Five under the counter.” You waggle your brows, already pulling the bottle from underneath, and Bob’s eyes widen, mouth twitching and ready to counter, but he doesn’t get to protest. You hold up a finger to stop his thoughts right in their tracks. “Neat or on the rocks?” After a moment of hesitation, Bob whispers “Neat, please,” and watches as you fill an old standard glass a little more than two fingers-width high. You slide the glass his way, then finally finish counting and dividing the tips. The bar had been packed today. A last hoorah type of evening. It’s always like this before the carrier leaves for training or short-term assignments. But today had been intensified and it definitely shows. There’s a lot more money than usual and you’re certain that at least one-third had been left by the Daggers and their support crews and their friends and families. As much as you appreciate the extra cash, you’re not too fond of the reason behind it. And now, in the quiet of closing down the bar, reality sinks like a stone into the pit of your stomach. Clearly, it shows on your face, or else Bob wouldn’t ask “Everything okay?” You’re not. But you don’t tell him that. Everyone is worried, not just you. It had been an ongoing topic throughout the evening, cheerful music unable to drown out whispered concerns and heavy-hearted goodbyes. There is no need to add to the weight of the impending deployment. So, you muster up a smile. “Hmmm… Just thinking. Ten months of peace and quiet. No bar brawls. A break from Bagman’s obnoxious smile. And finally, some good fucking music.” Your face twists in pretended annoyance and Bob laughs. “Oh, come on. We’re not that bad.” “Swear to god, I was this close to ringing the bell when Rooster started another Jerry Lee Lewis medley. This! Close!” You hold up your left hand, index and thumb nearly touching, and Bob laughs again.

“That’s Rooster for ya.” Bob snickers. At last, he takes a sip from his whiskey, then makes his way behind the counter where he gets a rag and starts wiping down surfaces while you take the till to the safe in Penny’s office. When you return, Bob has his back to you and is tying off a plastic bag. So of course, he’s surprised when he sees a couple of lemon sorbets on the counter the second he turns around. “Part of the benefit package.” You wink and Bob’s chest expands with a sharp inhale. “As long as I don’t get you in trouble.” He hesitantly accepts the spoon you’re holding out to him, and once again, you can’t help a soft laugh. If you were in trouble because of Bob, Penny would’ve told you long ago. She’s not oblivious. She knows that Bob helps when you’re closing. And she knows that sometimes, when she’s not around, Bob helps when the bar is still open. Although, Penny had made it clear that it’s “Sink duty only. And cutting lemons and limes. That’s it! And only Bob is allowed behind the counter. No one else. Especially not Hangman! Or Rooster!” So yeah, you’re sure that you’re not in trouble. It's just so typical of Bob though. To not want someone in trouble. It aligns with everything he is. Kind, helpful, and always listening, observant... Always so polite and selfless, considerate… A good man with a good heart… “Do I have something on my face?” Bob’s voice pulls you to the here and now, and you feel caught. Were you staring? Obviously, you were or else, he wouldn’t have asked. You shake your head, then look around. The tables are clean, all chairs stacked, counters wiped, floors mopped. The billiard table and darts section look organized. Trash cans have new liners and there are fresh towels by the sink. Only two spoons and one old standard glass are left to clean. “Better finish that whiskey, Lieutenant Floyd.” You point to the nearly empty glass. “Or what?” “Or I will?” You’ve lost count of how often Bob has laughed tonight. “If you wanna have the rest, all you gotta do is ask.” He steps close and hands you the glass, then watches with rapt attention as you down what is left. And damn… Maybe there’s something to being a whiskey snob. You’ve had whiskey before but nothing like this. “God damn, that’s smooth.” You quirk an impressed brow and Bob chuckles, gently lifts his hand to your face, the pad of his thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth… And suddenly… The world is still…

… and you’re not sure if you’re warm because of the whiskey or because of how the palm of Bob’s hand is resting against your cheek. You only know that it feels good, your hand sliding up Bob’s forearm to his wrist, needing to feel his skin underneath your fingertips. And you’re ready, so ready to close the gap, ready to take one step forward, ready to surrender to whatever you’re sure your heart has been trying to tell you all goddamn evening long. Except…

… except Bob recoils with two steps back, his slate-blue eyes wide with shock. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… Just a drop…” There’s panic behind his eyes and panic in his breathing, and you’re not going to lie: his rejection hurts like salt to an open wound. But you cannot fault him. You’d obviously read the moment wrong. Misinterpreted the action. “It’s okay, Bob.” You try to keep your voice steady to play it all down but Bob shakes his head. He's tense. He’s never been tense around you. Somehow, that hurts more than the rejection. “I should go.” He whispers. “Bob, it’s okay. You don’t…” Bob has never interrupted you before. But… “It’s getting late. Long couple of days ahead. Will you be alright getting the rest by yourself?” You nod, tight-lipped, and just reply “Yes”, watch when Bob grabs the trash bags. And dammit! You try to bite your tongue. You really do. But somehow, it feels odd not to say “You don’t have to do that.” So you do. And Bob chuckles, if somewhat solemnly. “I don’t mind.” Of course, he doesn’t.

Your eyes follow him as he takes long strides towards the doors. He’s almost at the threshold, his free arm stretching out. You want to run up to him, want to hug him, but you’re scared that it might do more damage right now, your fear keeping you tethered behind the counter. So instead, you call his name and when he turns around, you quietly tell him to “Stay safe.” Bob smiles but it lacks his usual tenderness. “I’ll try my best. You be safe here.” You nod. One last wave.

And just like that, Bob is gone, his last words on your mind when you lock up the bar. And so is everything that happened just before. All! Damn! Weekend! Long… “If you keep wiping like that, Jimmy will have to refinish the countertop.” Penny’s voice snaps you out of the repeating memory and you apologize, sheepishly moving on to clean a couple of empty beer glasses. The bar is quiet but no one is surprised. Almost all active-duty personnel is on some type of restricted liberty albeit the carrier not leaving until Monday. Even if restrictions weren’t in place, it would likely be like this. Spending the last couple of days with family and friends takes priority over outings at the local watering holes. And truth be told, quiet isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s giving you and the rest of the staff a chance to catch up on all those little tasks and repairs that seem to fall to the wayside when it’s busy. So far, Yvette and you have cleaned, inventoried and organized the entire stockroom. Girl power times two, you’ve cleared the spaces behind all fridges and freezers of dust and debris, and cleaned the bathrooms from literal top to bottom. Even the windows are streak-free. Jimmy, on the other hand, has been tackling the odder jobs around the bar. Turns out that he doesn’t just know how to mix a mean Ramos Gin Fizz, he’s also the fix-it-all guy. Thanks to him, wobbly chairs and tables finally stand level again, the beachside deck sparkles with a fresh coat of sealant while a new balustrade wraps around the whole of it.

So, quiet is not necessarily a bad thing. So long one is busy. Then it begs for wandering minds… On the farthest wall from the bar, Jimmy is hanging some newly framed photographs, Yvette standing a few feet back. There’s soft laughter and a little bit of teasing about how Jimmy might be a ‘Jack of all trades’ but “An interior designer, you are not.” Yvette has her hands on her hips and Jimmy raises a brow. “The pictures are level. Nice straight line.” “See, that’s the former military you talking right there,” Yvette points out. “Bottom line up front, by the book, and all precision. You gotta make it interesting. Make people want stop and to look at the wall. Maybe start a conversation.” “Sweetheart, this is a Navy bar. Not the Louvre.” “It’s not about it being like a museum. It’s about making it a welcoming place. Those kids have to deal with perfection every single day. It’s okay to leave it at the door once in a while. Especially here.” Jimmy takes a deep breath and calmly asks “Alright. How would you like me to hang the pictures?” It's always amusing to watch those two. Yvette is right, though. Jimmy is all about routine and precision. He always signs in at exactly 1645 hrs whenever he’s scheduled, albeit his shift not starting until 1700 hrs. “If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late,” Yvette had rolled her eyes when she’d explained the reason why Jimmy does this, but a soft little laugh had given her away. She adores those quirks as she calls them. And according to her, Jimmy has become more flexible since he retired from the Navy. “Sometimes, he doesn’t sign in until four-fifty.” You remember laughing wholeheartedly at that and how Yvette had said it just loud enough for Jimmy to hear. He’d stopped cutting limes into perfect eighth-inch slices and raised a brow, and Yvette in turn had stood on her tippy toes and given him a kiss on the cheek. Just like right now. Just before Jimmy rearranges the picture frames into a more interesting focal point than keeping them in a single, precision-measured line. When he’s finished, Yvette is all smiles. “Perfect.” She kisses Jimmy again. “Anything for you, Sweetheart.” Watching Jimmy and Yvette has your mind going to Bob, wondering what he would be like whenever he retires from the Navy; if he’d go softer through life, with less precision and less routine. If he’d allow himself more flexibility. There’d been crumbs of that, little morsels of insight into what Bob might be like once he leaves the Navy behind: Phoenix’s birthday party, Coyote’s promotion, the deployment sendoff. But even then, his career had always managed to sneak in. Not surprising. It’s difficult to draw a hard line when it comes to life in the military. Even you know that. Still, you wonder… Not that you’ll ever find out, that shocked expression on Bob’s face on replay again. You can’t fault him. You really can’t.

He’s never shown any sign of wanting something beyond a casual after-work friendship. He’s never asked for your number. He’s never asked where you live or if you have a partner in crime. In fact, Bob has never pried into your personal life. Any and all information you’d shared with him had always been without prompt or pressure. So why, oh why is your head in a tailspin? Is your bar really so low that simple acts of kindness have you falling dangerously fast? Logically, you know that it’s more than that, more than doing some bare minimum. And logically, you know you can’t fault Bob for your own, confusing feelings.   But god damn it! Why did he look like your touch was acid? Why, brain? WHY? “I’m pretty sure that glass is clean.” You jump at Penny’s voice beside you, hear her laugh in response. You dare a glance her way, catching the knowing smile when she asks “What’s got you so distracted?” You peer around, taking in and releasing a long breath. “Just hoping everyone gets back okay.” You can practically feel Penny staring holes into you as you try to avert your eyes. To be fair, it's not a total lie. You really do hope everyone comes home safe and sound. But damn it. Penny has always been observant. And you really wish she wasn’t right now.

“Everyone? Or just a certain someone?” “Of course, everyone.” You answer fast. Too fast. And Penny’s smile widens. “Even Hangman?” You roll your eyes, try to match Penny’s teasing tone and posture, but your reply is flat when you say “Even Hangman.” You don’t have to look at Penny to know that she’s still sporting that same knowing smile. You can feel it in her quiet presence next to you while you’re wiping down the counter again. The things you would give for a busy-as-hell happy hour right about now, even though it’s Sunday. Really! Anything to divert attention from the fact that you’ve been preoccupied and mopey all day. But alas, the bar remains quiet. And Penny remains observant. “What happened?” She asks, her voice softer, and you look at her at last. “Nothing.” You shrug, your lips twisting to hide disappointment, but again, Penny isn’t oblivious. “Did you want something to happen?” She asks carefully, her face serious now. As your brain scrambles to find an answer, a particular memory of when you’d first started working at The Hard Deck stands out. Penny had warned you about the charming ways of the many Navy officers. “A lot of ‘em are flirts. Harmless but still flirts. Especially Hangman, Rooster, and Omaha. While I cannot tell you not to go out with anyone who frequents this bar, I can encourage you to be careful. No amount of sweet talk is worth the heartbreak.” It’s funny. She’d warned you about the smooth talkers. The suave confident ones. The ones who know that a single smile and a cheeky wink can get them anything they ask for. Yet here you are, mind on quiet patience personified, mind on Lieutenant Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd, the opposite of who Penny had warned you about.

You shake your head and answer at last. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean… I don’t know.” You shrug again, exhale a defeated breath. “I don’t know what I want. All I know is that I clearly read too much into something. And I’m kicking myself for it cause now things are weird and I feel like I lost… Like I lost…” “A good friend?” Penny finishes the sentence for you and you nod.

Penny looks around the bar, chuckles at Yvette talking off Jimmy’s ear. Then her focus is back on you. “You know,” she starts, waits to make sure she has your attention, “quite a few of them take advantage of moments like this. Long deployments, I mean. One-night stands are a given. There’s nothing wrong with it, of course. Wanting comfort or release. You know, zero-strings-attached kind of fun. Especially if you’re not sure when or if you’ll be back.” Penny pauses again, thinking for a second before she continues. “But Lieutenant Floyd never has, as far as I know… Taken advantage of the moment, I mean. And I don’t think he would change that, even when he’s quite fond of someone.” There’s that knowing smile again, and you can feel heat creeping to your cheeks. “Penny…” “What? He never helped Yvette or me close the place.” You chuckle but stay mum as you process what Penny just said, and she nudges you with her shoulder. She looks around the bar, again, checks her watch, and sighs. “I think, I’m going to call it. Which reminds me... You might want to look for another part-time job for now. I can’t promise steady hours when the carrier is out this long.”

You nod, looking around as well. It truly is dead. Only two long-time regulars are here. Walter and George; veterans from the tail-end of the Vietnam War. They’re wearing jackets adorned with old unit patches and are playing cards, taking jabs at each other over who’s winning the round. Jimmy is already making his way to their table, a tray with four beers in hand. You hear him say “on the house” and know it’s to soften the blow that the bar is closing early. But you also know that Jimmy is going to join them for at least one round of Rummy while Yvette sits next to him, her head on his shoulder and listening to them exchange stories from when they were in the service… “You okay there?” Penny really has a way to stop your mind from wandering. “Hmmm… Yup…” You ready a bucket with some soapy water and sling a dishtowel over your shoulder, hesitation in your step when you pass Penny on your way to clean the tables. Of course, she notices. “I can hear the gears spinning from here. Spit it out.” She teases and your face scrunches at being caught.

“I… uhm… finally found a remote job in my field a few weeks ago.” You bite your lip and Penny quirks a very surprised brow. “You did? Why didn’t you say anything?” Another shrug, your lips skew into an abashed smile. “I guess I grew kinda fond of everyone here.” Penny's brow arches impossibly high. She’s barely able to contain her amusement when she double-checks. “Everyone?” You know what she wants to hear, but instead, you say “Yup. Everyone. Even Hangman.” You waggle your brows and Penny laughs. Some ten minutes later, with all the tables cleaned and chairs stacked, Penny tells you to “Get out of here. We got the rest.” You agree, go to grab your purse and the trash bags behind the counter. After a quick goodbye to Jimmy and Yvette, and a playful “behave yourselves” aimed at Walter and George, Penny hugs you. “Congratulations on the job. I’ll call you when I need help. If you still want to work here that is.” She offers. You don’t have to think twice. You really have grown quite fond of this place. “Anytime.” It's odd to walk out of The Hard Deck at barely past 3:30 p.m. on a Sunday. Or any day you work there. You’re so used to showing up when it’s still light outside and it being near pitch black by the time you leave that it feels almost wrong to be outside this time of day. Late afternoon sun kisses your skin. In the distance, behind the dumpsters, you can see people walking along the beach. A few people are in the water. You should feel at peace. Serene, even. But out here feels as empty as the inside of the bar. It’s more than the vacant beach chairs just past the deck. More than the absence of music and laughter. More than the emptiness of the parking lot. Well, almost empty parking lot. There’s Penny’s Porsche, Jimmy and Yvette’s F-150, Walter’s Beetle, your little Civic, and then… There’s… “Bob?”

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End of chapter notes: Macallan Whisky - depending on the age and if it’s single, double or triple cask- can run between $100 to $170k, the latter being a single cask, 70-year-old rarity. Talisker 35 costs between 3k to 4k If you have questions about abbreviations, please let me know. Tags: @mynameismckenziemae @ahotmesswithprivilege