It’s My Party (and I’ll cry if I want to)

By:
The Muse

The Wildside was considered by many to be Santa Barbara’s premier gentlemen’s club boasting three full bars ‘manned’ by bikini-clad beauties pouring only the best liquor. Overhead, a laser spotlight hit one of the disco balls currently in vogue for the fourth time, showering a full chromatic spectrum over the central area and making the pretty brunette on the raised dance floor glitter.

Tables were scattered around the dance floor, several of them pushed together along one side to accommodate fifteen men attending one’s last stag night before his wedding. They were a diverse bunch, casually dressed and in various stages of intoxication, dividing their attention between the dancers and the multiple—and very loud—conversations gong on simultaneously.
 

At the table nearest the apex of the stage and thus allowing the widest view, 35-year-old Chip Morton leaned back in his padded seat, a tumbler of Jack Daniels in one hand, ice blue eyes fixed casually on the dancer, a buxom lass who was slowly unstrapping her bra while suggestively wiggling to the sound of an old Prince song. She caught his eye, licked painted lips seductively while sliding a strap over one white shoulder. Morton smiled vaguely in return, gaze sweeping to the other men occupying the table.
 

Each man he knew very well and for many years now: at the far end, Lt. Commander Frank Bishop argued heatedly with Lt. Glenn Weinberg over the latest military spending bill, neither having made a new point sooner than three drinks ago. In an adjacent seat, Lt. “Sparks” Peatie, Seaview’s communication officer, stared gloomily into a gin and tonic while telling a glazed Jimmy Morton, Chip’s first cousin, about his ex wife. Ned always was a maudlin drunk, Chip thought, shaking his head.
And that wife’s been gone five years. Sheesh. 

Whitten, Doc, O’Brien—all part of Seaview’s command crew. Neighbors, friends from the golf course, relatives…. Good men all. Men he was proud to know and call friends. On the stage, the brunette had finished fussing with her bra and now tossed it away to the accompaniment of cheers from the audience. Chip applauded politely then gulped back the remainder of his drink—the sixth so far. He’d managed a comfortable fog without being too far gone in the alcohol. It was enough to keep him from finding an excuse to go home but not enough to blunt the discomfort that gnawed at his gut. I’d need enough to pass out. Then again, it was his party and he could cry…or pass out if he wanted to.

A waitress materialized at his right shoulder. “Get you another, handsome?” she murmured, bending over to display a great deal of cleavage only inches from his face.
 

Chip cleared his throat and tilted his head discreetly up. “More of the same, honey,” he acknowledged, passing up the glass and accepting his refill. He downed the shotglass, placed it back on her tray. “”I’ll need two…” He held up three fingers with a little smirk. “…as soon as you can get that pretty butt back here. How about you, Dad?”

On the waitress’ other side, a blonde man with a thick mustache drained his own glass and passed it across. He was a Viking of a man—even taller than Chip’s 6-feet, once solid but now going to paunch. A pair of thick reading glasses hung around his neck, dangling onto his white, short-sleeved shirt; otherwise, he showed few signs of his sixty-one years on earth. “Thought I’d try me one of them parasol concoctions your mother is always going on about. Think she called it a Sex on the Boat.”
 

The new Jack Daniels went down wrong resulting in a great deal of sputtering and gasping before Morton could fix his father with a fish eye. “I’ve been out drinking with you a half-dozen times and I’ve never seen you with anything but whiskey or Jack.” He hefted his own glass. “And its Sex on the Beach. Sex on the Boat sounds just… wrong.

Charlie Morton laughed, his fair skin flushed with the liquor he’d already consumed, his gray eyes sparkling. “Back off, sailor boy,” he retorted good-naturedly. “It’s not every day my only son gets married, and I intend to enjoy it!” He leaned forward to slap Nelson heartily on the arm, spilling liquid across the wood table top; Chip winced. “Right, Harry?”

Dressed neatly in a charcoal button-down shirt and trousers, graying red hair brushed to the side, Nobel Prize winning scientist Harriman Nelson flicked a few drops from his hand and sipped his own scotch rocks, returning a single nod. “Privilege of the father of the groom,” he agreed, lifting his glass in a semi-toast. He retrieved a pack of Marlboros from his breast pocket, shook one out then offered the pack. Charlie refused with a gesture, Chip accepted and placed it between his lips.
 

“My last fag,” he explained, igniting it and drawing the smoke in with pleasure. “I’m quitting tomorrow.”

Nelson took the lighter, lifting one reddish brow in Chip’s direction. “I hope you’re planning on locking yourself away for the next week,” he said, smoke roughened voice full of amusement. “Patti will understand if you postpone the wedding.”

The music was loud enough to be heard only as a repetitious beat; the flashing lights while hypnotic were also giving him a headache. Morton took a drag, sighing as the nicotine worked its magic and relaxed away some of the tension. Some but not all. “Patti would kill me if I postpone the wedding,” he said with a shudder. “I’ll just have to take my chances on the honeymoon.” He released the smoke slowly through his nose as the music changed and the nearly naked brunette danced away toward the other side of the stage. “Been a long time since I’ve been to a strip bar,” he remarked to no one in particular. “More than a few when I was a midshipman but the novelty wears off fast.” He waved the smoke away then used his free hand to pick up his glass. “Don’t think I’ve been to one since leave in Cairo two years ago. We were looking for a purse for my mom, but Lee’s Arabic is really lousy.”

“If it’s strip clubs you want,” Nelson said, ignoring the haze that drifted up from his own butt, “you should come to Washington with me more often. Half my financial meetings are held in the Playboy club.” He scowled. “Don’t know what it is about bean counters; you’d think they never saw a woman of their own. And some of the Armed Forces Committee are even worse.”

The waitress deposited a brightly colored drink in front of Charlie, gave him a friendly pat, and left. The older man ran a big hand through his thinning blonde hair, picked up his glass and removed the little parasol. “Down the escape hatch,” he said, taking a big gulp.

“Wrong end,” Chip muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

Charlie swallowed, choked, and gave him a glare. “More respect for your elders, whippersnapper,” he growled, taking another gulp. “Hmmm. Taste like punch. I may need another one…or two.”

Nelson chuckled, a deep, smoke roughened sound, and turned to address Chip’s uncle and cousin, Ernie and Ted Pratchett. Both were serving Sergeants in the Army, and both looked extremely nervous at speaking to even a retired four-star Admiral. Ted looks like he might salute any minute, Chip thought with a tiny smirk.
Guess if I hadn’t known the Admiral since I joined Annapolis, I’d feel that way too.

Charlie Morton was speaking to Terry Winters, a wiry negro who’d been a good friend from chip’s Pentagon days. This left Chip himself free to let both mind and gaze wander again, finally coming to rest on the far wall. In its mirrored surface he could see the whole room from filled tables to the rowdy bar, and amidst it all, a single still spot in a whirling sea of faces, he could see himself. The resemblance to his father was striking—Chip’s light polo shirt with it’s ­Santa Barbara Golf Club logo revealed the well muscled physique of a former football player, with long even features, a high forehead under hair so pale blond as to be nearly invisible in the dim lights. Chip knew himself to be a handsome man whose all-American looks had once even been considered by the Navy to model for recruiting posters; only his long nose twice broken had disqualified him at the end. “With those cheekbones, they’d’ve taken Lee,” he sniggered under his breath, “if he had looked older than fourteen back then.”

 From the other end of the table, the ongoing argument broke off. Seaview’s gamma watch commander, Frank Bishop, normally so taciturn and gruff, tossed back a full shot of tequila, threw his garish plaid sports coat to the floor and crawled onto the stage to engage the nearly naked brunette in a graceful disco hustle only 30 years out of date. The crowd cheered and tossed dollar bills onto the stage, which Bishop collected as the music changed. “By your leave, Admiral!,” he called before stuffing them in the girl’s g-string. 

“I didn’t know he could dance,” Nelson remarked, amused as the stocky, middle-aged man bowed and retreated puffing to his chair.

The lights flickered, came up as a blonde replaced the brunette on stage. She was slim and pretty and looked about 16 years old. Rather than a seductive wiggle, the blonde was an energetic dancer even in her 4-inch heels. “Now that’s a pretty girl,” Nelson remarked as Ernie and Ted left for the lavatories in the rear. He tapped his cigarette off and shot Morton a wry smile. “Unfortunately, I feel like a pedophile for even admiring her. Do you think she’s even out of high school?”

Overhearing, Charlie actually laughed aloud at that; Chip could manage no more than a sad shake of the head; his ice blue eyes were turned full on the stripper, a look she returned to the good looking blonde with interest. In truth Chip’s mind was so far removed from the Wildside that if the girl had turned into a poodle he wouldn’t have noticed. “I’m with you, sir. Guess I’m feeling old tonight.”

Something in his tone must have given him away, for the red-haired Admiral turned dark blue eyes full on him. “Try not to worry,” he said understandingly. “At least, not tonight. And not tomorrow; a wedding is supposed to be a happy time.”

That earned a narrow-eyed glance from Charlie Morton. He opened his mouth, closing it again when the stage was again double-occupied. This time the blonde girl was joined by a tall, lean man with dark hair. He snagged her around the waist, twirling her in a humorous jitterbug that nearly toppled her off her platform heels. The tall man laughed, released her carefully, and leaped off the stage, landing lightly only a foot from Morton’s right knee.
  He swept a half-full glass off the table, and raised both it and his voice for attention. “To my best buddy, on his last night of freedom!” 

There were replies of, “HEAR! HEAR!” and “Olé!” from around the table mixed with a few catcalls from the bar area. Chip Morton acknowledged it by raising one of the three replacement Jack Daniels the waitress deposited at his elbow. “To a good buddy!” The dark haired man bowed, and Chip drained his drink. The liquor passed his
anesthetized taste buds smoothly, seemingly bypassed his stomach to fill his brain with what felt like oatmeal. He blinked once then again and went on in a lower voice, “Seriously, Hank, great party. Thanks.”

Forty-two year old Hank Rovner, gangly and olive skinned, slapped him on the shoulder. “Least I could do for a neighbor and fellow club member, Chipper!” He tapped the logo on his own polo shirt. “’Specially since your best man couldn’t make it.” He glanced around, absently helping himself to one of Nelson’s Marlboros. “Where’d you say Lee is again?”

With studied nonchalance, Chip took a last drag on his own cigarette and stubbed it out though not without a pang of regret—it really was going to be his last smoke. Then he turned his ice blue eyes full on his neighbor. “Lee is visiting his sick mother,” he lied without a twinge of shame. “We’re not sure when she’ll be out of the hospital.”

At his side, he was aware of Charlie’s blonde brows climbing into his hairline though the older man remained silent. Hank, however, received the information with a faintly sympathetic, “Hope he can make the wedding tomorrow.” He wiggled thick brows. “Got’a mingle with that pretty waitress, Chipper. I might get her phone number.” His long face fell. “’Course, the wife’ll only make me give it back, but it’s the chase, eh?” He laughed and strolled off in the direction of the bar.

Though the room was narrowing a bit at the corners of his eyes, Morton scanned it again, still seeking a dark, curly head that wasn’t there. Blast Lee anyway, he thought savagely,
and blast ONI. I knew Lee shouldn’t have taken that last mission. I told him he’s too familiar in the People’s Republic to operate there anymore. ‘In-and-out mission.’ HA!. He started at a voice close to his right ear.

“No word at all, eh?”

Chip turned, meeting his father’s concerned gray eyes briefly before turning away. “I’m sure his mother will be fine, Dad,” this mumbled into his drink. No word for the last three weeks, he added with a grimace but only to himself.

Charlie Morton’s reply was an annoyed snort. “You forget that I know Amanda Crane,” he retorted, sounding surprisingly sober for a man who’d been drinking for two hours. “I called her the minute I heard she was ‘sick.’ She didn’t know what I was talking about.” At a temporary loss, Chip could think of no reply to this so he remained silent, eyes fixed on his glass until Charlie went on more gently, “I may not have your security clearance, but I’ve known that boy since he was 17 years old. That gives me a right to be worried, too.”

Unfortunately, both points were true. Both Charlie and Clara Morton had adopted Lee Crane as one of their own since the first time Chip had brought the lonely boy home for the holidays. And Lee had accepted their unconditional regard with a surprised pleasure that never failed to warm Chip from within. But Top Secret means just that to a career officer, and Chip was nothing if not pure Navy. After a moment’s thought, he opted for the direct approach for this perceptive man who was his father. “Can’t talk about it, Dad,” he said simply. “Let’s just say, I’m worried.”

“You think he’s in trouble, then?”

A redhead now owned the stage even as the music changed again to a slow tempo. The blonde, still in her sequined top and g-string, climbed down carefully, accompanied by her now-dressed brunette coworker. “Heard it’s your bachelor party,” she said in a girlish voice, making a seductive toss of the hips.

Thoughts still on the missing Lee Crane and on redirecting his father from classified information, it took Chip several seconds to comprehend both the girl and her intention. A lap dance? he thought with an inward wince. The strip club is one thing—and I could have trusted Lee to plan something else!—but if Patti finds out about a lap dance…! She made to straddle him, fingers reaching for her bra clasp; Chip headed her off by grabbing her wrist. “Why don’t we dance instead?” he suggested, pushing back his chair.

She shrugged, surprised at the rejection but obliging. She allowed herself to be led to a clear area a few feet away, her friend dragging a delighted-out-of-his-melancholy Sparks along. “When’s the wedding?” she asked, slowing her moves so Chip could keep up.

He glanced down. She was older than she at first appeared—in her early twenties, perhaps—and already starting to show lines around her heavily-painted eyes. Maybe Lee’s type, he thought with a shade of melancholy. He likes them blonde and willowy; she’d need a little more meat on those bones to get my second look. Aloud, “The wedding is tomorrow. Patti and I are taking a plane to Oahu Monday morning.”

A friendly smile touched her scarlet lips. “That sounds terrific. Guess that guy…” She pointed at Hank Rovner, who was now on one knee before the laughing waitress. “…is your best man? He seems real nice.”

The innocent statement brought only another wave of melancholy. He danced closer to the table, snagged his father’s drink and downed it in one gulp then grimaced. Sex on the Beach. Sweet and sticky. Remind me not to do that again. For some reason the room tilted slightly to the left and the edges were starting to fuzz a bit. Chip blinked and fixed on the mirrored wall, which seemed steadier somehow. His own cheerless expression stared back— Wonder how long before I can get out of here?—and he determinedly refocused on the rest of the large club. Most of the patrons were clustered around each of the three bars, the few tables not occupied by his bachelor party were empty. And…was the redhead upside down on the pole or was his vision fading faster than he thought?

Movement in the mirror caught his attention as two large, bearded lumberjack types stomped from the little foyer to the main bar. They laughed loudly, making so much commotion that he nearly missed the third man who stepped inside and stood against the wall. So dark was it that all Chip could make out was a slender shadow in dark clothes quietly scanning the bar. Chip’s breath caught in his throat for a long moment then he released it slowly. Wish fulfillment in a bottle, he told himself disgustedly. Not only does it make women better looking but it makes brothers appear out of thin air. Actually, that seemed appealing, so he appropriated something clear from the table and swigged it down without tasting it. Another drink and I’ll see Lee onstage instead of that redhead.
 

He turned away, staring at his blonde dancing partner who was for some reason doing the Twist, then to the table where his father was laughing heartily
tête-à-tête with Nelson. He again glanced into the mirror, something drawing his attention to where the newcomer was slowly making his way toward the stage. There was too much glare from the laser for him to see clearly, but Morton could make out in flashes fair skin and thick, dark curls uncut for some time. A bright strobe flare revealed a slender figure in black turtleneck and jeans…something familiar in the athletic stride….

Chip froze.
 

By now his rigid stance was being noticed by others at the table, who, unaware of his interest in the mirror, followed his line of sight to the far bar. The blonde drifted away and even the redhead on stage seemed aware that she’d lost her audience. Chip ignored them all, his own thoughts echoing back at him through the haze of Jack Daniels.
Another drink and I’ll see Lee… another drink and….

He saw it then—long, sooty lashes drop then open wide, revealing a bright glint of gold. He’d seen that color in only one pair of eyes in his life. Jack Daniels and nicotine cleared and Chip Morton spun, finally sure. “LEE!” he bellowed drowning out both music and conversation.

At the table, Harriman Nelson twisted, hope sweeping his craggy face, Charlie looked confused. Voices mingled together, phrases of, “It’s the Skipper!” and, “Crane is here?” breaking the ensuing pause. Morton noticed them only peripherally as he took three long strides past the table, arms wide. Lee smiled broadly and offered his hand. “Chip, I—“
 

That was a far as he got. For three years, Morton had maintained a respectful public distance between himself and the commander of Seaview; that distance and all of Chip’s inhibitions melted away in a wash of alcohol and relief. Hey—it’s my party! he reasoned, caring not one whit about protocol. He ignored the handshake to wrap powerful arms around Lee Crane just below waist and lift the astonished man off feet. “It’s about time you came home!” Chip said, turning once in place and catching a glimpse of slack-jawed expressions on Seaview’s officers and wry amusement on his friends.
 

He set the shocked man back down and caught him by both shoulders; Lee looked pale and tired but otherwise unhurt. “You’re all right?”

Crane nodded, a grin on his lips, eyes glowing in a way Morton rarely saw in the somber young Captain. “You didn’t think I’d miss your wedding, did you?” he laughed.

Chip’s heart soared because he had in fact thought that very thing. Instead of replying, though, he playfully grabbed a fistful of inch-long black curls. “You’re not walking into that church without a haircut.”
 

“I like his hair,” the little blonde dancer remarked only to be brushed aside by a juggernaut named Harriman Nelson.
 

“Welcome back, lad,” he greeted, his own relief plain in his face as he enveloped Lee’s hand in both his own.
 

The rest crowded around then, the officers with respectful hellos, the others more casually, Charlie actually giving the young man a bear hug. Hank Rovner elbowed himself closest to slap Crane enthusiastically on the back. “Glad you made it, Lee! I didn’t want to have to stand in for you again.”

Lee looked confused; Chip gave him no opportunity to puzzle it out. He grabbed the slender man by the arm and dragged him to the table. Chip knew he was grinning like a maniac—he felt giddy and not from the alcohol. Suddenly, it dawned on him that this was his bachelor party—his wedding to a wonderful woman the next day! His friends’ excited babbel mingled with the music, the quiet happiness on his brother’s face—the feel of Lee’s lean shoulder under his hand—made him laugh aloud.
 

“What are you waiting for?” he remonstrated, shoving the third Jack Daniels into Lee’s hand and helping himself to another from a nearby table. He raised both glass and voice. “Drink up, everyone! After all…
It’s my party!”

finis


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