Page 3 of Courageous Hearts

“Oh yeah,” she says, the two words drawn out. “He’s got the tall, dark, and handsome thing going, you know?” She looks over at me thoughtfully and chuckles. “Of course you do.”

Cheeks hot, I busy myself with putting my supplies back in my makeup bag instead of answering, but Bridget bumps my shoulder lightly with her own to get my attention. When I glance her way, her expression is one of fondness.

“I forget how bashful you are off the stage,” she says gently, a soft smile on her face.

“Tell me more about tall, dark, and handsome,” I prod, hoping to get her back on topic. Or, rather, off the topic of me.

It works. Bridget sighs dreamily, open about her affections in a way I’ll never understand. “He’s got that perfect sort of tousled, wavy dark hair thing going. And just the right amount of stubble, not a full beard. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from so far away, but damn, did he have a wicked smile.”

“Sounds nice,” I mutter noncommittally.

“Missa said he’s a mixologist,” she adds, pulling her light blonde hair up into a pony and securing it with an elastic band.

“Yeah? What’s that mean?” I ask.

“Means he took courses on mixing drinks,” Ishani, another performer, cuts in as she walks into the room. She sits down next to me, swinging her dark hair over her shoulder as she grabs her makeup bag. “My cousin did that.”

“I’d let him mix my drink,” Bridget retorts.

I groan, popping out of my seat. “That was terrible, Bridge.”

She laughs at my retreating form, and Bridget and Ishani continue gossiping about the new guy as I slide behind a partition to change. I swap my shorts and tights out for a pair of comfy lavender joggers and throw on a soft white tee.

“I’m headin’ out,” I say when I step around the wall.

Bridget nods my way in the mirror, and Ishani holds out her hand in a casual wave. I stuff my things into my backpack and hike it over my shoulder before slipping out of the dressing room. A couple other performers pass by as I leave, but my “see ya” is lost to the noise of the bar. The hall is packed, but no one pays me any mind—dressed down as I am—and I weave my way into the main part of the business, past those waiting for the bathrooms.

I catch Dee’s eye as I get close to the bar, and she ticks up her chin in acknowledgement.

Dee was the first person I met when I moved here to Chicago from Texas four years ago. I found her roommate listing online, and with two bags in my hands, I stepped off the train into the Windy City, walked the four blocks to her apartment in Wicker Park, and I never left.

We live there still in that quirky, shoebox apartment, a single train line and a short walk away from Gertie’s. The trip takes twenty-five minutes on a good day, which is downright speedy for a Chicago commute.

I started working at Gertie’s Cabaret two years ago, having acquired a job at the bar as soon as I turned twenty-one. Dee was my in, but Missa had no qualms about hiring me once she heard me sing. She’s been trying to hire additional men or enbies to perform for our weekend shows but has had no luck with it thus far. Most of the applicants are women.

Missa, despite being barely old enough to be my mother, has taken it upon herself to fill a maternal role for me and all the other lost souls who enter her domain. I think it’s simply her default, looking out for her employees, and I can’t say that I mind. I never knew my own mom, and the closest thing I have to one is my Aunt Sara, but I didn’t get to spend much time with her until I was seventeen. I miss Sara every single day I’m not in Texas, but we talk on the phone often, and that’s about as willing as I am to return to my Southern roots.

I don’t visit if I can help it. The last time I stepped foot in Plum Valley, Texas was for Christmas almost two years ago. I’d missed Sara. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered.

Seeing as Dee and I work together at Gertie’s, it’d be nice if we could share a commute, but most of the time, our schedules don’t line up. With Dee working the closing shift behind the bar and me either performing or serving the earlier crowd, I’m often off work a few hours before her.

Regardless, I head her way to see if she wants me to wait. She meets me at one end of the bar, a Shirley Temple in hand that she slides my way.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a big sip.

“No problem, babycakes. Heading out?”

“Yeah, unless you want me to stick around?” I check.

She shakes her head, her sparkly headband catching and reflecting the lights. “Nah, head on home. I’ll see you there.” Without giving me time to protest, Dee leans across the bar and smacks a kiss to my cheek. Then she’s off, leaving me to wipe away the evidence.

“I prefer wearin’ my own lipstick, not yours,” I mumble halfheartedly after her, my voice lost to the crowd.

At least, I assume it is, until I feel the unmistakable weight of someone’s stare on my person. Looking over, my gaze collides with the man’s standing a short ways off behind the bar. This must be the new bartender Bridget mentioned.

At the moment, his face is set in a neutral expression, no supposedly wicked smile in sight. There’s that stubble, though, and the brown hair, styled neatly away from his face. His jawline is square, and his brow is strong. And despite the lighting over the bar making it hard to tell for sure, I’m fairly certain his eyes are a very dark brown, the kind that look nearly black.

I open my mouth to—I don’t know—maybe say “hi?” But then the guy smiles, big and crooked in a way that completely transforms his face, and I lose my voice. Dang…there’s a dimple.

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