Chapter 7
LOGAN
A fter such a grueling week, anyone would have forgiven Logan for sleeping in and doing nothing.
But that wasn't his style. Habit and his body's internal clock meant he rolled out of bed at eight in the morning.
After shaving, he pulled on a PT uniform and headed to the mess hall, where he devoured a mountain of pancakes, eggs, and about half a pound of sausage and bacon, washing it all down with several glasses of milk.
With his stomach full, Logan tried to occupy the rest of the day. He pushed himself at the gym, knowing he needed to build more strength to keep up with the demands of his training.
He wondered how Sergeant Adams managed to maintain such a physique alongside the grueling training schedule. It was impressive, maybe even intimidating. He reminded himself of her words from Friday night, her challenge to push himself beyond his limits. He was determined to rise to it.
He wouldn't compromise who he was. He wouldn't let Franklin's disapproval dictate his taste in music, his clothes, his life outside the uniform.
Saturday was for him. Sunday he'd do some planning, but Saturday was his day to exhale.
He caught up on his emails, watched some Netflix, and spent some time reading.
He tackled the chore of cleaning his shared barracks room until the air stung with the scent of bleach. Even Carter would be impressed.
Now he was just plain bored. Boredom drove him to the duty desk. "This place is a ghost town, Sergeant," he complained.
Staff Sergeant Carson chuckled, calling him "Hollywood." "Yeah, weekends are slow. Everyone gets off base."
"So what can I do?" Logan asked. "I don't really want to get delivery tonight."
"Most troops stuck on post for the weekend play video games. Not your thing?"
"Not really. I've thrown down on Madden and Fortnite, but it's not something I can do all night."
"Well, just about the only thing open for the evening is the bowling alley," Carson said. "Two blocks from the PX."
"Thanks."
"Oh, and one other thing," Carson said, holding out his hand, palm up.
"Not gonna risk drunk driving, so keys. You just got out of training, which means you don't have your drinking legs back yet.
And I'm not scraping you up off the pavement.
You wanna go yark in the bushes on the way back, that's on you.
The staff there will keep you from being falling down drunk.
But you're not catching a DUI on my watch. "
Logan thought about protesting but figured it wasn't worth arguing about. "Keyless right now, but I'll drop them off on my way out."
Logan retreated to his room and changed into black jeans, boots, and a gray elbow-length death metal t-shirt he'd had since his freshman year in college. He wasn't looking to make an impression, just wanted to be comfortable.
Down at the staff desk, Sergeant Collins raised an eyebrow. "Death metal? I thought you had a degree in math, aren't you types supposed to be into Mozart or some shit?"
Logan smirked. "Did you know that the lead guitarist for Queen, Brian May, has his PhD in astrophysics? The man's a legit rocket scientist."
"Is that so?" Collins asked, humming. "Well then, I guess I've been properly corrected. But that's not exactly popular barracks music."
"Which is why I listen to it on my earbuds," Logan said, holding up his phone. "I get to hog all the awesomeness for myself. See you later, Sergeant."
The Spicely Community Entertainment Complex was smaller than he expected, a converted warehouse painted a bland brown.
As he opened the door, he paused to read the plaque on the inside, explaining that Private Booker T.
Spicely was a native of Blackstone, Virginia.
On the night of July 8th, 1944, Private Spicely was on pass in Durham, North Carolina when he was told to move to the back of the bus he was riding on.
He argued with the bus driver, and after Spicely got off, the bus driver followed, shooting Spicely twice and killing him.
"A sad memorial," Logan murmured as he looked at the engraved image of Booker T. Spicely. He'd never heard of the man before, yet his death was as heart-wrenching as any of the others that sparked the Civil Rights Movement. "But I'm glad there's something. Maybe your tragedy won't be forgotten."
The bowling alley was buzzing with activity, a mix of soldiers and locals. The air conditioning was a welcome blast of cool air. Lanes and a pool hall shared the space, along with a small cafe area and bar.
He approached the counter. "What's good here?" he asked the guy behind the register.
"The double cheeseburger's the best we've got," the man said. "And we've got Tay on the grill tonight. Trust me, man knows how to treat his meat."
Logan blinked and resisted the urge to make a juvenile joke. "Does it come with fries?"
"Fries are separate, but an order's pretty big. If you're not hungry, go with the onion rings."
"Definitely make it an order of fries then," Logan said. "And is your beer bottled or draft?"
"Your choice," the counterman said. "I'd go with a pitcher of draft if I were you, tonight's karaoke night."
"Karaoke night?" Logan asked, intrigued.
"About once or twice a month," the counterman replied. "Gives the Guard boys stuck on post something to do. You want to sing, the signup sheet's right there at the end of the counter."
Singing wasn't exactly what he wanted to do, but he could see shooting a few games of pool. While it was a bit cliche, the interplay of forces, angles, and applied mathematics was fun for him. He wasn't a hustler, but he more than held his own around the sports bars in Miami.
"Add a small pitcher, whatever's your least commercial stuff."
The counterman laughed. "Sorry man, but around here you've got Bud, Bud Light, and soda."
"Make it Bud then," Logan said. "Do I grab a table or what?"
"Yeah, we'll bring it out," the counterman assured him.
Just as the beer came to his table, the first karaoke act of the night kicked off, a girl in jeans and a tight white blouse who decided that she absolutely needed to pay homage to Carrie Underwood, caterwauling her way painfully through "Cowboy Casanova" in tones that had Logan wondering if perhaps drinking faster might help his poor eardrums tolerate the insult.
The girl was pretty, Logan admitted silently. Just... not a singer.
The second act continued the country trend. A pair still in their ACUs decided that even if they couldn't drink because of being in uniform, they could at least commemorate the fact that it was "Five O'Clock Somewhere."
Just as they finished, the food came out.
"Is it always like this?" Logan asked the counterman who delivered his food.
"You mean the country music?" the counterman asked, and Logan nodded. "Yeah. Ever since the base commander put out a rule that said no music with the n-word allowed, the hip-hop and rap acts have pretty much dried up. And unfortunately, we get a lot of bro country."
Logan sighed and nodded. "Thanks."
"Oh hey... I also forgot about Sabby," the counterman said, pointing. "She's not country, that's for damn sure."
Logan looked, and immediately felt like the sound faded away.
A girl was picking up the mic and climbing onto the tiny little stage, looking like every goth princess he'd ever dreamed of.
She wasn't tiny, but still slightly petite, with skin the color of fresh cream and hair that looked like it was straight from an anime, half shocking purple and half moonlight silver, sloping slightly from front to back with an undercut on one side.
She was wearing a black corset top that emphasized her figure, pushing her breasts up from delightful handfuls to mouth-watering apple-sized treats, a black denim skirt that hugged her curvy hips, and shredded stockings that drew his attention to the calf-high studded black goth boots that were tied with purple ribbons.
She was a goth rock goddess, and under the table Logan could feel a stirring he hadn't felt since his college days.
He'd been too busy during basic training, and hadn't seen anyone that really caught his attention like this girl since leaving basic.
But for her, the world just sort of disappeared into a lightly fuzzy background, and he knew that he had to meet this girl who smiled like a sweet, sweet succubus before she raised the microphone to her blood-red lips.
"Hey everyone," she said, and Logan could hear in her voice that she wasn't a Virginia native. He couldn't place the accent, but it certainly wasn't Southern in any way. "Thought I'd change it up tonight, this isn't in my normal rotation, but I hope you enjoy it still."
The girl reached over and hit the spacebar on the computer that was controlling the karaoke system, and lifted her microphone. "Mommy don't know Daddy's getting hot, at the body shop, doing something unholy!"
Logan was for half a second disappointed, about to dismiss her as just another pop music wannabe when he stopped as what came over the speakers was the wailing peal of an electric guitar.
"I know that," Logan said, grinning as he was drawn in. Machine-gun-like drums followed, and Logan nodded along, already entranced.
"That's... music."
* * *