Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Rolling the Dice

Emo's Dance Club
Harker Heights, Texas
United States of America
20 September, 1991
2300 Hours

The truck shuddered a couple of times when I killed the engine. The cracked manifold clacking twice as I shut off the headlights. I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray and then tossed the softcap on the bench seat next to me. When I pulled the rubber band out of my bun, my hair spilled down my back, and I grabbed my Stetson that Taggart had given to me while I'd been staying at her farm. I slapped it on my head and climbed out of the truck, into the misty rain.

The door crashed shut when I slammed it, jamming my hands in my pockets as I walked toward the club. I had thought about going to the obvious biker bar just a little ways down the strip, but the sound of pop music let me know I'd made the right decision.

The bouncer looked me up and down when I showed him my driver's license. He looked a bit doubtful, but patted me down anyway. When he held up the Gerber I carried at the small of my back I shrugged.

"You can have it back when you leave," he yelled over the music, handing it to the girl behind the counter.

"If I don't get it back, we'll have words,"I warned him. He nodded, and the coat check girl handed me a ticket. I gave her Stetson and my denim jacket too, tipped her and the bouncer a five-spot each, and headed in.

The music hit me like a wave, along with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and bodies. There was a dance floor, currently a sea of heaving humanity, when I looked to the right  I saw pool tables at the back, and the bar was along the right wall, with the bathrooms just off of them.

I headed to the bar, weaving between everyone. They didn't see Chief Warrant Officer Cromwell, just a heavy-set girl with acne scars and hair down almost to her ass. It was nice.

There was an empty stool at the bar, which I slid into, guys bracketing me on either side. I laid my wallet on the bar, waiting for the bartender and looking around.

The place was obviously a meat market, and I was getting attention already. The pockmarks in my face weren't going to stop anyone's interest as soon as it was obvious that I was still a pretty girl. Most of the people who stared wouldn't know the difference between acne scars and shrapnel scars, and part of me was glad.

The bartender stopped in front of me, smiling. "Watcha want?" He asked, his Texas accent familiar and comfortable. It reminded me of Bomber, which gave me a pang of loss, but I needed to get over it.

"Seltzer water with a twist of lemon or lime, I'm driving," I told him. I could practically see him waving goodbye to any tip he'd hoped for, but he hurried back with my drink. I surprised him with a five dollar tip and sipped the drink.

I'd been sober since 2/19th had sent me and the rest of what had become Actual as 2/19th's dvance party to Saudi Arabia back in August of 1990. Over a year now.

Seltzer water with a twist kept the cravings away, slaked my thirst, and let me sit in a bar with others for social situations at least.

Eventually I grew to like it.

The guy on my right kept sneaking looks at me, and I knew he was trying to figure out my tits to fat ratio, figure out if he was interested. He didn't look too drunk, and I turned and smiled at him. He frowned at the sunglasses.

"You think I didn't see you checking out the fat girl?" I asked him sweetly. He jerked slightly in guilt. "Before you look any further, you might want to see this."

He looked a little confused as I brought my right arm in front of me, then looked a little sick to his stomach when I flexed. My arm went from chunky looking to solid muscle, my biceps the size of a softball, the veins popping out.