Chapter 8 Annalise
Chapter eight
Annalise
By the time the week ends, I’m not sure I even know my own name anymore.
Between the tactical drills that left me sore and aching, two more rounds of simulations in Environmental Tactics, each slightly different from the last but still ending in my premature death, beginning to learn the intricacies of healing, which I am apparently abhorrent at, and instructors who seemed incapable of smiling, except for Captain Korr, who I saw grace a few students with a half-smile.
My arms ache, my legs are permanently sore, and I am developing a suspiciously dependent relationship with coffee at all hours to avoid the nightmares that won’t let me escape home.
As classes on Saturday come to an end, we’re all running on fumes. Top the already long week with the reminder that our specialty track classes start in two days, and it doesn’t take much for Sasha to convince me to go out tonight. Matt, of course, needed absolutely no convincing.
With how reserved Sasha was when we met mere days ago, it’s hard to believe that the almost feral woman I’m getting ready to go to a bar with is the same person.
“First week down, and we’re not dead!” Sasha cheers, throwing back a shot of vodka and pressing another into my hand.
She’s currently trying on her third outfit from the stack of clothes she brought to my room, which now looks like a fashion tornado has ripped through—her discarded pieces scattered everywhere.
The first outfit was a sleek black crop top, high-waisted jean shorts, and flats. She quickly declared it “not enough.” The second was a flowy blue dress that made her freckles pop, but, apparently, “felt too garden fairy who made a wrong turn and accidentally ended up at a bar.”
Now she’s standing in front of the mirror in a fitted white T-shirt, leather jacket slung over her shoulder, and dark, ripped jeans tucked into ankle boots. “Not too crazy, but still gives, ‘I like to have fun, and I’m a bad bitch.”
“A super-hot, bad bitch.”
“Oh my gosh, Lee! You’re not even dressed yet!”
Technically, I’m not even done with my makeup yet, but I choose not to mention that, too.
“The taxi is almost here, and we need food, more alcohol, and dancing STAT!” she cheers as she starts piecing together outfits from my closet and holding them up for me to pick between.
A few minutes later, I’m changing into my favorite white tank top with thin straps and a scoop neck, black jean skirt that hugs my ass like a second skin, and pumps that make my short legs look like they belong to a model.
Smiling, I run into my bathroom to grab my gold anklet—an eighteenth birthday present from Matt that he definitely spent too much on—and a cute pair of hoops to finish the look.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t allowed to wear jewelry around my dad.
It was that the anklet would’ve been gone the moment he realized what it was worth.
Round diamonds circle the delicate gold chain, each one flanked by two smaller stones…
too easy to pawn, too valuable to risk. Whenever I wore shorts or a skirt that exposed my ankle, I’d learned to take it off.
But in cooler weather back then, and ever since coming here, it’s a permanent fixture, only leaving my body when I’m in the shower.
Sasha lets out a low whistle when I step back out. “Hot damn! You look great.”
Slipping into our jackets and checking our reflections one last time, my phone chimes.
It’s a photo from James in our group chat: him and Antonio raising their drinks to the camera, smug-ass smiles firmly in place. A not-so-subtle reminder that they’d just won our bet about whether we’d be late.
The bar is buzzing with contagious energy when we walk in. Music and laughter spill from every corner of the room, the smell of spiced liquor, old wood, and sweat floats around the large space like a promise of the fun ahead—or maybe a warning after all these walls have seen.
With low lights and small glass lanterns at each table as the only light source, the scene is set for locals and military alike to get into a little bit of trouble. And, if the number of good-looking men in this bar is anything to go by, there will be plenty of trouble in here tonight.
A few polished banker-types are throwing back shots at one end of the bar while a group of Bravo recruits are posted up at the other end, half-drunk, on the prowl, and so loud you can hear them over the live band.
The rest of the patrons haven’t caught up to the party vibe they’ve set quite yet, but a quick look around already tells me who is here for a fun night out and who is on the hunt for someone to spend a fun night with.
It takes a few minutes of wandering around the bar before we finally spot James and Antonio sitting at a high-top table near the back.
Despite being only halfway through a beer, Antonio looks way too relaxed for someone who spent his afternoon dodging blades in his Vanguard track class.
It’s one of the tracks I’m leaning toward, but unlike him, I’m far from confident in my blade skills.
Matt takes the seat beside him, leaning back with that easy, crooked grin as he signals for the waitress. “First round of drinks is on my tab,” he tells her as she jots down our orders.
“Thanks, Mattey, but you didn’t have to do that,” I tell him when I think no one is listening. He knows I have a hard time letting people pay for things for me.
“I know, but I wanted to,” he says, kicking my foot under the table in the annoying way he loves to do.
Then, loud enough for our friends to join the conversation, he continues, “I’m feeling mildly invincible after running that obstacle course in combat class today.
Lee, I know you said it put ours back home to shame, but that shit was awesome! ”
Sasha shifts in the stool next to me, “What are you talking about? That was the actual definition of torture. I have no idea why I even have to prove I can climb a rope or crawl through mud. It’s not like it’s a secret that I’ll be living in a lab creating weapons and poisons after graduation.”
“Soooo…are we safe to assume it didn’t go well for you then, Sasha?” James asks lightly.
“No, I did fine, but…”
At that, Matt practically spits out his drink. “Fine? You ran straight into a tree during the obstacle course!”
“Wait, what? There aren’t even trees between the obstacles,” I laugh.
“Okay, it is NOT uncommon for people to get disoriented after climbing a spinning rope, only to have to switch to a swinging motion right after. It’s understandable that I would get dizzy and wander off course a little bit.”
This time, not even Sasha is buying her rationalization.
Laughing, we all clink glasses and cheers to our last night of freedom before tracks kick our asses.
Before long, the table’s covered in too much food and a lineup of questionable drinks, each one chosen as a “punishment” for whoever loses the next round of our drinking games, where the rules barely matter, and the shit-talk flows faster than the booze.
“C’mon, Sash,” I yell over the music as I pull her toward the packed dance floor, “we didn’t get dressed up to sit at a table all night with guys we spend every day with!”
After twisting through the writhing bodies everywhere, we finally find a spot on the far side of the dance floor big enough for us to move more than two steps without bumping into someone. Our bodies move along with the beat as the band starts playing their cover of “Hot in Herre” by Nelly.
“Can I join you?” a smooth male voice asks a few songs later, and I immediately recognize him as one of the guys from the banker group I saw when we first walked in.
I nod, letting his large hands find my hips and pull me into him.
He keeps rhythm and even has me laughing as he spins me, which feels so promising…
until he starts to thrust so hard I'm not sure if I should be tipping him or scheduling to get it professionally adjusted tomorrow.
Sliding his hands off me, I reach out to Sasha to spin me into her. We instantly pick up where we left off, soaking in the energy the band is strumming into the crowd as the humper behind me moves on to another girl.
Soon after, a guy silently slides in behind Sasha, trying to match her pace. She humors him for a few seconds, but when he still can’t sync up with her movements, she’s back to me, drunk whisper shouting, “If he can’t keep up now, he has absolutely no chance in bed.”
I’m stunned into silence before we both keel over, laughing.
Every so often, someone tries to join us. Sometimes they stick around for a song or two; other times, a polite shoulder-check or icy glare from one of us sends them packing.
“This,” Sasha shouts, breathless, and tossing her hair back as we take a break between songs, “is the best decision we’ve made since getting here!”
I raised my glass to her, “To great decisions and temporary freedom!”