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 Copyright © 2021 by Liza James

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical
means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission
from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Editing and Proofreading: Amy Briggs

Cover Design: Cassie Chapman with Opulent Swag and Design
 CONTENTS

Trigger Warning

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue

Acknowledgements
Also by Liza James
About the Author
 K

My life. My rules.

That’s how it’s always been for me. Well, since I did something that
ripped apart the threads of my humanity.

After that, I let go of everything that left me exposed.

Relying on myself alone was the best option.

I can’t allow anything near me anymore, not even the one girl who
somehow intoxicates my blood and proves she means more.

Calypso

Sacrifices were made when I was young. Vital pieces of my

vulnerability were stolen from me.

It would have been far too easy if I hadn’t seen her again.
So, of course, the one girl I hate most is the constant reminder of
my most painful past.

She thinks I’m still the weak one between us.

It’ll be my sweet revenge proving her otherwise.

Trigger Warning: This book confronts several issues that could be
potential triggers. Genuinely, there are SEVERAL so I’m placing a
general blanket trigger warning over this. Sexual scenes are also
written in explicit detail. Please be aware before stepping into this
world.

Recommended ages 18+

To connection. To the flame. To the draw you can’t seem to ignore
even if your life depends on it.

To the girl who forced me to face my shit and feel it.

“I prefer it when you aren’t speaking,” I mutter, pressing Skilla
back until she’s flat against the brick wall behind the club.
“But—” she replies, placing her hands on my shoulders as she
weakly attempts to push me away. She can deny it all she wants,
but I know how she truly feels. I know what she wants.
I slide my hand down the front of her neon orange, tight
spandex shorts. Knew it.
“Seriously, shut the fuck up.” I drag my knuckle along her clit,
feeling everything her body is asking for even if her words are
saying something different. It's hot as fuck outside; an early summer
heat wave has overtaken the city and the club is busier than ever.
Skilla's strappy white bra is all but falling off her shoulders as my lips
drop to her neck, taking each moment to remind myself of why I
enjoy this so much—fucking her.
It's painful, in the ways I need to be reminded of. Because she
isn't the one I'm thinking about while my hands drift across her
stomach and reach behind to grip her ass. It isn't her taste I think of
when my lips consume hers, or when my face is nestled tightly
between her thighs.
 It isn't her energy flooding my mind and lighting me on fire.
But it's good enough. And she's the distraction I need when I
can't seem to get someone else out of my fucking thoughts.
"I don’t want to be this for you," she whispers. Even though her
hands run across my flesh as if I'm the only thing she could ever
need.
"Jesus, what?" I bite out, leaning back for a moment while my
mind attempts separating the memory from my reality.
"I don’t want to be this for you," Skilla repeats herself, but her
eyes hold a sense of disappointment that doesn't rip me apart like
the last one did. It doesn't hurt like the last time I heard those
words.
It was never supposed to be like this.
She was never supposed to love me.
"That's unfortunate for you. Is this how you felt last night? Was it
after your fourth orgasm? Or seventh?" I lift my hand and
sarcastically pat her cheek. My lips press into a tight line when I
drop my hand back to her shorts and run them along her incredibly
wet pussy.
"You're a fucking bitch, K. You know that?" She shoves me back
while a smile spreads wide across my lips. I love this part, the fight.

I step forward again and she pushes me away . B ut I halt my stride

and refuse to move. Instead, I rush closer to her, until her hands are
slapping against my shoulders while she tries to separate us.
My hands grip her wrists entirely too quickly and I slam them
back above her head. Her skin scrapes against the gritty texture of
the brick wall and I feel her chest rise when she sucks in a breath at
the pain. "You know I don't like this." Her voice is pained, but I don't
care. I don't know why I'm like this... but how she feels, what she
wants—I couldn't care less.
I stand up against her chest, pressing her back while my head
rests just above hers. I tilt my chin down so I can meet her
frightened gaze. Hell, I can practically feel her small frame trembling
beneath mine.
"Liar," I whisper while I lift the hand that was just playing with
her pussy and bring it to her lips. I brush my thumb along her skin,
slipping it inside of her mouth until she opens and tastes herself on
my skin.
She moans around my touch and her body visibly relaxes against
mine. This is what I enjoy. The chase, the fight, the submission.
But I almost feel satiated now, and I haven't even gotten off. The
thrill of the catch has already come and gone and now I'm reeling in
my mind over all of the things reminding me this isn't the girl I
actually want to fuck.
So, once again, I tell myself of all the things Skilla unfortunately
is not.
She's a distraction. Another hit to my already desperate
addiction. She's the gap between what I hate and what is absolutely
necessary.
I keep my eyes locked on Skilla while I dig through the pocket of
my distressed black denim, pulling out another cigarette and lighter
while I light up in front of her.
"Why is it always like this with you?" she asks, crossing her arms
around her chest while her eyes drop to my lips and lift back to meet
my gaze. Even like this, even angry, she watches me smoke,
consumed by the drag my lips take from the cigarette, fantasizing
about the ways they work against her skin.
 I'm her drug. And I'll be the inevitable fall to her stability. I'll
destroy the picturesque vision she has in her mind, where one day
I'll be the one to realize my feelings for her.
It'll never happen though. I don't have feelings for anyone.
Anyone.
"Like what?" I reply, my voice vacant and dry. We've had this
conversation far too many times now.
"Why can't you feel—"
I pull in a deep breath, letting the smoke fill my lungs until my
head feels light and the burn stings inside of my chest for an
extended moment. Then I release, dropping the half-smoked cig to
the ground and crush it under the heel of my black doc Martens.
"Why can't you feel anything for me?" I interrupt her painfully
obvious question with a higher pitch to my voice and sarcastic lilt in
the words. "God, that's fucking pathetic. You know that, right?"
I step forward so there's only an inch of space between us, and
she shrinks back against the wall while goosebumps break out over
her shoulders. It's hot, but she isn't shivering from the cold. Her
eyes are brimming with tears, threatening to spill down her cheeks
while her eyes remain on my own.
She'll cry. She always does. Because for some reason, she's the
girl we don't mind fucking around with. Ruby did it for a while before
Aura became hers. I've done it for years now, off and on and
amongst countless others. The difference, is while Skilla will never
have my genuine affection, she'll continue to have this.
These highs and lows. Orgasms and then regrets. She's strung
along while I take what I need before hiding away on my own
again.
Because I know the darkest truth everyone refuses to
acknowledge.
 You can't trust anyone. Not one fucking person. Not your family
or casual friends. Not your blood, or your colleagues. Not the people
you surround yourself with, not even your best fucking friend.
I don't care how you feel when you're around them. I don't give
a shit how often they tell you they love you. It means nothing, really.
And I've chosen a life on my own for that very reason.
I don't give my emotions, my connection to anyone because
they’re just that—mine.
And they always will be.
I 'm not high enough for this.
The music pounds through my head, moving in slower beats
than I realize is true. Everything just feels dimmer. Less significant.
Bland. Boring. Plain.
The pole is cold against my back, but I hardly notice it. My eyes
collide with Trevor's, he's one of the new dancers from the male side
of the club—a newer addition we've recently expanded with. He
moves closer to me, his rippled abs tensing with every step he takes.
He's handsome, incredibly so, and my heart picks up speed as he
approaches. Sometimes, they'll put both of us on stage together,
male and female strippers. Usually it's me, honestly, because I
request more of these dances.
I don't feel so alone when someone else is on stage with me. I
don't have to be the center of every move, every dollar, every throw
of attention. Sometimes, I can simply stand here with a fake smile
plastered to my lips while the guys dance around me.
Sometimes I can escape in my mind to other places and forget
this is what I'm doing. This place, the club, is where I'm surviving.
 I don't mind this career field, I have no qualms with it. Except I
don't love it. I'm not passionate about dancing, I don't enjoy the
glances I get from the customers, or the idiotic shouts over the
music, the entitlement, the uncomfortable desires.
I know this stage holds power, I know most of the girls here find
a draw of independence by being the one in control. I felt that once
too... it was why I started at Pandora's Box in the first place. But
now? Everything seems to fall short. The atmosphere is stale and
predictable.
God, everyone is so fucking predictable.
My head feels heavy, but not heavy enough. Trevor's hands fall to
my waist while he pulls me against him and we begin dancing
against the pole together. Oh, let me guess, before his hand even
begins shifting upwards, I'm tilting my head back because once
again...he's predictable.
His fingers wrap around the base of my throat and his face drops
closer to my own while we move against each other. I struggle not
to roll my eyes when his lips barely brush across mine, as if he's
teasing me. I laugh, and he thinks I'm enjoying this but I actually
find amusement in the fact he's so easily fooled.
As soon as I step off this stage I'm going to smoke another joint.
I don't want to be present for the rest of the night. I just want to go
home and sleep off this shift in the confines of my own big, warm,
comfortable bed.
I vaguely hear the side door to the club slam shut. It's barely
audible over the music and buzz of the customers, but it's a noise I
know all the same. A familiar click that I can pick out over
everything else. My eyes snap to the side while Trevor stays focused
on me. He shifts his own stance so he's twisted me around and my
back is flush against his chest.
 His hand remains around my throat because power play and I
remind myself he holds no authority over me. I'll let him believe so,
this time, but if he ever thinks this is how it would go in the
bedroom? He's fucking mistaken.
My desire for control lies in much darker places than this
illuminated, fluorescent stage.
Shit. My heart beats, a little harder than it usually does, when my
eyes lock on the girl with long, blonde hair. Hers isn't like my own, it
isn't wild and messy, scattered with little flowers I managed to
forage in a field outside the city.
Hers is darker by a few shades. It whips around her shoulders
while she moves, and she wears it as though she doesn't give a fuck
who’s looking. Just like everything else about her—cold, detached,
reckless.
I fucking hate her.
I can't help but notice the way her hand rests on the back of
Skilla's neck while they stalk through the club. Skilla is laughing at
something, and K is leaning into her ear while she whispers words I
couldn't care less about.
However, I wonder what their relationship is like. I know they
spend time together. I know they hook up. But I don't think they're
dating because every once in a while, K shakes it up with another
girl here. Or a guy. It doesn't really matter. She's never cared about
that shit, and that was always the problem.
She never actually cared. I’m painfully reminded of it.
My mind flashes back to the night at Liquid Kitty, months ago.
When I was fucked up and high and trying to fit in with everyone
else around me. K knew exactly what she was doing when she asked
me those questions, and I played it off as if I hadn’t been ripped
apart by her before.
 As if she didn’t know exactly what it feels like when I—
Trevor rolls his hips forward and I can already feel his stiff cock
pressing against my ass. Jesus, on stage? Seriously?
I quickly turn to face him and drag my finger-tips up his arms,
swaying my hips with the beat of the music while I look up and meet
his bright green eyes. "Get it together," I bite out, subtly dropping
my hand and tapping the front of his tight spandex just a bit harder
than I should.
"It's hard when you're rubbing your ass against it the entire time,
Sunflower."
Sunflower. My eyes narrow at him for a split second, it's been a
long time since I've heard that nickname. But I refuse to
acknowledge the coincidence because it's a common term for
someone like me.
Bright. Blonde. Flowers and glitter and makeup. I tend to
resemble sunflowers without even realizing it, even if it can be the
opposite of the storm inside of me.
"Don't call me that," I reply quietly, as I turn back around and
I’m met with the hard gaze of K while she watches us.
Fuck, there it goes again. The betrayal of my heart while it slams
against my chest. Anger and resentment roll through me while
memories of our past whip through my mind. Our childhood, our
families, growing up right down the street from each other while our
lives fell apart.
We found each other in the midst of ruin. Her family had lost
their mom to suicide, and my family had lost the one person I could
identify with. I had lost the other half of my heart, while K had lost
the only person who ever defended her against her father and
brother.
She had lost her shelter, her home, and I had lost my sister.
 But our mutual bond through pain wasn't enough to protect us
from the darkness. It never would have been, and I was young and
naive to hope otherwise.
Now, we're strangers existing in the same atmosphere. Our
mutual pain has transformed into shared hatred for each other. So,
when my heart instinctively responds to her eyes on me, my mind is
immediately present, reminding me exactly why I hate her. Why I
enjoy drawing any sort of reaction from her cold, vacant, being.
My hands drift up and around the back of Trevor's neck, urging
him to the side while my head twists and tilts up toward his. I arch
my back, suddenly allowing the feel of the music to pulse through
my blood while I dance against him.
He responds immediately, his fingers gripping my waist while he
drags my ass against his hips again. I glance back to the audience,
noticing how immediately entranced they are with our sudden
connection. The flare of thrill and temptation work through the eyes
of every customer, more bills are thrown at our feet and I drop my
hands to the band of my thin, gold panties until my thumbs slip into
the sides at my hips.
My eyes fall to K again, who stands in her ripped up jeans and
torn black graphic tee against the far wall of the club. Skilla is at her
side, her gaze on K while she talks about something she's clearly
upset over. But K doesn't even glance her way, doesn't offer her any
kind of attention because she's far too busy watching me on stage
with Trevor.
I tug the hem of my panties a little lower, swaying my hips while
I drop a few inches and arch against his chest as he stands behind
me. I look back to him and realize he's watching me; his eyes are
dropped over my shoulder and his hand begins trailing across the
strap to my matching gold top.
 I know what he wants to do—untie it while we're like this—while
we're dancing and while everyone's eyes are already trained on me.
It's a good time for it. I know it is. And even though I squirm at
the idea of showing everyone my tits, I know this is it for me. This
job. This life. This gig.
And at least I'll piss K off in the process and make a few more
bucks to pay my rent.
So, fuck it.
I let my head fall forward, offering the back of my neck where
the tie rests against my skin, a clear answer to what he's asking. He
doesn't waste time, and while I straighten my shoulders and roll my
head to the side, the top drops free of my chest while I stand up
again.
We keep moving, keep dancing, and his hands trail up my ribs
while I drop my own hands over my head. I grind against him before
stepping away, the click of my shiny white stilettos tapping in sync to
the music.
Dropping my hand to the pole, I step around it before pulling
myself up and swinging. Trevor steps toward me, and halts my
motion as we both dance against each other with the pole as a
barrier. People begin whistling and shouting filthy words and phrases
I choose to ignore. But they're entertained, and even more money is
thrown at our feet. I glance back to the wall I know K is watching
from, but feel my heart sink in frustration when I realize she's no
longer there.
Fucking bitch.
Thankfully, the music finally ends and I quickly reach for the ties
to my bra while I adjust it back into place. Trevor and I step off the
stage, and one of the newer girls walks out to collect the earnings
for us while the lights dim over the stage.
 I hurry forward, pulling my sweat slicked hair on top of my head
while I step toward the back room. Trevor is on my ass, and I'm not
in the mood to deal with him yet. I want to smoke again, take an
Adderall, and then maybe I'll be ready to do whatever it is he wants
to jump into.
"Caly," he shouts behind me, and I feel the heavy sigh in my
chest when I realize I'm going to have to slow down and talk to
him.
"What's up?" I ask, attempting to keep my voice light and bright
despite the ache for a fix working through me.
"Some of us are grabbing drinks after this," he pauses, glancing
down between us. I don't follow his gaze, because I don't want to
see whatever it is he's looking at. But I notice how he's holding
himself—tense, casual, shoulders back. Trying to impress. "You want
to come with me? I'll give you a ride home afterwards?"
Fuck. A ride home. I wouldn't mind that, especially because I
usually ride the bus and at this time of night? It can be a bit
uncomfortable. No matter how baggy my sweatshirts or pants are.
There's always someone who feels he's entitled to something of me
because of where I work.
I absently suck in my bottom lip and Trevor's eyes fall to the
action. A slight smile pulls across my face when I release it, and his
gaze slowly lifts to meet mine again. Well, a ride is a ride and maybe
I'll drink a bit and let loose before crashing tonight. "All right, let me
change and I'll meet you out front."
His face lights up, clear excitement and approval dancing across
his features. He's scored somehow, and for a reason I can't discern,
my chest feels heavy and I feel nothing but disappointment.
In life. In living. In whatever this is I'm surrounded with. Why
can't I just be happy?
 I turn around just as he does the same, hurrying back to the
dressing room so I can at least smoke and take another pill before I
head to the bar. I round the corner, realizing the light is off in our
communal space. It usually isn't, so I stumble over a chair in the
darkness while I quickly search for the light.
But it's the sounds that immediately catch me off guard. A
muffled moan and heavy breaths from three figures I can barely
make out.
"For fuck sake you guys, in here?" I mutter, annoyance lining my
tone for the sheer fact that I fell over the chair. I don't actually care
what goes on back here, but the frustration from earlier is simply
being placed in this moment.
I finally find the light and flip it on, and that's when my heart
actually pounds out of my chest. Three girls are in front of me, all of
them missing some article of clothing somewhere.
Skilla.
A new girl.
K.
"Yeah, in here," K's firm voice speaks first, and at the same time,
her hand dips between the legs of new girl. Her head falls back and
moan slips from her lips while K's eyes stay focused on me. "You
want to join? Or are you still the same prude I remember all those
years ago?"
She continues working herself in and out of the other girl, and
Skilla simply watches the exchange between us with a tensely
bouncing gaze and parted lips.
"You confuse my lack of attraction to you, as being a prude. But I
can promise that isn't the case. I could suck cock all night and take
it every which way and be happy," I reply, reaching for my bag while
I keep my eyes on her. "I just don't want it from you."
 K scoffs, and I watch as her tongue rolls across her bottom lip.
She doesn't say a word, and instead turns back to Skilla who leans in
for a kiss while K continues playing with the other girl. They all go
back to their business, and I sigh in frustration while I throw my bag
over my shoulder and turn around.
I'm just about to step out of the room—leaving the lights on—
when K's raspy voice breaks out behind me. "Keep playing your
games, Lyp."
My steps slam to a halt at the name. She's the only one who calls
me Lyp, and it's been years since she's said it until recently. Now,
she uses it whenever she can. Not as a term of any bit of
endearment, no. She uses it because it scrapes against my mind in
painful memories of our past. It's a reminder of when things were
different between us.
A time when I thought she cared.
A time when I was sorely mistaken.
M y mind is still reeling with thoughts of K. Visions of her and
those two girls keep flashing in annoying depictions of what
she's doing. I don't care who she fucks, who she spends her time
with, I only want to be left alone.
Or maybe I want to see her in pain. The dark thought springs
forward in my mind.
I can never decide which option takes precedence.
But another shot is placed in front of me on the bar and I glance
to my right to find Trevor watching me with a smile on his face. He's
thrown on an old black and white baseball tee and it hugs across his
chest and shoulders in a way that highlights his muscular frame.
He's fucking hot. It's true. But his entitled attitude ruins it for
me.
I might be able to fuck him though. If I get drunk and high
enough to forget how he knows he's hot.
"Oh no, not another one," I drone out, my tone mockingly upset
while Trevor laughs at my side. I throw the shot back and the liquid
burns as it slides down my throat. Tequila. My least favorite drink of
choice, but it'll get the job done if I have to suck dick in order to get
home.
"So, are you—" he pauses to take a casual sip of his beer before
continuing. As if it's my joy in life to sit here and watch him drink.
"—seeing anyone, Caly?"
I laugh, loudly. I can't help it. What a fucking joke. "I don't see
people," I reply, turning back to my empty shot glass and absently
twisting it against the counter.
"What does that mean?" he asks, and for a split second, I'm not
sure how to explain it to him. Relationships don't interest me.
Materialistic things don't occupy my time. My head is constantly
elsewhere, buried in books or art, in music or nature.
I'm far too lost to tie myself to something so steady.
"I fuck, I play, I do drugs, and then I dance. I don't date."
Simple. Easy. Straightforward. No strings attached for him, and
honestly, he probably prefers it that way.
His eyes narrow for a moment, as if he's contemplating what I've
said. He drops his gaze to my lips and that's when I know I've
already sold him. He doesn't care about dating me, he cares about
fucking me.
I lean forward and lift a hand to his shoulder, trailing my finger
down the bicep of his arm and further down until I'm grazing across
his fingertips. "Why, do you have a girlfriend?" I tease, a tiny smirk
lifting one side of my lips. I tilt my head to the side while he watches
me, his eyes dancing with dark desires and salacious intent.
He scoffs, "Would you care?".
I pause for a moment, feigning consideration. But I already know
my answer. "No, I don't give a fuck who you go home to."
I settle onto his gaze while I speak, straightening my shoulders
and sliding the tip of my tongue along my lower lip. He watches far
too intently and just before I'm about to remind him of that ride
home, a shift in the corner of the bar catches my attention.
It's pretty packed in here, several girls and guys from the club
are drinking and playing pool. But that's only a small portion of the
people here, the space is filled with strangers, and while I usually
don't mind that, the large obscure figure in the corner draws my
attention.
I shift to the side so I can look around Trevor a bit more clearly,
but in the same instant, the figure is gone and I'm staring into the
empty space it once occupied. I narrow my eyes a bit but shake the
uncomfortable thought free of my mind; the mix of alcohol and
drugs must be clouding my judgement.
My head is swaying a bit more now, the extra shots finally taking
hold of my blood and slowing my movements. I wouldn't care too
much except for the fact my eyes catch the sight of the only person
I never want to see, stalking through the bar.
K. Again. For fuck sake, why can't she leave me alone tonight?
T his is embarrassing for her, honestly. How incredibly wasted she
is around that meat head dancer she's clearly going to fuck
tonight.
I take another sip of my drink—Malibu and soda water with lime
—and set the glass on the table in front of me. I'm supposed to be
meeting Ruby here tonight so we can catch up. She's been distant
over the last few weeks; her and Aura both have been and I'm
determined to figure out what the fuck is going on.
I glance at my phone just as it chimes with a new text from
Ruby. Be there in five.
I take another sip and intentionally try to avoid watching Lyp. I
actually hate her, but her energy always draws me in too deeply.
There's this connection, that at one point meant everything, but is
now the sore reminder nothing good ever fucking lasts. Nothing.
My phone rings, and the screen illuminates with a name that
makes my heart sink and my head spin. Alex. I drop my finger to tap
the ignore button, but something stops me mid action. The weight
of what it would mean to him, maybe. The potential consequences
of how he would come after me.
 I tap answer instead and cautiously lift the phone to my ear.
"Little sister," his voice draws out the words as if he's happy to
say them. I bet he is...eager even.
"What do you need, Alex. Money?" My eyes scan the room again
and can't help but fall on Lyp. Trevor has shifted behind her, and
runs his hands over her waist while leaning over her shoulder to
speak. God, she's such a fucking flirt. Always asking for it.
My brother laughs in the line against my ear, a sound that's bitter
and cold and suddenly turns into an assumedly painful, raspy cough.

"Drugs?" I realize why he's calling. Something to take the edge

off of whatever health condition he has eating away at his insides.
"Just a little," he replies, working the firm stance into his tone so
he seems the one in control.
"I don't sell shit, Alex. You know this." Lyp laughs, a sound that's
in complete opposition to my brother’s and somehow distracts me
momentarily from this awful conversation. Her smile spreads wide
across her face and Trevor is clearly enraptured.
I can't blame him.
I was there too, once.
The difference, however, is that Trevor will remain the
manipulated fool while I watch things unfold knowing her filthy little
secret.
She feels nothing for him. He's probably offered her something of
value, something she doesn't mind trading a fuck for. It's written all
over her face and I laugh at the fact that Trevor is so blind to her
obvious tells.
"You have to know where I can find some, come on. Dad needs
it too, and you don't want to disappoint your daddy and big brother,
right?" Alex’s sick voice penetrates my concentration and I drop my
eyes to the glass in front of me. I need a fucking shot.
"No, I don't know where you can get them. Take a walk outside
of your fucking apartment, I'm sure you'll run into someone on the
corner willing to sell to you." I bite the words out and pull my phone
away in order to hang up, but his harsh words are still loud enough
for me to hear.
"Fucking bitch. Find some, or I'll find you. Don't forget, little
sister, you're the one who will end up paying for it."
End. Godfuckingdamnit.
I slam my phone down on the table a little too loudly, just as
Ruby rushes up to jump in the seat across from mine. "What the
fuck was that about?" She asks, and my eyes dart up to meet hers
as she speaks.
But something is off. Shit, something is incredibly off. Her short
hair is a wild mess around her face. Dark circles lay under her eyes
and it's clear she simply threw on a pair of jean shorts and a baggy
shirt before running out the door. Her skin seems a little whiter, a
little paler in contrast to her usually vibrant self, and suddenly the
worry of my brother is quickly replaced with the worry for my closest
friend.
"What the fuck is going on with you?" I retort, ignoring her initial
question. My brother, my problem. "You look like shit."
A sarcastic smile pulls at her lips and she lifts her hands to run
them over her hair. "Seriously? Do I look that bad?"
"Yes, dude. You really do." I turn my head and wave toward a
waitress to order Ruby a drink. She looks like she needs to breathe,
to fucking relax. She needs to let go of whatever it is resting on her
shoulders. "Does it have to do with Aura?"
 Ruby's eyes jump up to mine, a sudden wave of ferocity blazing
within them. Her shoulders tense and her hands land on the edge of
the table. I can't tell if she's angry, or defensive. But I've learned to
expect a chaotic mix of emotions when it comes to her claim on that
girl.
"No, Aura and I are perfect," she whispers defensively and I lift
my hands in mock surrender between us. "It—I can't talk about it.
Not yet."
"Wait—" I start, the rush of realization instantly slamming into
me like a ton of bricks. "Fuck. Is it Dom? Is it The Nation?" We
haven't heard a word from Dom since he disappeared after Ruby
and Aura's encounter with the Nation. Nothing more has been
recovered from what was left of the cult, and anyone who was
found, was already arrested. Dom was the single most important
member to escape because he held the foundation for everything.
He could rebuild if he wanted to, he could have connections and
access to people a part of the Nation outside of their small
compound.
"Fuck no," she starts, keeping her voice quiet but heavy with
frustration. "I almost wish it did." The tail end of her sentence is
barely audible, but I catch it nonetheless and my eyes narrow in
confusion.
"What in the Hell could be worse than the Nation?" I question,
just as the waitress arrives with Ruby's drink—Coke and rum.
She laughs, but the sound is empty and her eyes fall to the small
beverage in front of her. "Hell," she repeats, a strange, crooked
smile still pulling at her features. "What an odd concept Hell is."
Just as I'm about to ask what she's talking about, the mic at the
front of the bar sounds out with a couple of loud taps. I turn my
head and find someone standing in the center of the small stage, a
middle aged man with a receding hairline and obvious beer belly. "Hi
guys, thanks for stopping by my bar." Owner, figures. "I wasn't going
to open the stage up for karaoke tonight, but you guys can thank
Magic Mike back there." I scoff as the older gentleman points to
Trevor, who has his arms wrapped around a clearly embarrassed Lyp
while she covers her face with her hands. She's laughing, and her
skin has flushed bright red all the way up her neck and over her
jaw.
Seriously, a Channing Tatum Stripper reference? Classy.
"We heard there's a little gypsy in here who loves playing the
guitar?" The man continues speaking, and the room continues
feeling more and more oddly strained. Ruby looks back over her
shoulder, smiling at Lyp while waving her toward the stage and in
that same instant, it all finally clicks.
Lyp? Playing the guitar?
"She doesn't play anymore," I bite out, waving my hand in front
of Ruby's face in order to stop her. But Ruby's confused and
narrowed gaze only sets me on edge. As if I wouldn't know whether
Lyp is playing again or not?
"Yes she does, dude," Ruby replies, turning back toward the
stage and clapping her hands in encouragement.
Lyp's swaying form catches my attention again, and I watch as
she slowly makes her way to the front of the stage. She's drunk,
every paced step and intentional breath is calculated to make it
seem like she has her shit together.
She fucking doesn't. She's high on whatever she's been taking or
smoking and she's mixed it with alcohol at the same time. Anger
swells inside of my chest, spiraling out through my limbs in bitter
resentment.
 My mind flashes with past moments, brief exchanges of pained
lyrics and out of tune songs from our childhood.
Fuck her. And fuck her shitty music.
She thinks I'm not paying attention, that I couldn't care less what
she's doing and who she's doing it with. And to a certain extent—it’s
true.
But I can't simply ignore what she's doing. I can't unsee every
angry expression, every disgusted glance, every troubled twist and
dance on her shifts at the club.
I'm not ignorant to her pain. I simply don't care enough to fix it.
In fact, I enjoy it. Her discomfort, her lack of validation and false
confidence. In every hateful glimpse she surrenders to me, I take
exactly what I want from it. Her pain.
Instantly, Trevor runs up behind Lyp with a guitar in his hand. I
don't know where the fuck he found it, but he did and now he's
passing it over to the owner of the bar just before he lifts her on to
the stage. She stumbles back, and a few people in the crowd both
laugh or gasp before she catches herself.
She bows with a sweet giggle from her lips as if she's owning the
falter. But I can see the droplets of sweat building on her skin as she
takes the guitar from the man. I’m already noticing the slight tremor
in her hands while she fumbles to pull the guitar in front of her
frame.
I can sense her fear in being the center of attention. Which is
ironic, really. Because she's a fucking stripper. She literally takes her
clothes off for the entertainment of others. She holds a power so
many others fail to grasp on to. She's confident when she dances,
when she's naked and teasing the audience over and over and over
again.
 But this? This is different, and I can feel the tension building
whether I want to or not. She's like a black hole. This ever present
abyss I'm being pulled into. I feel her when she's around, whether
she realizes it or not. I sense it the second she steps into a room, or
her voice rings out above everyone else's.
I feel her. Everywhere. In my head. In my blood. In my past and
future.
I can't get away from her.
"This is fucking embarrassing," I say, loudly enough for Lyp to
hear me. The bitter bite to my words rings through her ears. I know,
because the second I say it, Lyp's eyes fly to my own and widen just
a bit. I watch the wash of red work a few inches higher on her
cheeks and for a split second, I think I see the glare of tears
brimming in her eyes.
But she glances down just as quickly, and instantly it's as if she's
found every ounce of confidence she was searching for. Because
suddenly, her shoulders press back and her spine stands a bit taller.
Her shaky hands steady and she closes her eyes while her fingers
feel along the strings up the neck of her guitar.
There she is.
The words bounce through my mind far quicker than I can fight
them and I visibly shake my head before taking a sip of my drink to
distract myself from them.
She strums the guitar, and the very second the sound vibrates
through the air, I feel the energy change around me.
Everything shifts. It's magnified, amplified in waves of tension
and enticement.
I force my eyes to stay locked on my hands in front of me,
deliberately tracing the edges of my tattoos with my gaze. Each one
stretching across my fingers, or climbing over my forearm until it
continues up my bicep.
She strums again, a new chord. A new sound. A new and entirely
addictive vibration rings through me. It plays along my blood in
melodic beats and my foot taps against the floor intentionally off of
her music because I can't help but try and fucking fight this.
"I had this friend when I was young," she speaks quietly, her
tone a gentle wave complimenting her ghostly music. It's
enchanting, and it scrapes against my skin in uncomfortable stabs
that I wish I could escape. "We were close. Incredibly close." A
giggle, one that falls short and twists into something painful. I can't
fucking help it; I turn my head toward her and realize she's staring
directly at me.
I'm surprised truthfully. She's always been the complacent one,
the girl who doesn't want conflict or arguments. She goes with the
flow and adjusts to everyone else's needs before prioritizing herself.
"She took something from me," she continues, in an almost
vacant voice, and an icy wave of goosebumps breaks out across my
skin. The air turns cold, and my fidgeting hands immediately still at
what I think she's alluding to. "It's funny because I would have given
it to her. But she couldn't wait."
She falls silent but continues playing. The melody turns a bit
darker and haunted, but I'm stuck now. I'm completely enraptured
in the sound of the strings and the way her fingers move along the
frets. I'm already drawn to her energy, but this is even more than
that. It's her wild hair and outrageous outfits, it's the glitter on her
skin, or the iridescent cast to her clothing. It's the way she opposes
me in every single aspect, and yet has the fucking balls to stare me
in the face while she accuses me of this.
 "She's a fucking cunt." Her words slice through the air and
incinerate my blood, her gaze remains locked on my own and I'm
shocked at her fucking audacity. Is she fucking kidding right
now? She leads into a song she's clearly written, instrumental, but
just as powerful as if it had words.
So, I do what I always do. I react in the same ways I know infect
her mind just as she does to me.
I slam down the rest of my drink just as the waitress comes back
to our table. She's short, bright red hair cut to her shoulders and not
at all my usual type. But she doesn't need to be, she just needs to
stand there and look pretty while I make my point.
Her eyes fall to mine and just as she opens her mouth to ask
about my empty glass, I lean forward and wrap my hand around her
throat. I quickly drag her toward me and claim her mouth with my
own before she has a chance to object. But she doesn't even try to,
her lips move against mine a second later, her frame melting against
my own when I slide my other hand to the back of her neck while
we kiss.
That's when I hear it; when I know Lyp clearly sees what's
happening. It's the missed string when she plays, the barely
noticeable falter in her rhythm. I open my eyes when I pull back and
am not surprised when they collide directly with Lyp's. She's
watching, and instead of that simmering red that had tainted her
skin, she's now ghostly white and her brows have pinched together
in what looks to be frustration. Her mouth has flattened into a tight
line and I can only bet that all those fucking shots she's been taking
are working their way up her throat right now.
I fucking hope so.
I release the waitress with a small shove away from me and wipe
the back of my hand across my mouth. "Yeah, I'll take another
drink."
She stands there for a moment, clearly surprised and confused
by what happened. I can't blame her, but that doesn't stop the
minor swell of annoyance rising in my chest at the fact that she's still
standing here staring at me. "Go," I bite out, and turn my head back
to Ruby as the waitress hurries away. Lyp is still playing the guitar,
but something is falling flat now.
The fall out of our mutual anger. The disintegration of the build-
up. It's tainted with bitter regret and angry retaliation.
How the fuck could she accuse me of that? I know exactly what
she's referring to. The last day we spent together after hurrying
home from school together. We went to the same fucking place,
every day because we couldn't hide out at my house and we
definitely couldn't run away to hers. Our families were opposites,
hers the wealthy, upstanding citizens in our city while mine were
struggling to make their mortgage payments. We were behind on
everything, and after my mom died, my father–Bruce–and my
brother dove deeper into illegal activities in order to keep us under
one roof.
I wish it hadn't worked. I wish I had been taken from that
fucking home when I was younger.
But it felt right. I swear to fuck it did. She wanted it just as badly
as I did.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ruby's harsh voice breaks
out and pulls my attention. My eyes swing up to hers and I find her
leaning closer to me across the table. "Seriously? What is your
problem with Caly?"
"I don't have a problem with her. She's fucking irrelevant. She's
nothing," I reply, taking another sip of my new drink as soon as it's
placed in front of me. I don't spare the waitress a second glance and
pity her instead for standing there a beat too long as if I'll pay
attention to her.
"She's nothing," Ruby repeats, but her voice is lined with
disbelief. "Yeah, fucking right, she's nothing. I've never seen you this
heated over one of the club girls."
I narrow my eyes and cross my arms in front of me on the table.
"I don't give a fuck about her, or any of the girls at Pandora's. You
know me, I don't care about anyone."
"How long have you fed yourself that bullshit, K?" she asks, and
my eyes fall away from her sharp gaze while everyone breaks out in
applause around us. Lyp jumps down from the stage and passes the
guitar to the owner of the bar. She smiles sweetly and turns back to
the crowd, stepping through everyone while she makes her way
back toward Trevor.
I can't help it; my eyes stay glued to her swiftly moving frame.
To the way her light hair bounces across her shoulders and her hips
sway with each step. She moves past Trevor though and points to
the restrooms at the back of the bar before continuing away from
everyone.
Before I even realize what I'm doing, I stand. I kick my chair
back and take a step away from the table as I respond to Ruby's
question. "Long enough to fucking believe it."
G od, I want to throw up. I feel sick. I feel disgusting. All those
familiar feelings came rushing back while I played and
watched K kiss someone else.
Why was that any different than what I've seen before? Hell,
earlier tonight she was literally fucking two other girls when I walked
in on them. So why this? Why is a fucking kiss hurting me like it is?
It has to be the alcohol, the drugs, the rush of playing the guitar
again. That part felt good, so fucking good. That was what I
needed, a reminder of what lights me on fire when nothing else can
reach inside of me. It's the beat of the music, the feel of the strings
as they vibrate with each strum. It's the way my fingers move across
the fret, the neck of the guitar resting peacefully in my hold.
That's what I want to keep doing. I want to be on the stage for a
different fucking reason.
But stripping is as close as I can get. The rush of the audience is
different than what I felt tonight... but it's something. And in this
moment, something is all I have.
Nausea rolls through my stomach as I rest my hands against the
dingy counter in the bathroom. Dim lighting flickers above and casts
shadows on the dark walls around me. Random images and pages
from countless magazines are plastered across the walls as
decoration.
I grind my teeth together, squeezing my eyes tightly shut while I
try to force down the next wave of nausea before it hits. I'm too
fucking drunk, and too fucking high. And too fucked in the head to
keep my shit together. I twist the handle and let cold water spill in
front of me. Diving my hands under the faucet, I lift them and splash
my face with the icy shock.
"Come on, come on," I mumble to myself. "Get it together, Lyp."
I mentally slap myself for even using that nick name and then groan
out in frustration at how she's gotten this far under my fucking skin.
Suddenly, the door swings open and the atmosphere chills. I
don't even bother turning around, instead I glance up and find K's
reflection staring back at me in the mirror. I can't help it, a smile
spreads across my lips while a resentful laugh slips from my mouth.
We fall silent for a moment, our gazes locked on each other while
my heartbeat begins pounding in my chest.
The nausea swells, and I mentally force it down because there's
no way I'm puking in front of K like this. I'm already the vulnerable
one in her eyes, the weak one. Funny, she doesn't fucking know me
anymore.
"What the fuck do you want?" I ask, breaking the tension with
the most obvious question. She says nothing though and simply
stares at me a beat longer. My eyes fall to her outfit, typical K. So
much fucking darkness. She was always like that, complimenting her
ominous thoughts, her sinister soul in the color suited best.
Black. Black jeans. Black boots. Black, ripped up graphic tees.
And then her hair. Long wisps of blonde. A filthy shade, honestly;
one I was always jealous of when we were young.
 My eyes travel up across her slender figure and over her chest to
her slim neck, her face—her fucking lips.
I'm not into girls. Not anymore.
But those goddamn lips. My eyes settle there, not because I want
them to, but because I can't fucking help it. Time escapes me and
everything slows. Her tongue slips out of her mouth and slides along
her full, lower lip. Fuck me.
Flashes of our past flood my head. Words and moments that
spiral through my memory like whips and lashes.
Energy. Connection. Collision. Destruction.
How can something this wrong, this fucking toxic, feel like it
does? Even now, even between all this anger and hatred—I feel it.
This draw of unity. The aching desire to touch her. I look at her
and want to claim her pain as my own, and in the same breath,
want to feel her body against mine.
She steps forward and I straighten my spine. My eyes meet hers
again, but I'm so drunk and high that it takes every ounce to force
my balance. She keeps moving toward me, until her chest is pressed
against my back and she's hovering over my shoulder. She's a few
inches taller than me, and her energy has always been heavy
against my own. So, in an instant, I'm already feeling suffocated.
"Come to take it again, K? The same thing you took years ago?" I
whisper, my eyes locked on hers through the reflection of the mirror.
My heart races and my skin aches with both discomfort and that
vile draw I have toward her. I want distance between us, I can't
have her this fucking close.
I don't trust her.
Her hand slides up and over my shoulder, slowly, meticulously.
The second her skin touches mine, I feel it. It's electric, and the
power behind it knows no years of isolation like my mind does. I
suck in a breath and force my eyes to stay on hers, but she shifts
her gaze as it falls to the tip of her finger. She trails it over my collar
bone, her nail lightly scratching my skin as she presses a little
harder.
"I always take what I want," she whispers, her voice a low and
raspy sound as her lips brush against the back of my ear. She grazes
her touch up the front of my throat and her other hand weaves into
my hair before I can stop her. Quickly, she yanks my head to the
side so my neck is extended in front of her. "Because it's always
belonged to me."
"K—" I start, as I lift my hand to push her away from me. But
she's quicker, and in that movement, her own hand has dropped to
my wrist as she pins it against my leg.
Her lips fall to the side of my neck, at the lower curve that meets
my shoulder and I want nothing but to kill her for even touching me
like this again. "Fuck you," I bite out, but my body doesn't respond
in the ways I want it to. "I fucking hate you." I use my words
because my shoulder falls lower and my head tilts even farther. This
isn't supposed to be happening, and I'm never the one out of control
like this, at least not anymore.
I should have never gotten this drunk, or this high. I'm not
strong enough to fight this away at the moment.
Suddenly, her tongue slides out and against my heated skin. Her
hand slips out of my hair and to the front of my throat while she
holds me in place. Her fingers tighten around my jaw, and my eyes
watch our bodies move in the mirror in front of us. Her tattooed
fingers against my creamy skin. Her darker blonde mixing with my
lighter shade.
Our energies, our anger, our hatred all melding together in one
mixed masterpiece of regret.
 She slowly slides her tongue up and over my neck, savoring
every inch of my skin while I suck in a breath. I bite my lower lip to
stop the smallest moan from slipping free. No fucking way. Not like
this, she doesn't get to have this again.
But she steps back and releases her hold on me before I get to
tell her to fuck off, and the tiniest stab of disappointment lingers in
my blood. So, I stay silent, while she stalks backwards and keeps
her eyes on me.
She lifts her thumb and slowly brushes it along her rosy, lower
lip. "You still taste the same." She pauses, turning and stepping
toward the door as she pulls it open. At the last second, she glances
back over her shoulder and takes one last stab before she leaves.
"Like unnecessary problems and a waste of time."
"W hat the hell happened, Caly?" Trevor's deep, rough voice
reverberates through the space of my bedroom but I'm hardly
paying attention to what he's saying. I don't fucking care. I just want
to feel something. I want a release.
I want to get off.
"Shut the fuck up and lay back, Trev." My hands fall to his
shoulders as I push him down on my bed. My head is heavy,
swimming with toxic thoughts and self-hatred. I should have never
let her fucking touch me. I should have known she would try and get
that close.
But god, everything is on fire. My blood, my mind, my soul. It's
burning inside of me like an uncontrollable blaze of addictive desire.
My hands reach for his jeans, immediately releasing the button
and unzipping before quickly pulling them down his legs. His eyes
are wide, surprise and uncertainty lingering on his face. But there's
desire present as well, and I already know he's hard in his tight
briefs. I can see him, his long and thick cock already eager to fill
me.
 I'm fucking ready too, and as he opens his mouth to probably
ask what happened for the millionth time, I move to straddle his lap
and hope to distract him. I sit back, while he leans up on his elbows
and watches me.
This part is easy, the temptation. The entertainment. The show.
This is what I'm good at. And he did give me that ride home, I'm
just taking a bit farther than the blow job I anticipated.
I drop my hands to the hem of my T-shirt and slowly lift it up and
over my head. It falls to the floor beside us, and I sit on top of him
in my white scrappy bra from earlier. My hands graze along the
waistband of my sweats, teasing them a little lower while I rock my
hips across his stiff cock.
"Are you sure you want—" he starts. Again. And I try to hide the
irritation blatant in my face when I cover his mouth with my hand.
"Stop talking and fuck me, Trevor."
Thankfully, that's the last bit of direction he needs and suddenly
his hands are on my hips and he's moving my body against his own.
We fuck each other through our clothes, and I fall forward when he
leans back so I'm hovering over the top of him.
His hands slide up the front of my chest, his thumbs brushing
along my nipples while he groans beneath me. That sound, I don't
know what it is, but I don't love it and it throws me off my need to
feel him inside of me for a moment.
So, I close my eyes and shake my head while I grind down on
top of him again. I roll my hips forward, but my pants are becoming
too much of a problem and I'm growing more and more frustrated. I
sit up again and quickly shift to pull them off my legs, but he leans
forward and helps as well and in a split second I'm straddling him
without anything in between us.
Another random document with
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inside the tent in cold or stormy weather, but at other times took his
post in rear of the tent, where he had improvised a chair for the
comfort (?) of his victims. This chair was a product of home
manufacture. Its framework was four stakes driven into the ground,
two long ones for the back legs, and two shorter ones for the front.
On this foundation a super-structure was raised which made a
passable barber’s chair. But not all the professors who presided at
these chairs were finished tonsors, and the back of a soldier’s head
whose hair had been “shingled” by one of them was likely to show
each course of the shingles with painful distinctness. The razors, too,
were of the most barbarous sort, like the “trust razor” of the old song
with which the Irishman got his “Love o’ God Shave.”
One other occupation of a few men in every camp, which I must
not overlook, was that of studying the tactics. Some were doing it,
perhaps, under the instructions of superior officers; some because of
an ambition to deserve promotion. Some were looking to passing a
competitive examination with a view of obtaining a furlough; and so
these men, from various motives, were “booking” themselves. But
the great mass of the rank and file had too much to do with the
practice of war to take much interest in working out its theory, and
freely gave themselves up, when off duty, to every available variety
of physical or mental recreation, doing their uttermost to pass away
the time rapidly; and even those troops having nearly three years to
serve would exclaim, with a cheerfulness more feigned than real, as
each day dragged to its close, “It’s only two years and a but.”
 CHAPTER VI.
JONAHS AND BEATS.

“Good people, I’ll sing you a ditty,

So bear with me all ye who can;
I make an appeal to your pity,
For I’m a most unlucky man.
’Twas under an unlucky planet
That I a poor mortal was born;
My existence since first I began it
Has been very sad and forlorn.
Then do not make sport of my troubles,
But pity me all ye who can,
For I’m an uncomfortable, horrible, terrible, inconsolable, unlucky
man.”

Old Song.
 In a former chapter I made the statement that Sibley tents
furnished quarters capacious enough for twelve men. That statement
is to be taken with some qualifications. If those men were all lying
down asleep, there did not seem much of a crowd. But if one man of
the twelve happened to be on guard at night, and, furthermore, was
on what we used to know as the Third Relief guard, which in my
company was posted at 12, midnight, and came off post at 2 a.m.,
when all were soundly sleeping, and, moreover, if this man chanced
to quarter in that part of the tent opposite the entrance, and if, in
seeking his blanket and board in the darkness, it was his luck to step
on the stockinged foot of a recumbent form having a large voice, a
large temper, but a small though forcible selection of English defiled,
straightway that selection was hurled at the head of the offending
even though well-meaning guard. And if, under the excitement of his
mishap, the luckless guard makes a spring thinking to clear all other
intervening slumberers and score a home run, but alights instead
amidships of the comrade who sleeps next him, expelling from him a
groan that by all known comparisons should have been his last, the
poor guard has only involved himself the more inextricably in trouble;
for as soon as his latest victim recovers consciousness sufficiently to
know that it was not a twelve-pound cannon ball that has doubled
him up, and that stretcher bearers are not needed to take him to the
rear, he strikes up in the same strain and pitch and force as that of
the first victim, and together they make the midnight air vocal with
choice invective against their representative of the Third Relief. By
this time the rest of the tent’s crew have been waked up, cross
enough, too, at being thus rudely disturbed, and they all come in
heavily on the chorus. As the wordy assault continues the inmates of
adjoining tents who have also been aroused take a hand in it, and
“Shut up!”—“Sergeant of the Guard!”—“Go lie down!”—“Shoot him
on the spot!”—“Put him in the guard-house!” are a few of the many
impromptu orders issued within and without the tent in question.
At last the tempest in a teapot expends itself and by the time that
the sergeant of the guard has arrived to seek out the cause of the
tumult and enforce the instructions of the officer of the day by putting
the offenders against the rules and discipline of camp under arrest,
for talking and disturbance after Taps, all are quiet, for no one would
make a complaint against the culprits. Their temporary excitement
has cooled, and the discreet sergeant is even in doubt as to which
tent contains the offenders.
 THE JONAH SPILLING PEA-SOUP.

Now, accidents will happen to the most careful and the best of
men, but the soldier whom I have been describing could be found in
every squad in camp—that is, a man of his kind. Such men were
called “Jonahs” on account of their ill luck. Perhaps this particular
Jonah after getting his tin plate level full of hot pea-soup was sure,
on entering the tent, to spill a part of it down somebody’s back. The
higher he could hold it the better it seemed to please him as he
made his way to his accustomed place in the tent, and in bringing it
down into a latitude where he proposed to eat it he usually managed
to dispose of much of the remainder, either on his own or somebody
else’s blankets. When pea-soup failed him for a diversion, he was a
dead shot on kicking over his neighbor’s pot of coffee, which the
owner had put down for a moment while he adjusted his lap-table to
receive his supper. The profuseness of the Jonah’s apologies—and
they always were profuse, and undoubtedly sincere—was utterly
inadequate as a balm for the wounds he made. Anybody else in the
tent might have kicked the coffee to the remotest bounds of camp
with malice aforethought, and it would not have produced a tithe of
the aggravation which it did to have this constitutional blunderer do it
by accident. It may be that he wished to borrow your ink. Of course
you could not refuse him. It may have been made by you with some
ink powders sent from home—perhaps the last you had and which
you should want yourself that very day. It mattered not. He took it
with complacency and fair promises, put it on a box by his side and
tipped the box over five minutes afterward by the watch.

THE CAMP-FIRE BEFORE THE JONAH APPEARS.

THE CAMP-FIRE AFTER THE JONAH APPEARS.

Cooking was the forte of this Jonah. He could be found most any
time of day—or night, if he was a guardsman—around the camp-fire
with his little mess of something in his tomato can or tin dipper, which
he would throw an air of mystery around every now and then by
drawing a small package from the depths of his pocket or haversack
and scattering some of its contents into the brew. But there was a
time in the history of his culinary pursuits when he rose to a supreme
height as a blunderer. It was when he appeared at the camp-fire
which, by the way, he never kindled himself, ready to occupy the
choice places with his dishes; and after the two rails, between which
fires were usually built, had been well burdened by the coffee-pots of
his comrades it presented an opportunity which his evil genius was
likely to take advantage of; for then he was suddenly seized with a
thought of something else that he had forgotten to borrow. Turning in
his haste to go to the tent for this purpose he was sure to stumble
over the end of one or both of the rails, when the downfall of the
coffee-pots and the quenching of the fire followed as a matter of
course. At just this point in his career it would be to the credit of his
associates to drop the curtain on the picture; but the sequel must be
told. The average soldier was not an especially devout man, and
while in times of imminent danger he had serious thoughts, yet at
other times his many trials, his privations, and the rigors of a
necessary discipline all conduced to make him a highly explosive
creature on demand. Moreover, coffee and sugar were staple articles
with the soldier, and the least waste of them was not to be tolerated
under ordinary circumstances; but to have a whole line of coffee-pots
with their precious contents upset by the Jonah of the tent in his
recklessness was the last ounce of pressure removed from the
safety valve of his tent-mates’ wrath; and such a discharge of hard
names and oaths, “long, loud, and deep,” as many of these sufferers
would deliver themselves of, if it could have been utilized against the
enemy, might have demolished a regiment. And the others who did
not give vent to their passions by blows or the use of strong
language seemed to sympathize very keenly with those who did.
Two chaplains apiece to some of the men would have been none too
many to hold them in check.
I remember one man who seemed always to have hard luck in
spite of himself. He was a good soldier and meant well, but would
blunder badly now and then. His last act in the service was to plunge
an axe through his boot while he was cutting wood. Unfortunately for
him as it happened his foot was in it at the time. On pulling it out of
the boot and looking it over he found that several of his toes had “got
left”; so he took up his boot, turned it upside down, and shook out a
shower of toes as complacently as if that was what he enlisted for.
This casualty closed his career in active service.

THE UNLUCKY MAN.

There were divers other directions in which the Jonah

distinguished himself; but I must leave him for the present to direct
attention to the other class of men of whom I wish to say something.
These were the beats of the service—a name given them by their
comrades-in-arms. There were all grades of beats. The original idea
of beat was that of a lazy man or a shirk, who would by hook or by
crook get rid of all military or fatigue duty that he could; but the term
grew to have a broader significance.
One of the milder forms of beat was the man who sat over the fire
in the tent piling on wood all the time, and roasting out the rest of the
tent’s crew, who seemed to have no rights that this fireman felt
bound to respect. He was always cold. He wore overcoat, dress-
coat, blouse, and flannels the full government allowance all at once,
but never complained of being too warm. He never took off any of
these garments night or day unless compelled to on inspection. He
was most at home on fatigue duty, for he seemed fatigued from the
start and moved like real estate. A sprinkling of this class seemed
necessary to the success of the Union arms, for they were certainly
to be found in every organization.
Another and more positive type of
beat were the men who never had any
water in their canteens. Even when
the army was in settled camp, water
was not always to be had without
going some distance for it; but these
men were never known to go after
any. They always managed to hang
their canteen on some one else who
was bound for the spring. If, when the
army was on the move, a rush was
made during a temporary halt, for a
spring or stream some distance away,
these men never rushed. They were
satisfied to lie down and drink a
supply which they took their chances GOING AFTER WATER.
of begging, from some recruit,
perhaps, who did not know their
propensities. If it happened to any
man to be so straitened in his cooking operations as to be under the
necessity of borrowing from one of these, he was sure of being
called upon to requite the favor fully as many times as his temper
would endure it.
Then, as to rations, their hardtack never held out, and they were
ever on the alert to borrow. It mattered not how great the scarcity,
real or anticipated, they could not provide for a contingency, and
their neighbors in the same squad were mean and avaricious—so
the beats said—if they would not give of their husbanded resources
to these profligate, improvident comrades. But this class did not stop
at borrowing hardtack. They were not all of them particular, and
when hardtack could not be spared they would get along with coffee
or sugar or salt pork; or, if they could borrow a dollar, “just for a day
or two,” they would then repay it surely, because several letters from
their friends at home, each one containing money, were already
overdue. People in civil life think they know all about the
imperfections of the United States postal service, and tell of their
letters and papers lost, miscarried, or in some way delayed, with
much pedantry; but they have yet to learn the A B C of its
imperfections, and no one that I know of is so competent to teach
them as certain of the Union soldiers. I could have produced men in
1862-5, yes—I can now—who lost more letters in one year, three out
of every four of which contained considerable sums of money, than
any postmaster-general yet appointed is willing to admit have been
lost since the establishment of a mail service. This, remember, the
loss of one man; and when it is multiplied by the number of men just
like him that were to be found, not in one army alone but in all the
armies of the Union, a special reason is obvious why the government
should be liberal in its dealings with the old soldier.
In this connection I am reminded of another interesting feature of
army experience, which is of some historical value. It was this:
whenever the troops were paid off a very large majority of them
wished to send the most of their pay home to their families or their
friends for safe keeping. Of course there was some risk attending the
sending of it in the mails. To obviate this risk an “allotment” plan was
adopted by means of which when the troops were visited by the
paymaster, on signing a roll prepared for that purpose, so much of
their pay as they wished was allotted or assigned by the soldiers to
whomsoever they designated at the North. To illustrate: John Smith
had four months’ pay due him at the rate of $13 a month. He decided
to allot $10 per month of this to his wife at Plymouth, Mass.; so the
paymaster pays him $12, and the remaining $40 is paid to his wife
by check in Plymouth, without any further action on the part of John.
This plan was a great convenience to both the soldiers and their
families. In this division of his income the calculation of the soldier
was to save out enough for himself to pay all incidental expenses of
camp life, such as washing, tobacco, newspapers, pies and biscuits,
bought of “Aunty,” and cheese and cakes of the sutler. But in spite of
his nice calculations the rule was that the larger part of the money
allotted home was returned, by request of the sender, in small
amounts of a dollar or the fraction of a dollar. I have previously
stated that at that time silver had gone out of use, it being only to be
had by paying the premium on it, just as on gold, and so to take its
place the government issued what was generally known as scrip,
being paper currency of the denominations of fifty, twenty-five, ten,
five, and, later, fifteen and three-cent pieces, some of which are still
in circulation. They were a great convenience to the soldiers and
their friends. But to resume:—
If the statements made by these beats as to the amount of money
they had sent for and were expecting were to be believed they must
not only have sent for their full allotment, but have drawn liberally on
their home credit or the charity of their friends besides. In truth,
however, the genuine beat never intended to return borrowed
money. It is currently believed by outsiders that the soldiers who
stood shoulder to shoulder battling for the Union, sharing the same
exposures, the same shelter, the same mess would ever afterwards
be likely to stand steadfastly by one another. The organization of the
Grand Army of the Republic seems to strengthen such an opinion,
yet human nature remains pretty much the same in all situations. If a
man was a shirk or a thief or a beat or a coward or a worthless
scoundrel generally in the army, it was because he had been
educated to it before he enlisted. The leopard cannot change his
spots nor the Ethiopian his skin. It will therefore create no great
surprise when I remark that a large amount of money borrowed by
one soldier of another has never been repaid; and such is the lack of
honesty and manliness on the part of these men that they can meet
the old comrades of whom in those trying war days they borrowed
one, two, five, or ten dollars, and in some cases more, without so
much as a blush or betraying in any manner the slightest recognition
of their long standing obligation. Some are so worthless and brazen-
faced even as to ask the same victims for more at this late day.
One favorite dodge of the beat was to have the corporal arouse
him twice or three times before he would finally get out of his bunk;
and then he would prepare to go out at a snail’s pace. Once on his
beat, his next dodge was to manœuvre so as to have the corporal of
his relief do the most of his duty for him; for hardly would he have
been posted before the corporal must be summoned, the beat
having been seized with a desire to go to the company sink. That is
good for half an hour out of the corporal at least. At last the dodger
reappears moving at a slow pace, and wearing the appearance of a
man suffering for his discharge from service. He retails his woes to
the corporal, as he resumes his equipments, in a most doleful strain.
But the corporal is in no mood to listen after his long wait, and hastily
directs his steps towards the guard-tent.
He is not allowed to remain there long, however, ere a summons
reaches him from the same post, to which he responds with
excusable ill-humor and mutterings at the duplicity of the guardsman
in question. This time the patient has happened to think of some
medicine at his tent which will be of benefit to him. Of course the
corporal is anxious enough to have him healed, and so he again
assumes the duties of the post for the shirk, who does not reappear
until his last hour of duty is well on its second quarter, feigning in
excuse that he could not find his own panacea and so was obliged to
go elsewhere. Thus in one way and another, by using the kind
offices of his messmates together with those of the corporal, he
would manage to get out of at least two-thirds of his guard duty.
After the battle of Fredericksburg a soldier belonging to a gallant
regiment in Burnside’s corps, whose courage had evidently been put
to a sore test in the above engagement, resorted to the rheumatic
dodge to secure his discharge. He responded daily to sick call,
pitifully warped out of shape, was prescribed for, but all to no avail.
One leg was drawn up so that, apparently, he could not use it, and
groans indicative of excruciating agony escaped him at studied
intervals and on suitable occasions. So his case went on for six
weeks, till at last the surgeon recommended his discharge. It was
approved at regimental, brigade, and division headquarters, and had
reached corps headquarters when the corps was ordered to
Kentucky. At Covington the party having the supposed invalid in
charge gained access in some manner to a barrel of whiskey. Not
being a temperance man, the dodger was thrown off his guard by
 this spiritual bonanza, and,
taking his turn at the straw, for
which entry had been made
into the barrel, he was soon as
sprightly on both legs as ever.
In this condition his colonel
found him. Of course his
discharge was recalled from
corps headquarters, and the
way of this transgressor was
made hard for months
afterwards.
There was another field in
which the beat played an
interesting part. I use played
with a double significance, for
THE RHEUMATIC DODGER. he never worked if he could
avoid it. It was when a detail of
men was made to do some line
of fatigue duty, by which is meant all the labors of the service distinct
from strict military duty, such as the “policing” or clearing up of camp,
procuring wood and water for the company, digging and fitting up of
sinks (the water-closets of the army), and, in addition to these duties,
in cavalry and artillery, procuring grain and forage for the horses. It
was a sad fate to befall a good duty soldier to get on to a detail to
procure wood where every second or third man was a shirk or beat;
for while they must needs bear the appearance of doing something,
they were really in the way of those who could work and were willing
to. Many of these shirkers would waste a great deal of time and
breath maligning the government or their officers for requiring them
to do such work, indignantly declaring that “they enlisted to fight and
not to chop wood or dig sinks.” But it was noticeable that when the
fight came on, if any of these heroes got into it, they then appeared
just as willing to bind themselves by contract to cut all the wood in
Virginia, if they could only be let go just that once. These were the
men who were “invincible in peace and invisible in war,” as the late
Senator Hill, of Georgia, once said. I may add here that, coming as
the soldiers did from all avocations and stations in life, these details
for fatigue often brought together men few of whom had any practical
knowledge of the work in hand; so that aside from the shirks, who
could work but would not, there were others who would but could
not, at least intelligently. Still, the army was a great educator in many
ways to men who cared to learn, and some of the most ignorant
became by force of circumstances quite expert, in time, in channels
hitherto untraversed by them.

WATER FOR THE COOK-HOUSE.

But there was one detail upon which our shirks, beats, and men
unskilled in manual labor, such as the handling of the spade and
pickaxe, appeared in all the glory of their artful dodging and
ignorance. If a man did not take hold of the work lively, whether
because he preferred to shirk it or because he did not understand it,
the worse for him. The detail in question was one made to administer
the last rites to a batch of deceased horses. It happened to the
artillery and cavalry to lose a large number of these animals in
winter, which, owing to the freezing of the ground, could not be
buried until the disappearance of the frost in spring; but by that time,
through the action of rain and sun and the frequent depredations of
dogs, buzzards, and crows, the remains were not always in the most
inviting condition for the administrations of the sexton. Then, again,
during the summer season, when the army made a halt for rest and
recruiting, another sacrifice of glanders-infected and generally used-
up horses was made to the god of war. But as they were not always
promptly committed to mother earth, either from a desire to show a
decent respect for the memory of the deceased or for some other
reason best known to the red-tape of military rule, the odors that
were wafted from them on the breezes were wont to become far
more “spicy” than agreeable, so that a speedy interment was
generally ordered by the military Board of Health.
As soon as the nature of the business for which such a detail was
ordered became generally known, the fun began, for a lively protest
was wont to go up from the men against being selected to participate
in the impending equine obsequies. Perhaps the first objection heard
from a victim who has drawn a prize in the business is that “he was
on guard the day before, and is not yet physically competent for such
a detail.” The sergeant is charged with unfairness, and with having
pets that he gives all the “soft jobs” to, etc. But the warrior of the
triple chevron is inexorable, and his muttering, much injured
subordinate finally reports to the corporal in charge of the detail in
front of the camp, betraying in his every word and movement a
heart-felt desire for his term of service or this cruel war to be over.
Another one whom his sergeant has booked for the enterprise has
got wind of what is to be done, so that when found he is tucked up in
his bunk. He stoutly insists that he is an invalid, and is only waiting
for the next sounding of “Sick call” to respond to it. But his attack is
so sudden, and his language and lungs so strong for a sick man, that
he finds it difficult to establish his claim. He calls on his tent-mates to
swear that he is telling the truth, but finds them strangely devout and
totally ignorant of his ailments, for they are chuckling internally at
their own good fortune in not being selected, which, if he proves his
case, one of them may be; so, unless his plea is a pitiful and
deserving one, they keep mum.
 A third victim does not claim to have been selected out of turn, but
nevertheless alleges that “the deal is unfair, because he was on the
last detail but one made for this horse-burying business, and he
does not think that he ought to be the chief mourner for his
detachment, for a paltry thirteen dollars a month. Besides, there may
be others who would like to go on this detail.” But as he is unable to
name or find the man or men having this highly refined ambition he
finally goes off grumbling and joins the squad.
A fourth victim is the
constitutionally high-
tempered and profane
man. He finds no fault
with the justice of the
sergeant in assigning to
him a participation in
the ceremonies of the
hour; but he had got
comfortably seated to
write a letter when the
summons came, and,
pausing only long
enough to inquire the
nature of the detail, he
pitches his half-written
letter and materials in
one direction, his lap-
THE HIGH-TEMPERED MAN.
board in another, gets
up, kicks over the box
or stool on which he
was sitting, pulls on his cap with a vehement jerk, and then opens
his battery. He directs none of his unmilitary English at the sergeant
—that would hardly do; but he lays his furious lash upon the poor
innocent back of the government, though just what branch of it is
responsible he does not pause between his oaths long enough to
state. He pursues it with the most terrible of curses uphill, and then
with like violent language follows it down. He blank blanks the whole
blank blank war, and hopes that the South may win. He wishes that
all the blank horses were in blank, and adds by way of self-reproach
that it serves any one, who is such a blank blank fool as to enlist,
right to have this blank, filthy, disgusting work to do. And he leaves
the stockade shutting the door behind him “with a wooden damn,” as
Holmes says, and goes off to report, making the air blue with his
cursing. Let me say for this man, before leaving him, that he is not so
hardened and bad at heart as he makes himself appear; and in the
shock of battle he will be found standing manfully at his post minus
his temper and profanity.
There is one more man whom I will
describe here, representing another
class than either mentioned, whose
unlucky star has fated him to take a
part in these obsequies; but he is not
a shirk nor a beat. He is the paper-
collar young man, just from the
recruiting station, with enamelled
long-legged boots and custom-made
clothes, who yet looks with some
measure of disdain on government
clothing, and yet eats in a most
gingerly way of the stern, unpoetical
government rations. He is an only
son, and was a dry-goods clerk in the THE PAPER-COLLAR YOUNG
city at home, where no reasonable MAN.
want went ungratified; and now, when
he is summoned forth to join the burial
party, he responds at once. True, his heart and stomach both revolt
at the work ahead, but he wants to be—not an angel—but a veteran
among veterans, and his pride prevents his entering any
remonstrance in the presence of the older soldiers. As he clutches
the spade pointed out to him with one hand he shoves the other
vacantly to the bottom of his breeches pocket, his mouth drawn
down codfish-like at the corners. He attempts to appear indifferent as
he approaches the detail, and as they congratulate him on his good-
fortune a sickly smile plays over his countenance; but it is Mark
Tapley feigning a jollity which he does not feel and which soon
subsides into a pale melancholy. His fellow-victims feel their ill-luck
made more endurable by seeing him also drafted for the loathsome
task; but their glow of satisfaction is only superficial and speedily
wanes as the officer of the day, who is to superintend the job,
appears and orders them forward.
And now the fitness of the selection becomes apparent as the
squad moves off, for a more genuine body of mourners, to the eye,
could not have been chosen. Their faces, with, it may be, a
hardened or indifferent exception, wear the most solemn of
expressions, and their step is as slow as if they were following a
muffled drum beating the requiem of a deceased comrade.

THE MOURNERS.

Having arrived at the place of sepulture, the first business is to dig

a grave close to each body, so that it may be easily rolled in. But if
there has been no fun before, it commences when the rolling in
begins. The Hardened Exception, who has occupied much of his
time while digging in sketching distasteful pictures for the Profane
Man to swear at, now makes a change of base, and calls upon the
Paper-Collar Young Man to “take hold and help roll in,” which the
young man reluctantly and gingerly does; but when the noxious
gases begin to make their presence manifest, and the Hardened
Wretch hands him an axe to break the legs that would otherwise
protrude from the grave, it is the last straw to an already
overburdened sentimental soul; his emotions overpower him, and,
turning his back on the deceased, he utters something which sounds
like “hurrah! without the h,” as Mark Twain puts it, repeating it with
increasing emphasis. But he is not to express his enthusiasm on this
question alone a great while. There are more sympathizers in the
party than he had anticipated, and not recruits either; and in less
time than I have taken to relate it more than half the detail, gallantly
led off by the officer of the day, are standing about, leaning over at
various angles like the tomb-stones in an old cemetery, disposing of
their hardtack and coffee, and looking as if ready to throw up even
the contract. The profane man is among them, and just as often as
he can catch his breath long enough he blank blanks the
government and then dives again. The rest of the detail stand not far
away holding on to their sides and roaring with laughter. But I must
drop the curtain on this picture. It has been said that one touch of
nature makes the whole world kin. Be that as it may, certain it is that
the officer, the good duty soldier, the recruit, and the beat, after an
occasion of this kind, had a common bond of sympathy, which went
far towards levelling military distinctions between them.
“HURRAH WITHOUT THE H.”