Page 1 of Courageous Hearts

Chapter 1

Jameson

The night feels electric, the very air crackling like the call of an impending storm. A warning, almost, except the thrill overrides the danger.

I can barely hear myself think over the chatter of the bar, but I like it this way. I’m already addicted to the high energy of this place and the vibrancy of the people within. Gertie’s Cabaret is nothing if not full of character.

When I first stepped through the big gilded doors here three days ago, it was with a résumé in hand. Missa, the owner of the bar, took one look at my qualifications—including my many years of bartending experience and additional certifications in mixology—and invited me back for a trial run. I spent the following afternoon mixing drinks, and before the doors had opened, the job was mine. Yesterday, I trailed Missa, learning the ropes. And today, I’m behind the bar of Gertie’s, thrust into the thick of it all.

Patrons are crammed into the space in front of me, some sitting on stools while others stand. More still are seated along the circular booths that edge the perimeter of the establishment, each separated by midnight-blue velvet curtains. The lighting is low, which makes the atmosphere intimate, and crystal chandeliers hang over each large booth. More seating is spread throughout the center of the room, high-top tables interspersed with low, plush couches, and every piece is situated toward the same exact thing.

The stage: the smooth, wooden, beating heart of this place.

New as I am, even I can feel the reverence given to what is clearly the focal point of Gertie’s. The massive wooden stage takes up one entire wall, the front curved outwards and capped in the same gilded design as the front doors. Mirrors reflect the light to both sides of the raised platform, making the space feel larger than life, and more of those dark blue velvet curtains hang in back, tempting the viewer with what’s to come.

The theme carries on into the bar itself. Glittering crystal chandeliers hang over my head, the golden bar top gleams, and behind the arched, recessed shelving that displays an impressive variety of liquors are more mirrors, scattering the lights in every direction like little sparkling diamonds.

The whole aesthetic could easily come across as gaudy, but somehow, it just works. It feels like some sort of old-school magic. Like the era of flappers or pin-ups, where everyone was classy in a sultry kind of way.

And the dress code? I hopped on board in a snap.

I can’t say I ever had a reason to wear suspenders before, but when Missa told me to play the part, I went out and bought three pairs. I feel like Fred Astaire with my pressed black slacks, crisp white button-down, wingtip shoes, and maroon suspender straps that run over my shoulders from the front of my waistband to the back, crossing behind me. Other employees are dressed similarly, although everyone seems to have their own take on cabaret chic. One server is wearing a sparkly silver fringe dress that’s cut down to her navel.

It seems as if I’ve stumbled through the wardrobe into a world of high-class make believe. And I’m enjoying the heck out of it.

“Jameson, can you mix me two French 75s?” Missa calls over the noise, leaning against the partition door at the side of the bar. She waits while my mind whirs, but it only takes me a moment to recall how to mix the drink.

“You got it,” I tell her, sliding away to grab two fluted glasses. I pour the champagne, gin, lemon juice, and simple syrup, and when I present my boss with the cocktails, each finished with a perfect lemon twist, Missa smiles.

“Nice work, kid,” she says before sweeping the glasses away and disappearing into the crowd.

I raise a brow—Missa can’t be much more than ten years my senior—but file away the praise nonetheless and get back to work. Tickets fly out of the printer, and I grab three, lining them up on the slightly damp bar top as the buzz of conversation floats around me. I’m adding olives to a martini, thinking about how much my mom would love this place, when another presence settles beside me. I glance over, and Dee gives me a smile.

“Doing all right, newbie?” she asks.

I huff a laugh and nod. “So far, so good. Is it always this packed?”

Not that I’m complaining. I like the bustle.

Dee’s smile widens. “It’s Friday, sweetcheeks,” she says playfully, grabbing a bottle of Maker’s Mark from the shelf. “And Friday means showtime.”

I glance toward the stage again, curious about that very thing. I’d never stepped foot inside a cabaret bar before applying for a job at Gertie’s. Earlier in the week, I spotted some of the performers rehearsing, but I wasn’t able to pay close attention, seeing as Missa kept me occupied with learning the lay of the land. Tonight, I’ll get to see what all the buzz is about.

“Shows run on the weekends?” I double check.

Dee nods. She has chin-length pink hair, done in finger waves and adorned with a sparkly silver headband. Unlike most of the women who work here, Dee isn’t wearing a dress. She’s outfitted similarly to me, in slacks and a neatly pressed button-down. “Friday, Saturday, Sunday, yep. The rest of the time, we’re just a normal bar. Except Monday,” she tacks on. “We’re closed on Mondays.”

I nod, moving some drinks to the side for the servers to pick up.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Dee says, grabbing her drinks and twisting away. She sets them in front of a few customers before returning to my side. “Doubt you’ll need it, though. You seem to be settling in just fine.”

I shoot her a little grin. “It’s not my first rodeo,” I point out. I’ve been bartending for years, after all. “You’ve worked here a long time?”

It seems obvious, with the way Dee navigates the space.

She shrugs slightly, lining up a few lowball glasses in front of her. “Suppose so. Three years now?”

“You like it here?”

---