Jake sat, and Tank stood, raising his beer as he rambled off more names. We went around the circle, each person sharing names and promising not to forget their fallen. Spade toasted his great uncle. Naomi toasted her pararescuemen and a few fellow pilots. Eagle named off almost an entire platoon. Bull mentioned some girl named Melanie, who’d died while he was serving. The petite brunette sitting beside him, grabbed his hand and squeezed it, making him smile down at her.
It was easy to forget that every single veteran faced personal losses. We’d all come home, but every vet knew someone who didn’t. But what really spoke to my heart was the number of suicides mentioned. Hell, I knew a guy who’d hung himself shortly after basic, and another who ate a bullet while on his first leave, but I didn’t realize the problem was this big. Hearing so many veterans talk about it was staggering.
Some of the bikers didn’t drink. Tap raised a water bottle for his toast. Hound clung to a soda. One of the old guys held what appeared to be a sports drink. Everything was accepted in the circle, and nobody said shit about it.
When Stocks’s turn came around, he squeezed my thigh before standing. Raising his bottle, he said, “For Welch, Leopardi, Hurst, Perez, Hensley, Makonov, Wilkens, Scheller, Killian, Dimmick, that little guy with the glasses—never can remember his name—and anyone else I’m forgetting from the explosion that took my leg. For Grady, Burkett, and Bradshaw who ended their own lives. Gone but never forgotten.”
“Gone but never forgotten,” everyone repeated, drinking with Stocks.
I’d never asked Stocks about his leg. I was so busy fighting my demons, I’d almost forgotten that he had his own to battle. I was the only one wounded in my accident, but it sounded like he’d lost a whole slew of people. There was so much I still didn’t know about him, and I needed to remedy that.
As he sat, I stood and took my turn.
By the time everyone finished honoring their dead, I was on the drunk side of buzzed. More than fifty toasts was no joke, especially considering I hadn’t drunk much since the night of the accident. I probably should have cut myself off, but my only plans for the next day consisted of a three p.m. doctor’s appointment, so when Stocks offered me another beer, I took it.
Naomi stumbled over to sit beside me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one making bad choices tonight.
“Aren’t you nursing?” I asked, eyeing her glass of what smelled suspiciously like whiskey.
“Funny, I was gonna ask you the same thing,” she said, toward Stocks.
“Ha-ha,” I deadpanned.
“I’ve been pumping for the past week to prepare for this night. I love that little girl more than anything in the world, but this mom needs a break. Jake and Margo are keeping Maya and Jameson tonight. I swear, I’m going to find them the biggest ‘Best Grandparents Ever’ medal for this. Fuckin’ saints, I tell ya.”
Grinning like a drunk idiot, I threw my arm over my best bitch’s shoulders. “You know what we should do?”
She matched my grin. “Karaoke.”
Stocks
I’D SEEN SOME funny shit in my life, but none of it held a candle to a drunk Monica. I had a good buzz going on, myself, but she was out of control, laughing at her own jokes, telling partial stories, and forgetting what she was talking about mid-sentence.
Then she and Naomi decided they needed to sing karaoke. The club didn’t have the necessary equipment, but the Copper Penny sure as hell did. So, sometime around midnight, Eagle and I followed our wild women next door. There, they entertained the club’s bar with inebriated renditions of classics that should be banned like “Baby Got Back” and “Friends in Low Places.” They weren’t bad singers—the two could hit and hold notes and harmonize—but they were so drunk they kept missing their cues and mixing up the lyrics.
We were at the point in the night where songs were at least twenty-five percent laughter, from both them and the crowd. Eagle was one of the most stoic motherfuckers I’d ever met, but even he couldn’t keep a straight face during their performances.
And then there was the dancing.
When the dynamic duo wasn’t singing, they were dragging me and Eagle onto the small dance floor to show off their moves. Somewhere along the line, showing off became a competition—which apparently happened often when the two of them got together—and shit went from G-rated to porn status. What started as the Roger Rabbit and the Electric Slide quickly devolved into straight up twerking and jerking.
We let them have their fun until Monica started popping her ass against my crotch and Naomi practically dry humped Eagle’s leg. Knowing we needed to put an end to the dance competition before their drunk asses did something their sober minds would regret, we dragged them off the dance floor and got a glass of water into each of them.
“This is so fun,” Naomi said, smoothing back her long blonde hair from her face so she could drink without its interference. “Why don’t we do it more often?”
Monica’s forehead scrunched up. “I actually have no idea.”
They both laughed.
I flagged down the bartender, a temp by the name of Mike Frailey who covered for Flint during all our club get-togethers and church sessions.
“Hey Stocks, what I can I do you for?” Mike asked.
I liked Mike. He was a good guy who always came through when Flint needed him.
“Can we get these two another round?” I asked.
Mike smiled knowingly. “Sure thing.”
