Phillips scanned the crowded bar as he strummed his guitar. The sun had long since slipped below the horizon, letting the ocean breeze drift into Whisky-Tango-Foxtrot. Most faces tonight belonged to friends and comrades from the Unit. His stomach rumbled like a grumpy old man—a constant companion during these two weeks of transition. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt entirely himself.

 

He tried to focus on the song, but his thoughts kept drifting—to transition, leadership classes, and the gnawing fear of letting down the chief’s mess.

 

He caught the eye of Chrissie, the sassy bartender leaning against the wall next to Bliss. In his mind, she smiled at him, her dark eyes glittering with mischief. The familiar jolt of adrenaline flared in his chest, but with a steady breath, he let the feeling go. Not tonight—she wouldn’t distract him from the anxiety twisting in his gut.

 

There were only four weeks left before he would be pinned as a Navy chief. His stomach grumbled at him again.

He closed his eyes, letting the chords from his guitar wash over him. The music eased his mind and steadied his nerves. In moments like these, music was his lifeline.

 

After a few beats, the corners of his mouth lifted, and he opened his eyes.

 

“This is for all the sexy ladies out there that have men that don’t dance, but because they love you, they do.”

He picked out the first chords of “I Don’t Dance” by Lee Brice. Flipping his hair from his forehead, Phillips risked another glance at Chrissie—she was busy slinging drinks at the far end of the bar, not watching him at all. Still, the melody reverberated through him. He’d never been one for dancing, but he’d probably make an exception for her.

 

As he sang, a handful of men led their ladies onto the floor. His buddy Murphy gave him thumbs up behind the back of a fine-looking brunette. Phillips smiled.

 

He glanced from the dance floor to the bar, where Bliss, Shots, and Logston sat bullshitting as usual. A few weeks ago, he’d have seen nothing but his loudmouthed friends. Now, he saw what they’d become: chiefs and leaders.

He cocked his head, studying his friends. They wore the weight of the chief with easy grace. Would he ever be like them?

 

Becoming a leader—someone others looked to for help and guidance—felt foreign to Phillips. All he’d ever done was his job, as well as he could. He never expected to make chief; he wasn’t political, didn’t kiss ass. He was used to looking up to others, not being the one people turned to.

 

For most First Classes, making chief meant a bigger paycheck. For Phillips, it meant a chance to become something more. He just hoped he could rise to the occasion—and make his fellow chiefs proud.

 

The last notes faded, and the crowd burst into applause. Phillips tipped them a grateful wave.

“That’s it for me tonight. Thanks for showing up, folks.”

 

He flicked off the mic and hopped down from the stage, weaving through the press of bodies until he landed on the barstool beside Logston. He set his guitar gently on the bar. Bliss gave a low, approving rumble and raised an eyebrow.

 

“Sorry,” Phillips said, sliding the guitar down by his feet for safekeeping.

 

Logston smirked. “You know you look weird up there, right? Holding the mic like it’s your girlfriend or something.”

 

Phillips grinned. “The mic is my girlfriend. Just like you, baby.” He puckered up at Logston, who shoved him away and nearly toppled his stool. Still on the floor, Logston shot him a mock glare.

 

“Shithead.”

 

Shots glanced over, eyes dancing with laughter.

“You’re such a dumbass,” he told Logston.

 

Laughter rippled through the group, and for a moment, Phillips felt it deep in his bones—he belonged here. He wasn’t letting these guys down.