PATRIOTIC DUTY
By C.J. Pinard
Copyright 2013 C.J. Pinard
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication:
This book dedicated to all military wives, for you have the hardest job in the military.
Acknowledgments:
Cover Art by: Austin Hobbs
Photos used with permission from Shutterstock
Lisa P and Wendy G, thank you for your extra sets of eyes!
RDF: Thanks for the memories…
MLC… you, my friend, will always know the truth. And we shall take it to our graves.
“…Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.”
John F. Kennedy
CHAPTER 1
A bead of sweat dripped down my head and slithered its way to my neck, coming to rest on the collar of my shirt. This was an extremely unseasonably hot day for California – even for May.
I wiped the sweat away and used my key to open my office door where I knew the air conditioning unit attached to the wall would bring me some relief. The buildings I worked in were old converted military barracks built in the fifties, and therefore, had no central air. In all reality, the climate here in Northern California was mild enough where we didn’t need it most of the time, but there were occasions, like today, where central air would have been a nice commodity.
Just 26 years old and already newly divorced, I had only been working for the federal government for about a year. Working in corrections wasn’t my first choice, but after my ex left me with a bunch of bills and a two-year-old son to care for, my not-so-glamorous career as a hairstylist was all but over. I needed a job with benefits and regular hours, and thanks to my friend, Miranda, who was another secretary here, she suggested I apply, and I got the job.
The job really wasn’t hard; just doing casework and such for inmates releasing and transferring, and at least I didn’t have to pull all the crazy shifts the correctional officers and lieutenants did. In return, I made less money but it was worth it to me. Shiftwork is for the birds, I say.
I twisted up my shoulder-length blonde hair and pressed my back against the air unit and let its frigid air blast my body back to a comfortable temperature. I closed my eyes as I thought about going home today, as I definitely didn’t have any sort of central air, or even a window unit at home. Looks like I would have to rely on ceiling fans, standing fans, and the good ol’ trusty spray bottle of water.
I counted my files and locked them. I shut my computer down, and, grabbing my purse from the drawer, I closed that also and turned off the light. I used my keys attached to my belt once again to lock the door behind me.
“Goodnight, Ms. Reid,” a female inmate called to me as I walked to the control center to hand in my keys. “Have a nice weekend.”
I smiled tightly at her and said my thanks, then internally rolled my eyes. Female inmates have to be the nosiest species on the planet. She would probably stab a fellow inmate if it would make her privy to what my weekend plans were.
Since it was Friday, I didn’t have to go pick up Aiden from daycare, as his father had him for the weekend, and I wouldn’t see my little guy until Sunday night. I had a love-hate relationship with these weekends, so I tried to make the best of them. I was almost home when my phone chirped with an incoming text. I waited to look until I hit the red light that would take me down my street in the small town I lived in. It was from Miranda.
Cowboys tonight! Yee haw!
I laughed and rolled my eyes at her. “OK” – the two letters I managed to type out and send before the light turned green. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat of my little ten-year-old Acura and pulled into the driveway of my tiny little house.
I walked into my small house and groaned. It was more like a duplex if I’m honest. The house was only one level but was connected to another house, whose front door was on the complete opposite side as mine. I didn’t really know the lady who lived there. Another single mom; that much I knew, but she was older, and her son was a young teen.
The house was sweltering and I began opening windows to try to allow some air in. Flipping on the ceiling fans, I peeled off my clothes. I quickly changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top and grabbed my purse before leaving out the door again. I had a hair appointment, and thankfully the salon was only a mile or so away.
I really couldn’t afford to have my hair highlighted as often as it needed it, but thank God for the ladies at the salon I used to work at. They usually did my hair for next to nothing and I tried to tip them nicely when I could. They were with me through the ugly divorce, which involved a lot of infidelity (on his part), and took pity on me. It was tough being a single mom in one of the most expensive areas of the country to live in, but it was home, and the only place I had support, so what was a girl to do?
I lucked out and got the salon owner, Debbie, who hooked me up with some awesome stripy blonde chunks with a few low-lights thrown in. She cut it shorter too, a super cute A-line bob that kept my hair off my neck, to which I was grateful. The girls gushed at my cute new ’do and I left the salon in much better spirits than I had arrived in.
My cell rang as I was walking into the house. Miranda.
“Cara! Girl, where you been?”
I laughed at her. “Getting my hair done, duh.”
“Oh yeah. Well, I’m gonna pick you up at eight. You be ready by then?”
“Of course. What are you wearing?”
She sighed. “A skirt, I guess. My ass is too fat for jeans right now. Plus it’s too damn hot for them.”
I laughed again because her ass so wasn’t fat. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
I threw my cell onto my bed and it bounced. I turned to my small closet and pulled out a pair of tight jeans and a shiny pink tank top, laid them on the bed, and went into the bathroom to shower.
The water cooled me off but it didn’t last long, as the house was still a sweltering hot mess and I was dreading having to blow-dry my hair.
After all was said and done, I took a look in the mirror. Thankfully I had a nice enough chest to pull off the tank top with a little cleavage and I always got compliments on my legs. I pulled on a cute pair of hot pink cowboy boots. I scraped my blonde hair behind my right ear and it got caught on the piercing I had in my upper ear cartilage. I hate it when that happens. I also noticed my makeup was already beginning to melt. I sighed and turned to grab my phone when I heard a honk. I peered out my bedroom window and saw Miranda in her little red Honda Civic. Grabbing my purse and keys from the coffee table, I threw my phone in it, locked my door, and hopped into her car.
“What’s up, girl?” she said while applying a generous amount of lip gloss to her already perfect, full pink lips. From her long, thick blonde hair to her eyes the color of whiskey, she always turned heads. A good three-plus inches taller than my five-foot-five self, she definitely had runway model written all over her.
She twisted the cap on the gloss and chucked it into her purse. Putting the stick shift into reverse, she backed all the way out of my complex’s long drive with a zip.
>
CHAPTER 2
Cowboys was our favorite country bar. It was always hopping on Friday and Saturday nights and had plenty of hot guys to keep our interest. We had been going there about a year, and we always had fun, no matter what night of the week or how crowded or dead it happened to be.
As we pulled into the parking lot, Miranda yanked a water bottle from her purse and twisted off the lid, taking a large swig. She winced as it went down and I looked at her curiously.
“What’s wrong?”
The smile quickly returned to her pretty face, and she held the bottle out to me. “Want some?”
I continued to stare at her amused face and then slowly looked down at the bottle. I sniffed it and started coughing. “Holy shit, what in the hell is that?”
“Everclear.”
My eyes got big. “Are you serious? You shouldn’t drink this junk! A girl on my senior beach trip in high school drank this crap and got so sick we had to take her to the hospital.”
Miranda rolled her amber-colored eyes and laughed. “I’m not gonna get shitfaced! Just want a little buzz.”
She was almost laughing at me at this point, so of course I had to drink some now. I took a swig and coughed again. “Damn.”
Miranda laughed again and snatched the bottle, screwing the lid back on and chucking it into the backseat. She shoved her driver’s license and some cash into her bra and said, “Let’s go.”
I did the same with my ID and money and exited the car, walking to the front door of the club.
Cowboys was a huge establishment, almost resembling a one-story warehouse with a glowing red cowboy boot on its roof. We entered through the front door, paying our cover charge and showing ID, and sauntered inside. Since it was barely nine p.m., the place wasn’t very busy yet. I looked at the large wooden dance floor and saw one older couple doing some swing dancing to a fast-paced song and everyone else seemed to be watching them, too. We made our way to the bar and I ordered a beer. I wasn’t a huge beer drinker but I just felt like having one, and that was probably my first mistake of the night.
Miranda also ordered a beer and we finished them fairly quickly. We then ordered two shots of whiskey each. I freaking hate whiskey but she insisted we had to do “whiskey chasers” after our beer.
Whatever.
My shot was paused at my lips when Miranda laid a restraining hand on my arm. “Wait!”
I looked at her with raised eyebrows, impatiently waiting.
She lifted her shot glass and I mimicked her. “Here’s to the men that we love. Here’s to the men that love us. But the men that we love, aren’t the men that love us. So F the men, here’s to us!”
Except she didn’t say F, she actually said the word, which had all nearby heads turning. I had heard this toast before and just laughed as I tried to keep up with it. I downed mine and winced. It was nasty but I was feeling very warm and buzzy at this point, and I liked it.
The night wore on, I danced a few times with nobody special, and then we saw a group of guys come in. There were probably four or five of them, all tall with short hair. A couple of them had cowboy hats on and they were all wearing jeans and T-shirts.
I was on my second beer after the shots, sipping it slowly while watching the cute boys. They alternatively looked over at us.
“That one in the black hat is smokin’ hot,” Miranda said, elbowing me and jutting her chin toward the guys.
I nodded. “They all are. I like the tallest one. He’s definitely been looking over here.”
She grinned wickedly. “Let’s play hard to get.”
I looked at her with mock confusion. “What do you suggest?”
“Let’s go dance, c’mon!” She grabbed my arm and led me to the dance floor, which was now getting quite crowded, as it was nearing ten-thirty. They were playing a popular country line dance song, which we knew the moves to from watching it a few times, and we linked arms and proceeded to join the dancing crowd.
After that song ended, they went right into another one, so we stayed and danced some more. I was praying for the song to get over quickly, as I was starting to get sweaty and needed to go outside for a breather and a break from this music. It’s good this club always had hot guys, ‘cause I really didn’t care for country music.
As we exited the dance floor, I threw my now-empty beer bottle into a nearby trash can and we went toward the back door for some cool air.
I glanced at the group of cute boys to see they were talking to some other girls, and elbowed Miranda. “Your plan to play hard to get backfired, girlfriend.”
She laughed. “Oh, please. You haven’t seen me play anything yet.”
I shook my head as we headed out the back door, where a large patio was set up with random picnic tables and a huge barbeque pit. Kind of odd for a nightclub, but I figured they must host other things during the day. There were people out there smoking and making out (some at the same time), so we didn’t stay out there long.
As we went back inside, the lights had been dimmed and a slow song was playing. I saw two of the hot guys on the dance floor dancing with girls much cuter and probably younger than we were, and I decided to ignore those boys for the rest of the night. I was having fun with Miranda and didn’t need any male attention. What I needed was another drink.
“Margaritas!”
Miranda and I turned around when we heard a female voice shout and saw a girl with short black hair and lots of piercings and tattoos wearing a very skimpy French maid’s outfit standing next to a barber’s chair. I laughed at the absurdity of a barber’s chair in the middle of a nightclub until I saw what it was used for.
A guy wearing jeans and a George Strait T-shirt handed the girl a five dollar bill and sat down in the barber’s chair. I watched curiously as the girl picked up two large bottles with special spouts on them – one margarita mix and one straight Cuervo tequila – and began pouring them into his mouth after she reclined the chair back. She continued to pour as a crowd gathered. He chugged pretty good, took it like a man in my opinion, but when he finally couldn’t take it anymore, he put his hand up and the girl pulled the bottles upright, followed by his chair. She reached over and rang a loud cowbell affixed to the post next to the chair and the crowd let out a whooping cheer. The now very drunk man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled big, then let out a huge burp.
Miranda and I were very intrigued by this and continued to watch as the crowd got larger. After about five people had gone, nobody stepped up, so the girl in the French maid’s outfit shouted, “Who’s next?”
Miranda looked at me. “C’mon.”
I dutifully followed and she pulled a five dollar bill out of her shirt and handed it to the girl and indicated for me to sit in the chair. I shrugged and sat, half excited, half nervous I was going to choke or puke, but I was pretty tipsy so I rolled with it.
Miranda leaned forward and said something close to the girl’s ear. She smiled, then shrugged, handing Miranda both bottles, which were now only a quarter full, and stepped back with her arms folded, smiling. A larger crowd had gathered now, and Miranda, in a last minute decision, handed the bottles back to the girl and proceeded to climb up on the chair in which I now sat, straddling both knees on either armrest, looking down at me grinning. She craned her neck around and held both hands out, motioning for the bottles. The girl happily handed them over, and Miranda bent over slightly and began pouring the bottles into my mouth in unison, still straddling the armrests. I could see nothing but cleavage and bottles now.
I chugged as best I could but didn’t last more than ten seconds or so before I began slapping Miranda’s bare thigh, indicating for her to stop. Luckily she did, and as she hopped off the chair and sat me up, I was greeted to a crowd of cheering men waving five dollar bills in the air. Miranda went over and rang the cowbell and more cheers ensued.
I don’t even remember how we got home, but blurred memories of a jacked up Chevy truck containing a gun rack and the faint smell
of Stetson cologne were flitting through my mind as I passed out in my bed.
***
My head was pounding in unison with the screaming alarm clock on my nightstand. I hated summer because even at five-thirty a.m., light poured into the room, badgering me to get up. It was Monday morning and the hangover from Saturday night still lingered. I shut the alarm off and staggered to the kitchen for some aspirin.
Yeah, I said Saturday. We were actually stupid enough to go out again, this time to a local bar to shoot pool, and got tanked again. This time on vodka.
Damn, I have got to stop drinking!
After a quick shower, I dragged myself to work but not before dropping Aiden at daycare.
By lunchtime, Miranda was already blowing up my phone, talking about the weekend.
“Oh, my God! Girl, I didn’t even call you yesterday. My head was totally freakin’ killing me, and the only reason I got out of bed was to answer the door so my mom could take Ashlynn for the day. I couldn’t even deal.”
Miranda also had a two-year-old, a daughter named Ashlynn, and we had bonded through our horrid divorces, and were now inseparable BFFs.
“You’re so bad! I’m glad my ex had Aiden. The poor kid would have had to eat Spaghetti-O’s and Cheez-Its all day if he was with me!”
We both laughed.
“The last time I drank that bad was during Fleet Week in The City. Remember?”
Oh, hell, did I ever.
We had gone to San Francisco during Fleet Week. I had never heard of it, even though I had grown up in the Bay Area, but was recently enlightened. The U.S. Navy and U.S. Marine Corps came once a year on a couple of large Navy ships and docked, giving tours of the ships and letting the service men and women off for a few days of R and R and fun in the major cities.
Miranda and I had had a blast there. We drove around Pier 30 until we found a parking spot and walked to where the U.S.S. Lincoln was docked and “toured” the ship, but we both knew we weren’t interested in anything on the ship except the men.
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