“Better take it easy with that stuff.” She knew that voice-and it wasn’t the marine’s.
Vivian turned to find Luanne’s brother. In an Army uniform, Gene Sullivan stood with his arms folded, his buzzed black hair free of a hat. Running into him here seemed an odd coincidence, particularly since he disliked these places even more than Vivian did.
But then she realized: “Luanne sent you.” The sentence came out hoarse, no smoother than a croak.
“She thought you might need help getting home.”
“Yes, well-” She cleared her throat. “I appreciate the concern. But I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Whatever suits you.”
The remark clashed with his manner. For he continued to stand there, eying the flask in her grip. This was his standard bearing-more of a subtle brooding than razor coolness. The only difference between now and in high school was his thickened jaw and broadened build, reinforcing his role as a protective brother. If permitted, he would likely even stay Stateside to keep watch over Luanne.
But Vivian was not his sister. Nor was she a damsel to be rescued.
“I’ll be fine on my own, thank you.”
He nodded toward the band. “I’m just here to enjoy the music.”
She squared her body with his, irked by the challenge. After years of appeasing others at stiff formal functions, she deserved a single night without judgment. An evening without greetings, curtsies, or bows. No ankles crossed, head leveled, pinkies up, eyes down.
In a defiant toast Vivian raised the flask-presumably whiskey, undoubtedly cheap-and threw more gulps down her throat. These went down easier, only a series of low flames. She withheld her grimace, acutely aware of Gene’s scrutiny, and returned the drink to its owner.
“I believe I’m up for that dance now,” she said, hooking the marine’s arm.
Clearly unsure when he had asked, the man hesitated for a second before escorting her off. They found space among couples in the midst of the Lindy. In an effort to mimic, the marine twirled her in circles, not catching the beat, and flung her in haphazard patterns. Several times she had to apologize for stepping on other people’s toes. At one point, she suspected a different song had begun, though she couldn’t be sure of a thing. Faces were blurring and the room was spinning. Her stomach roiled with liquor.
“I need ... to stop,” she told her partner. But he continued to toss her about, oblivious to all but the tempo in his head. She struggled to break free, his grip holding tight. “Please,” she said louder. “I don’t feel well.”
Trumpets assaulted her ears and smoke polluted her lungs. Then, on a dime, the movement stopped. Gene had his hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke to him in a hush. The marine nodded and ventured away. Had Gene slid him a bribe, made an officer’s threat?
Vivian’s pride resented the intrusion. Unfortunately, with the sway of the room she found the need to clutch him for balance.
“Still wanna stick around?”
She shook her head, a bit too quick, and the whole place tilted at an angle.
“C’mon, twinkle toes.”
Her gaze, like her hands, didn’t budge from his forearm as she followed him through the mass. She stumbled once along the way, but Gene prevented her fall.
“The floor,” she said, “it was moving.”
“It does that sometimes.” She heard a smirk in his voice. Finally, they were outside. The night air was crisp and clear. Like drinking water in the Sahara, she couldn’t take in enough.
“So,” he said after a bit. “You well enough to walk?”
Salvaging her composure, she nodded without looking his way. She plodded beside him on her own, determined not to stagger. Headlights from passing cars stung the backs of her eyes. They were five blocks from the club-though who was she to keep count?-when a huge swish rolled through her belly. She stopped, hoping to still the motion. But it rolled again, with an added tide of nausea.
“I think I ... need ... to sit.” Just then, thank God in heaven, she spotted stairs to her right. She lowered onto the concrete steps, an apartment building above. The music still ricocheted in the caverns of her mind. Every note felt like a pebble adding weight she could not uphold. Her brain became a boulder. She needed to lay it down.
Her head was almost to the step when a hand netted her cheek.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Not on that.” Gene flung something aside that clattered when it landed. A tin can? A metal lid?
“Okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”
She relaxed her neck and landed on a ... soft . . . surface. Not concrete. More like fabric. Trousers. Gene’s leg.