Page 4 of Glamour and Grit

That’s what the battered poster hanging over the even more battered bar in East LA proclaims. The poster features a kitten struggling to hang on to a thin branch. A precarious drop is implied if not shown.

I grin ruefully. The ice clinks in my glass as I toast the kitten in the poster with whiskey.

“I know how you feel. I’m not okay, either.”

“What?”

The grim-faced bartender shoots a querying glare my way. He glared when I approached the bar, glared when I ordered whiskey on the rocks, and glared when he refilled the glass.

But he keeps pouring, and I keep paying, so our relationship is going to work out just fine.

“Nothing. Talking to myself. Guaranteed intelligent conversation.”

The bartender stares at me, lips twitching under his handlebar mustache. He doesn’t appreciate my being here. In fact, most of the patrons would probably prefer it if I fucked off. A clean cut former sailor sitting in a place like this is going to stick out.

Fortunately, my tank top shows off not only the time I put in atthe gym, but the tats I picked up while trotting around the globe. People see the tiger shark on my deltoid, maybe they don’t think twice. But the crosshairs on my forearm over a silhouetted head make it pretty clear what my old job was.

A bitter smirk stretches over my lips. I wasn’t that good at my old job. Sure, I could make the shots. I learned to control my every breath, my every movement, and fire between my own heartbeats for unerring accuracy.

But when the chips were down, and I needed to act? I fucked up. Big time. Others paid the price formyfailure. The Navy didn’t reprimand me for failing to act when it counted. They let me stay on and train the next generation of snipers. I did that for a little while. But then I gave it up.

How could I teach others to operate like precision machines when I couldn’t do the same myself?

Now I’m ‘enjoying’ civilian life. No duties to report for, no appointments. I can get piss drunk and pass out until noon, and no one’s going to give me shit for it.

The gangbangers playing pool in the corner keep giving me dirty looks. I don’t think they’re going to start shit, but I’m keeping watch out of the corner of my eye just in case. They’re still at the ‘working up the courage’ phase. If they get to the ‘talking shit’ phase, it’s probably going to go down. Whatever. I don’t even care what happens to me at this point.

In the Navy, I learned to hone my senses to a razor keen edge. I can hear the changes in the gangbanger’s breathing as they move around the billiards table, smell the cheap cologne on the bartender’s face, and see the mosquito buzzing in for a landing on my forearm without really trying.

I smack the mosquito into red mush, more on instinct than because I care if I get bitten. I look forsomething to wipe my hand with.

“Here, Dane.”

I manage not to act startled, even though the sound of the voice takes me unawares. Turning my gaze to the left, I find six foot four inches of lean muscle stuffed into skinny jeans and a designer shirt. He’s holding out a napkin. I take it and clean the dead mosquito off my hand, giving him a surly look. Bastian is one of the few people who can sneak up on me like that.

“Bastian. Nice shirt. I see my sister is dressing you better.”

He looks down at himself and chuckles.

“Dude, it’s best to just let Harlowe make those kinds of decisions. You think I picked this haircut, or this shirt? I’d probably shave my head and go shirtless if it was up to me.”

I snort and take a sip of my drink. “So, what are you doing here, Bastian? Did big brother Jax send you to try and recruit me again? Or is my little sister putting you up to some kind of intervention?”

He grows tight-lipped, and when the bartender comes around he orders a coke.

“Look, Dane. Your landlady heard you screaming again last night. She called Harlowe to talk about it.”

I shrug. “If the old lady wants me to move out, I’ll move out. No big deal.”

“You’re missing the point, Dane.” His dark brown eyes reflect the weak lights of the bar back at me with ghostly luminescence. “Your landlady isn’t mad, she’s worried about you. So is Harlowe, and quite frankly so am I.”

“It’s just nightmares. I’m hardly the only one in the family with trauma, why does everyone have to act so oppressive about it? I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself.”

Bastian’s coke arrives. He takes a sip and then fixes me with his gaze.

“Are you talking to anyone about these nightmares?”

“Like who, a therapist? Hard pass. I’ll deal with it on my own.”

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