Free The Edge of Honor by P. T. Deutermann

and smoky despite the air conditioning.
    Silvery planet lights hung from the ceiling and threw moving spots of light all over the room and the dancers. Small bar tables lined the perimeter of the floor, and these, too, were packed with people. Maddy was amazed at the number of good looking women put on the dance floor, all in their twenties or early thirties, with expensive clothes and hairstyles, and every one of them dancing with surprising intensity.
    Here and there, waitresses made their way gingerly through the gyrating crowd, writing shouted orders on tiny pads of paper before escaping to the service lines at the bar. Within minutes, they would start back into the crowd, where eagle-eyed customers would wave five-and ten-dollar bills at them until the trays emptied. The crowd on the dance floor was so thick that people consumed their drinks without ever leaving the floor.
    Maddy’s partner managed to secure two rounds of drinks this way, and Maddy found herself drinking scotch on the rocks on the first round and gin and tonic on the second, while the music and the dancing went on nonstop.
    She had no idea of how long she had been dancing and she downed the drinks quickly, wondering whether she could get off the dance floor for a minute to shuck the linen jacket. Handing her empty glass to a passing waitress, she shook the lapels at Bob to signify that she was dying of the heat. Bob grinned and shouted, “Take it off!” She laughed, slipped the jacket off, and continued to dance with it in her left hand. As the drinks took effect, the jacket became something of a prop, which she let fly around her hips, and she closed her eyes and concentrated on the insistent beat, no longer quite so worried about looking ridiculous, moving her body in time with the music as she got into the whole scene and tried now to keep up with the insistent pumping movements of her partners.
    Partners? Opening her eyes, she found that she was now dancing with two men, both in front of her and both as close as they could get to her without running into each other. She sensed there were other men behind her, but she couldn’t tell in the dim light whether they had other partners or whether she had become the local center of attraction. When a pair of strong hands settled on her hips from behind, she knew the answer and began looking for a way out, but they were too close, big men, looking strangely alike with their buzz haircuts, sport shirts worn outside of their trousers, and direct, leering eyes. When she turned to see whether there was an opening, they turned with her. She could feel hands touching her and heard their taunting voices, “Do it, baby. Shake that thing, mama. C’mon, c’mon,” mimicking the refrain from the rock group as they moved closer and then withdrew as the music grew even louder. Someone pressed another drink into her hands. It tasted like fruit juice of some kind, and she downed it in one motion, desperately thirsty, still wanting out of the small knot of men around her but also beginning to feel the sexual energy flowing from the dense pack of human bodies, the pounding music, and, despite herself, responding, moving more provocatively, looking back at the men, letting them press closer, aware that there were other groups like hers on the floor with one or even two women in the center of a ring of anonymous men. Now she understood why Tizzy wanted to come here. She lost track of time, working herself into a dreamy state of rhythmic exertion, letting the music and crowd and the noise carry her along, letting the anonymous males into her space, forgetting about the Navy and the deployment and the wardroom wives and her job and the fact that Brian had disappeared into the sunset for the next half a year.
    When the music finally stopped, the room seemed to decompress, the crowd breaking up with a collective sigh and starting to mill around, and most of the male dance partners disappearing to the bar. She looked around