3.

I was sitting astride a palomino horse, with a spiral notebook balanced on his white-blonde mane, trying my damnedest to take legible notes despite my military-issue white leather gloves. Mr. Prater was speaking in his usual enthusiastic tenor as his dust-yellowed hand flew over the green chalkboard. "George Armstrong Custer was an Army officer and cavalry commander in the American Civil War and the Indian Wars. He first notably served at the First Battle of Bull Run on July 21, 1861."

"And then he got his ass killed by an Indian," smirked a nasal female voice beside me. I glanced down to my right as my horse side-stepped left. Lauren Mallory was wearing her pep squad blue-and-gold, her glittery pink pen cap slowly deforming between her teeth. The other students snickered. Like me, they were wearing Civil War era Union blues, which did, oddly enough, match Lauren's cropped top and swishy little skirt. They were all slouched in standard student desks, however, and I reined in my horse, trying to calm him in the cramped space.

Mr. Prater didn't react to her language or her attitude. He simply turned away from the board, wagging his finger. "Not quite yet, Miss Mallory. First, he established a reputation as an aggressive cavalry brigade commander willing to take personal risks. His Michigan Brigade was known as the Wolverines and they fought in every major campaign from the Battle of Gettysburg until the Confederacy's surrender in 1865. Custer played a key role in that campaign - the Appomattox Campaign." He turned to spell that on the board, and someone behind me popped their gum. "His division blocked General Lee's retreat on its final day, and it was Custer who received the Flag of Truce at Lee's surrender."

My pen ran out of ink and I scribbled in the margin of my notes, trying to get it flowing again. Mr. Prater stepped over as I was licking the ballpoint. I chuckled, embarrassed, and lowered the spent pen.

"Did you know Custer graduated last in his class at West Point?" he asked me.

I nodded my head because, actually, I did know that. It occurred to me that I only knew it because I'd heard this very lecture before, back in high school, in Mr. Prater's class. I wondered why I was dreaming about it now. Then I remembered Mary Louise. I'll see you tomorrow, Custer.

Mr. Prater continued, "He didn't let that slow him down though. By the end of the Civil War, he'd been promoted to Major General of Volunteers."

There was a look of bemused pride on his face. He loves the underdog, I thought. When you start at the top, there's nothing to do but disappoint people, but the underdog? The underdog is a hero just for being in the race.

"But, as Miss Mallory already pointed out, that doesn't change the fact that he was defeated and killed at the Battle of the Little Bighorn-" He returned to the board and his chalk resumed its scratching. "Also known as Custer's Last Stand, in 1876 during the Indian Wars, by a coalition of Native American tribes composed mostly of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho, and led by the Sioux warrior Crazy Horse and the Sioux leaders Gall and Sitting Bull."

The bell rang just then and my mount reared, almost unseating me. My notebook fluttered away as I fought the reins and then suddenly, Lauren's hands were on the bridle, stroking the horse's nose, calming him with a gentle voice. I started to thank her, but she gasped and jerked, and slumped to the floor, one pale hand curled around a quivering arrow. I leaped down out of the saddle, heart racing even faster now, and knelt beside her. Her clothing faded to gray around the growing stain of blood on her shirt and the desks behind her were only a narrow Meadowview bed. I lifted her onto the comforter and straightened her limbs as gently as I could as I called for help.

"Mary Louise," I whispered. "I'm sorry." Then I pulled out the arrow, tried not to watch her face crumple with the pain of it. Tears slid down to darken her hair and drip into her ears. Cathy appeared next to me and shouldered me aside. She was holding a syringe. "It's just for the pain," I said as Cathy eased the needle into Mary Louise's thin, fragile skin. I hoped they didn't hear my voice shaking.

"I know," she whispered back. "I know you'll take care of me, Custer. You'll always take care of me."

I nodded, then her eyelids began to droop, and I smoothed her mussed hair on the white pillowcase. The blood was gone, the arrow was gone, only the tears remained. Cathy was watching me, lingering squint-eyed in the hallway. I could feel her stare. I felt doubt tugging at me too, like a child asking for attention. I had just promised I'd take care of her.

But Custer lost. In the end, Custer always lost.

It's Jasper, ma'am, I said to Cathy, but her expression didn't change. I turned and repeated it to Mary Louise, whispered my name in her ear, and she smiled in her sleep. I smoothed her hair again. My name is Jasper.

***

Edward's footfalls pounding in the hallway and his voice, sharp with panic, woke me up that morning with a rush of adrenaline that had me up, out of bed, and downstairs in less than a minute. It turned out the mid-morning news was covering a fire: the Red Bar, our Boys' Night destination, our home away from home. Shit. By the time we got there, there was nothing left of it but a charred wooden skeleton and a smoldering junkyard of blackened rubble, the whole thing still sweating white smoke into the sky. It took a lot on my part and Edward's both to keep Emmett calm, especially after Tanya's theatrical display of grief, even with a greasy late breakfast at the Howl at the Moon. Poor Emmett. His emotions ran so strong and always right there on the surface. Of course, that was better than Edward's tendency to wad them up and tuck them down deep where I wasn't sure he ever looked at them again. At least not voluntarily. They both seemed wound up so tight lately.

I finished off the last lukewarm swallow of my coffee and shook my head at the owner, Sally, before she could cross the room with the steaming pot to refill it. Maybe the fire was a good thing. A great big, unsubtle sign from the The Powers That Be that we all needed a little change. Not to mention New Year's Eve was tomorrow, and that just made it more meaningful to me. I'm not an overly superstitious sort but New Year's Eve is special. Where I choose to be, and whom I choose to spend it with… it's always symbolic to me. I'd been looking forward to a night with the boys, since I couldn't be with my family; the place hadn't really mattered, but now, with the Red Bar and our Boys' Nights in the metaphorical ashtray, I wondered if there might be something more to the Unicorn and this last minute gig.

Or maybe not. Somehow, I didn't think a bar called the Unicorn was going to become our new Boys' Night hangout. I'd heard the new owner was one of those old money, high-maintenance blondes. That just wasn't our scene. Not that Tanya and her sisters were our type either, at least not where dating was concerned. But they shot a mean game of pool, they could toss back tequila like champs, and they were sincere and dependable and fun. What could we expect from the Unicorn? Good drinks (I hoped), lousy pool tables (if any at all), and probably a mostly shallow crowd of gold diggers in acrylic nails and designer shoes, I predicted gloomily.

Then again, I'd been wrong before.

I glanced at my watch as Edward finished up a phone call and started to slide out of the booth. Emmett jumped up. "Gotta go drain the main vein. I'll catch up in a sec." He jogged across the diner, almost running over poor Sally on the way. She scowled at him with a twinkle in her eye and he winked as he skirted around her and then disappeared into a side hallway.

"Let's go check out that club for my gig," Edward said, and grabbed the check.

I lifted my eyebrows at him. "I have to go to work in a while," I said. "Costumes?"

Edward sighed and tugged at the bangs straggling out from under his black beanie onto his forehead. "Right. I'd forgotten. Damn. This is important, but it won't take long. Maybe we can get the costumes tomorrow?"

I one-shoulder shrugged. "Long as they're open. I'm off work tomorrow." I looked over at him as he handed the check and his card to the cashier with his head still hung low. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." He lifted his chin then and granted the cashier one of his patent pending crooked grins. At least, I'm assuming that's what happened. I was standing mostly behind him, but as if on cue, the poor girl turned pink from neckline to hairline and knocked over the pen cup by the register. I chuckled and shook my head as I knelt to help her clean up the mess, but decided to let him get away with the distraction. By the time she'd recovered enough to hand him his card and receipt, Emmett was back and we headed out to the car.

***

The Unicorn wasn't what I expected, all things considered. In fact, I'd say it was rather full of surprises. For example, I wasn't expecting a bouncer, if that's what the enormous Native American kid at the door was; he was wearing a bar back's apron and a baby face, but all I could think when I saw him was, "You ARE the Brute Squad." I wasn't expecting the cool second story wrap-around either, or the warm lighting, or the real wood furnishings everywhere. Not a hint of pink neons or mirrored glass or pretentious art prints on the walls. The bar was especially nice. Obviously expensive and meticulously clean. Well-stocked. Classy.

And then, the most pleasant surprise of all, the bartender appeared from under the bar with a double handful of top-shelf bottles, all spiky black hair and pointed little gamine features. She turned her back to me, bounced up the two steps of a footstool, and leaned forward to put the bottles in their places.

And I checked out her ass. Classy.

*** ***

Mr. Prater's lecture paraphrased from Wikipedia's entries on "George Armstrong Custer" and "Michigan Brigade."