When we walk into Doc’s, arm in arm, it’s the best I’ve felt in days. Sometimes a gal needs an irrational rant, an assertion of independence, and a moment of acceptance—all jam-packed into an afternoon.
If only it didn’t leave these Ma looks different and Roy is on to me fears that have wedged themselves in the back of my brain. But Buck’s and Raymond’s jaws nearly hitting the floor at our appearances somehow pushes those thoughts away. Not that I want their mouths wide enough to catch flies, but it’s still nice to have others thinkin’ you look nice, even if they are gangster-type boys that you wouldn’t dare bring home to your mama.
“That boy of yours is brave to let ya out of the house like that,” Buck says, coming up to me and bumping my shoulder. I flinch at his touch and concentrate on steadying the glasses I nearly knocked over.
Blanche hoots. “Roy don’t even know she’s here.”
I laugh deceptively, guiltily, along with the others, all the while giving Blanche a Better stay that way look.
She laughs harder, and we disperse before opening our doors to the first group of thirsty patrons.
Before long, drinks are flowing, some even by my own hand.
I think ’bout what Blanche said earlier, ’bout me liking it here. And it may be on the verge of being true. I reckon my daddy would be okay with that. After all, Ma did say he pushed the limits now and then with his rebellious ways.
A man I’ve come to recognize, someone I’ve coined Mr. Champagne Cocktail, sidles up to the bar, slides his reading glasses into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
Blanche makes him his drink of choice, then turns to me. “Mary says I can take my break, so I’m headed up to Buck’s apartment.” She’s got a gleam in her eyes. “We’re going to use every second of our fifteen minutes, if you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I do. Though it’s strange … “You’ve been spending lots of time with him.”
Blanche laughs. “Here and there, but it ain’t like we’re married. I’m free to sample him or”—she scans the dance floor—“anyone else who catches my eye. But for the time being, Buck is a mighty fine sampler.”
I let out an exasperated breath. “Go.”
She laughs again, skipping toward the bar’s partition.
I fall into a conversation with Mr. Champagne Cocktail, ’bout the stock market boom. I don’t know a dang thing ’bout it, and it’s mostly me bobbing my head in response, between mixing drinks for other patrons. Though his story of how a maid made a killing on stocks has me leaning closer to hear him better.
Raised voices rumble through the crowd like a wave. I stop listening, my gaze jumping ’round the room. Chairs are knocked over. The music abruptly stops.
“What’s going on?” I ask Mr. Champagne Cocktail.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles, and shifts off his bar stool. With his hand on the bar for support, his head jolts left, right, left again. The dance floor is a frenzy of people pushing, shoving. A woman falls to the floor. Mr. Champagne Cocktail turns back, rigid. “Police!” he hollers, his voice barely carrying above the other voices in the room.
“Police?” I parrot, and clutch his hand.
“A raid!” he calls, tearing himself free from my grasp. Then he’s gone, already moving toward the stairs, like nearly everyone else in the room.
Behind me, Mary’s voice rings in my ear, but my mind can’t piece together her words. Raid pounds in my head. Any other sliver of brainpower is consumed by the chaotic, frantic screams and yells on the other side of the bar.
“Bonnelyn!” she says, and seizes my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “Hide!”
Hide. I remember Buck’s words from the first time I came to Doc’s, his casual “Yup” in response to me asking him if that staircase is the only way out.
“Now!” Mary screams.
I stumble through the door to the back room, but not of my own accord. Mary drags me. The door closes at our backs and mutes the screaming and banging noises coming from the other room.
Mary grabs a handle to a small closet, yanks it open. She slips inside, her face serious, pale. “Hide,” she says again, and slams the door.
I turn on my heels, my arms wrapped ’cross my torso like I need ’em there to hold myself together, and search the back room: office, sink, cabinets, a table. Wrapped beneath the table, there’s a curtain.
I fling back the curtain and crawl under the table, my knees scraping against the cement floor. My head bumps the table’s underside and I yelp, quickly clasping my hand over my mouth. An abrupt noise fills the room, someone coming through the door, and I frantically reach for the curtain to hide myself.
“Wait,” a male voice says, and I stop, hand frozen on the fabric. I’ve been found already.
Black shoes cross the room toward me, each footstep pounding in my head as I envision my future slipping away. I press back against the wall, praying they’ll go easy on me. Won’t make me go to jail.
The shoes stop in front of me and I clench my eyes shut.
There’s a light touch on my arm.
I peek between my lids.
Staring back at me is a lopsided smile laced with concern. I almost call out “Non-Roy,” but catch myself.
Then he’s beside me in the cramped space. He twists, sliding the table’s skirt back into place to hide us, and faces me again.
“Hi,” Non-Roy whispers through the near-darkness, looking completely uncomfortable with his knees too high.
I wipe away the moisture beneath my eyes. “Hi.” My voice is weak, my heart sputtering—and for more than one reason.
He laughs low, quiet, and lightly touches my arm again. Goose bumps erupt over my skin. “I saw you come back here. I wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you, Bonnelyn?”
“You know my name?”
He laughs. “Of course I do. I found that out the first night I saw you here. But this … This is new.” Non-Roy reaches out and touches my shorter hair. “A nice new.”
“Ow.”
I feel stupid as soon as the irrational response leaves my mouth.
My discomfort adds fuel to Non-Roy’s fire, his smile growing, his eyes hungry. “Do I make you nervous?”
“No,” I say, too fast. “Why are you here? You could get caught.”
“I could, but like I said, I wanted to make sure you’re safe.”
I meet his eyes, quickly lower my gaze. “I, um, I have a Roy.”
“A what?”
Looking at him, finding a smirk on his face, only flusters me more. “I have a boyfriend, a fiancé.”
“You have a boyfriend and a fiancé?”
“No, I mean—”
He chuckles, and I hate that it sounds nice, contagious even. I hate that I sneak a peek at his empty ring finger and that his hypnotic laugh steals the rest of my thought.
“Well, I don’t see a Roy here, unless there’s another table he’s hiding under.” He feigns peeking out of the curtain.
“No—”
“Good. We’ll ride out the raid together then, without Roy.” He pauses, looking years younger than his early twenties as he finds a more comfortable position. “Sorry. Am I coming on too strong? I don’t think I’ve made the best impression so far. You make me nervous.”