Welcome to Briar Ridge … [ cheyenne briggs ]! Who is known as [ chey ] and was recently seen leaving their home in [ briar ridge hills ]. she is currently [ 32 ] years old. she resembles [ michelle randolph ] and is a [ bartender ] at [ golden hour beach bar ]. She's best known for [ strutting into a room like she owns it (even when she doesn’t) ] and also, [ always having a perfectly timed, razor sharp comeback that leaves men blushing and women clapping ]. What is really important to know about her though, is [ beneath the charm, pearls, and lip gloss, cheyenne is playing a long game. one that involves land, legacy, and making sure she never has to depend on a man. unless he's worth depending on. ].
𓂅 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞 ...
Cheyenne Briggs may have traded the big skies of Texas for the moss-draped charm of Briar Ridge, South Carolina, but she brought every ounce of Southern polish and drama with her.
Born into old oil money, Cheyenne is the only daughter of Randall “Buck” Briggs, a self-made oil tycoon, and Jolene Briggs, a socialite-turned-trophy-wife who never quite let go of her pageant days or her mid-twenties.
Growing up in a sprawling Hill Country estate with stables bigger than most homes, Cheyenne was raised on mint juleps, manicures, and the finer points of debutante life. But behind the designer boots and honeyed drawl is a woman with sharp instincts and a flair for subtle rebellion.
Despite her trust fund, Cheyenne took a job slinging cocktails at the Golden Hour Beach Bar “for the people-watching and free whiskey.” It’s not about the money, it never was. She just prefers to stay busy until the right kind of man with a country estate or a yacht comes along.
A skilled rider and lifelong equestrian, Cheyenne spends her weekends at the local stables, often in full designer riding gear. Her dream is to one day own a championship horse ranch (or at least marry someone who does).
She’s well-mannered but calculating, sweet as pie and sharp as a blade until she’s crossed.
She knows what she wants out of life: a life of luxury, horses, and high society and she’s not afraid to charm, flirt, or outwit her way to get it.
𓂅 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 ...
She hates being bored. She'll start drama, flirt with someone inappropriate, or pick up a new expensive hobby just to feel alive.
Refuses to wear off-brand perfume. Her signature scent is probably something expensive and niche, like Tom Ford’s Rose Prick or Le Labo Santal 33.
Has a massive collection of designer cowboy boots. Each pair has a story (or an ex) behind them.
Rides horses like she was born in the saddle but only competes when there's an audience. She prefers the idea of winning ribbons to the actual sweat and dirt of it.
Knows how to handle a gun thanks to her daddy, but you’ll never catch her with chipped nail polish while doing it.
Loves baking but won’t admit it. Her lemon bars are legendary at church potlucks.
Secretly good at poker. She learned from oil execs at her father’s parties and wins more than she lets on.
She says she’s only into rich men, but she keeps getting drawn to rugged, blue-collared types or cowboys with strong hands and no patience for her nonsense.
Probably has a list titled “Traits of My Future Husband” saved in her Notes app. It includes: owns land, good teeth, must love horses, doesn’t correct her grammar in public.
Has been engaged before. Once, maybe twice? but always got cold feet when the man started planning her life without her input.
Low-key scared of real love because it can’t be manipulated like money or status.
Always has music playing: country classics, sad girl pop, or old jazz when she’s feeling dramatic.
Drinks her coffee sweet enough to be considered a crime. Likes it iced, even in the winter.
Puts everything in a planner, but ignores the planner half the time.
Has Endometriosis. On her worst days, she might avoid riding horses—even though it’s her passion because of pelvic pain. She always carries extra painkillers in her designer handbag too, right next to her lipstick.
𓂅 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ...
any and all !!
friends whether from texas or newly developed after moving to town. chey's probably been here for 6 months give or take.
exes / one night stands / fwb.
coworkers or customers at golden hour beach bar.
family such as cousins, would love for her to have a brother!
Wes' gaze followed the way she set the drink down, offering her a quiet, appreciative smile, his fingertips brushing the edge of the cool glass but not quite picking it up yet. It was pretty — pink and sugared and sharp around the edges, not unlike the woman who had made it. He could tell without even tasting it that it'd catch him off guard. It drew him in, much of the same way she did. That smile of hers was something else. Like she could win a room without trying, and yet here she was, aiming it squarely at him.
He chuckled now, rubbing his jaw as she talked about Texas and belt buckles and cowboys. He knew all about it, and it honestly felt like home to him in the sense that someone got it. Someone understood that world, just like he did. The good, the bad, and the ugly. "Yeah, sounds about right," he murmured, the smile tugging wider for just a second. Lifting his gaze to hers as she asked about the ranch and the bar, a breathy laugh escaped him. "Well—uh—technically the ranch belongs to my mom. On the outskirts of Briar Ridge Hills. Been in the family a long time." He said it gently, thoughtful in that quiet way of his, with a kind of pride that settled in soft and steady. Funny thing was, he’d spent so long wanting to carve out something of his own—his own path, his own name. Yet the older he got, the clearer it became: what he felt most proud of was where he came from. His family. The thought brought a smile to his face. "But the bar—that's mine. The Rusty Spur. Not much but it's honest. Been an old town staple ever since I can remember. Cold beer, good music, a mechanical bull.." A beat lingered, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. "You should stop by sometime."
Wes locked his eyes on her again as she started talking about her father’s ranch, and the way her voice softened at the mention of missing it. It made his chest ache, just a little. He could hear the nostalgia in her tone and understood it like it was his own. He nodded slowly in response, fingers turning the glass now but still not drinking. "Yeah.. I like to ride. Grew up with it. Don't remember a time I didn't know how to sit a saddle." A beat passed, and then his thumb brushed along the rim of his glass like he was stalling. When she teased him about the bad leg, he let out a breathy, embarrassed laugh through his nose. "Somethin' like that," he admitted, giving her a sheepish glance. "Rodeo, for a long time. Didn't quite walk away clean. So what brought you to Briar Ridge, all the way from Texas?"
He took the opportunity to finally lift the drink to his lips and take a sip, surprised by the hit of spice under the sugar. It made his eyes widen slightly, and he huffed a soft laugh, licking the salt from the corner of his mouth before glancing at her again. “Yeah,” he said quietly, smile deepening, “you weren’t lyin’. That does live up to its name.”
Cheyenne watched him take a sip of his drink, that subtle flicker in his expression not lost on her when he does. The widening of his eyes was just enough to betray the unexpected heat he likely felt beneath all that sugar. It was perfect. She liked getting a reaction, especially one that couldn’t be masked by any sort of bravado or charm. His was honest and honest was rare. That alone made her lean in, just a little bit closer. “Well now,” she murmured, voice honeyed and pleased, her grin now turning slightly more mischievous in nature, “if you can handle that drink, cowboy, you might just be able to handle me.” It was only half a tease. The other half? Was an honest promise.
Chey then reached for a rag and began to absentmindedly wipe down the bar, not because it needed it but, because it gave her something to do while she worked through the tangle of thoughts Wes had now stirred up with just a few quiet truths. He was proud of where he came from. That was new. Most men she’d known were either trying to outrun their past or use it like a credit score. But him? He talked about his mama’s ranch like it was part of his backbone. She liked that. A little too much, maybe. “The Rusty Spur,” she repeated softly, testing the name out on her tongue like it was already becoming familiar on it. “Sounds like a place that knows how to get into trouble on a slow night. You ever line dance there too, or just wrangle drunk tourists off the bull all night?” She arched a brow, her blue eyes sparkling again, like she was daring him to say something that would surprise her. But when he asked why she came to Briar Ridge, Cheyenne hesitated instead. It wasn’t that she didn’t have an answer... she had too many, actually. And most of them weren’t exactly the kind you tell a handsome stranger with honest eyes and calloused hands.
So instead, she gave him a version of the truth but, without all the drama. “I needed a change,” she said lightly, though her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Texas has a way of keepin’ you stuck in the same boots, on the same porch, sippin’ the same tea, watchin’ the same stories play out over and over again.” She tilted her head. “Figured if I didn’t leave, I’d marry some oil executive I didn’t love who worked for my daddy, move into a house with too many rooms, and start collectin’ charity board seats like they're handbags.” She shrugged, smiling like it didn’t ache to say out loud. “Briar Ridge seemed far enough to start fresh but close enough that I could still smell the horses, y'know.” After a beat, she nodded toward his drink. “You ever name that leg of yours?” she asked, tone dipping back into playfulness. “You know, since you clearly still dance with it every now and then, I assume.”
And then, just because she was curious... “You miss it? The rodeo, I mean?” Because she could see it in the way he said he didn’t walk away clean that it wasn't his choice but one likely made for him. And because sometimes, the things you're forced to walk away from end up being the hardest to stop riding toward in your dreams. "What was it like?"
A snort left Morgan's nose at the mention of Sam. "I'm not sure whether to admire his confidence or get a doctor in here to diagnose him." She said with a shake of her head. "Jury's still out on that one." One of Morgan's brows raised at the statement surrounding Macy and her ex. "No, not the Yelp reviews. How - I don't even want to know." She held up her hands as if she were giving up on the whole conversation. Being forty years old with a ten year old daughter, she couldn't keep up with the dramatics surrounding the younger bartender's former relationship. "Tall, broody and probably unavailable? Are you sure you just didn't see Travis in here," she joked, hiding the pain she felt in speaking about the man she had been with for most of the second portion of her life. Their relationship, on the rocks more often than not. "I'll make sure to keep that in mind. You really know how to sell a man, I'll give you that." She joked with Chey, moving to keep the conversation lighthearted, steering away from her personal life.
Taking the drink from Chey, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. The alcohol lingered on her tongue before sliding and burning her throat. It was a burn that reminded her that she was still a live. "To answer your question," she started, setting the glass back on the bar top, "it's been a long month." Morgan shook her head, the words a weight on her shoulders that she couldn't shake. "But," she looked to the glass as if it might be the answer to all her problems, "I'm just trying to pretend I've got it all together until I actually do." @cheybriggs
Cheyenne watched her with that kind of practiced attentiveness that gives off equal parts bartender and best friend in waiting. Her expression softened, that sly smile of hers dipping into something more thoughtful and honest. She didn’t rush to fill the silence but also didn’t sugarcoat it with some Southern quip about bootstraps or brighter days. Instead, she let Morgan’s words linger between them like a quiet truth that doesn’t need fixing, just hearing.
After a moment, she reached for the same bottle she’d just poured from and topped Morgan’s glass off by a finger width, like she’d heard everything that hadn’t been said. "Well hell babe, if that ain't the most relatable thing I've heard all week." Her voice is warm but laced with a worn in kind of honesty that only ever shows up after midnight or when your mascara's already smudged. "Fake it till you make it works a lot better when people don't expect you to be holding' the whole damn world together, doesn't it?" She gives Morgan a look, that while pointed is still kind. "You don't owe anyone 'fine' by the way. Not your little girl. Not that no good, almost ex with a ghost man routine. Not even this bar." Chey straightened slightly after the affirmation, tapping her nails gently against the glass in her hand like it's meant to be a rhythmic comfort. "And don't get me wrong, I love a good pretend moment. Lord knows I've smiled through enough migraines and panic Mondays to win me an Oscar. But, if you ever feel like droppin that act around here, I promise not to hand you a Hallmark speech or worse, one of those inspirational quotes you find on a t-shirt somewhere. Besides, you're doin' a whole lot better than most people who come 'round here claimin' they've got their shit together. And you look hot as hell doin' it too. Which frankly, is so rude of you, but I'll allow it."
A laugh fell from Kit's lips as his hands went up in a little surrender. "Now, now. I am not a stalker! I quit doing that when I was fifteen!" he joked, looking at the girl and hoping to God that she laughed at his joke.
"Never been to Hill Country but Dallas, Houston, and San Antonio I have visited quite a few times. One time between show stops, we went to Six Flags over Texas and I have to admit, it was pretty anticlimactic. But then again, we were spoiled in Los Angeles with our Six Flags park," he nodded, arms crossing over his chest as he looked at the other. "I haven't been to the location in San Antonio or Jersey," he added.
Oh, you're talking a lot, Christopher. He quickly straightened up and looked at Cheyenne. "Sorry. Now I'm just rambling."
Chey let out a soft, warm laugh, the kind that makes her powder-blue eyes crinkle just slightly at the corners. She wasn’t used to someone keeping up with her like this. Most men around her either fumbled for their words or tried to impress her with their truck stats and fish stories. But Kit? He had a natural kind of charm that didn’t feel rehearsed. And she appreciated it. Admired it, even.
“Well bless your heart,” she drawled, flashing a grin as she leaned her hip against the nearest tap dispenser like it was a chaise lounge. “Fifteen’s a good age to retire from stalkin’, I suppose. Character growth and all that.”
The mention of Six Flags earned a wry, knowing smirk from her end. “Oh, honey. No one goes to Six Flags for the thrills—they go for the funnel cakes, the heat stroke, and the chance to judge everybody’s outfit in line. It’s tradition, if I know anything about it.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Though I’ll admit, L.A. might have us beat. We don’t have celebrities ridin’ roller coasters back home. Closest we get is a rodeo clown with a Red Bull addiction.”
She tilted her head when he apologized, waving a manicured hand through the air as if to bat the thought away. “Now don’t go apologizin’. I like a man who can carry a conversation. You’d be surprised how many think talkin’ is just shoutin’ about their truck lift or askin’ if I ‘ride bareback.’” Her lips curled in a mock cringe before softening again. “I take it you’re not from around here either, then? L.A. boy?” she guessed, eyes narrowing playfully. “Or just a theme park connoisseur with too many frequent flyer miles?”
Beck watches her with that lazy, lopsided grin of his like her indignation is the highlight of his day, which—truth be told—it kind of is. The more she protests, the more his amusement grows, eyes crinkling just enough at the corners to betray the laugh he’s not quite let loose. He taps his glass lightly against the wood, ice clinking inside it, and lets the silence stretch long enough to be annoying before speaking.
“Classy,” he echoes, dragging the word out like it’s got splinters. “Right. Because nothin’ says ‘elegance’ like a fireball and a bar full of people duckin’ for cover.” He tilts his head, studying her for a beat, as if he can still see the flame curling through the air behind her eyes. “I swear, Chey, you were two seconds away from being the lead story on the local news—‘Heiress-turned-bartender immolates cocktail bar in high-drama flair stunt.’” He snorts. Truly, you can't make this shit up. “Could’ve at least worn sequins for it. Really lean into the drama.”
He takes another sip, slower this time. But, when he sets his glass down again, it’s almost empty. “But hey,” he adds, a flicker of softness brushing past the edge of his voice, “it was a vibe. Just… y’know. A different one. The kind you need a fire extinguisher and therapy for afterward.”
He leans back just slightly, one arm resting along the back of the stool like he’s settling in now, like he might stick around longer than he originally meant to. His eyes drift back to hers. “Anyway, I’m not haunting you. Yet. Ghosts don’t usually smell like saltwater and disappointment, last I checked.” He quirks a brow. “But if they did? I’d make a damn fine one.”
That teasing edge of his dims just a little. It's not gone, just shifted. Mellowed out. “You always had a funny definition of home,” he informs her, voice quieter now, not quite poking fun anymore. “But I get it. There’s somethin’ about this place… makes you feel like it might still fit, even after everything’s changed.” It's unclear if he was just talking about her now, or himself too.
He shrugs, picking at the corner of a coaster with one blunt fingernail. “Or maybe I’m just avoidin’ the silence. Any home gets real loud when it’s empty, you know?” The admission slips out almost on accident, like maybe he didn’t mean to admit that he was lonely. He covers it with another smirk, nudging his glass toward her again with a tilt of his chin. “You still got that matchbook with the gold trim? I feel like temptin’ fate.”
Chey stared at him for a long moment —part in exasperation, part in amusement. She exhaled slowly, her fingers wrapping around his empty glass like she was debating whether to refill it or throw it at him for being so casually insightful. Typical Beck. “That gold-trimmed matchbook’s still in the drawer under the bar, next to my emergency lipstick and that flask I swear I don't use,” she informed him dryly. “But you don’t get to play with it unless you promise not to traumatize the owners' cat again.”
She poured him another drink, slower this time, more deliberate. It's a generous pour, and the kind she only gave to people who needed it but, would never ask. Her eyes stay fixed on the liquid until the glass is nearly full, and only then did she slide it back toward him with a soft clink. "You know," she starts, her voice but her gaze anything but. "You got a real pretty way of sayin' 'I'm lonely and emotionally constipated.' Really should embroider that on a pillow. Let all the girls know ahead of time."
She leaned against the bar again, this time not facing him but still remaining close enough to share the space in that way people do when they don't have to explain why its necessary. Her smile had even gone softer now and a little sad around the edges, like maybe they'd both gotten tired of laughing off things that actually matter. "For what it's worth Beckie, I don't think it's about avoidin' the silence so much as I think it is, we just keep hopin' somebody'll meet us halfway in it. Make it feel less loud and empty."
She looked at him then. Almost as if she was searching for whatever he hadn’t said yet. That flicker in his eyes, that weight in his shoulders. The version of Beck that showed up when the crowd thinned out and the night stretched too long. "You ain't haunting me. Not really. You're just driftin' like the rest of us. Tryin' to see what still fits." Chey flashed a smirk, more her than anything else, before reaching into that drawer underneath the bar and pulling out the gold-trimmed matchbook in question. She waited a moment before tossing it lightly at Beck. "But, if you are gonna go ghost on me, at least burn bright. Give this town somethin' to talk about. Lord knows they get bored easily." She paused. "And next time, I set somethin' on fire, you better be there wearin' sequins too. Ain't no fun goin' down in flames if I'm doin' it alone."
Wes' heart gave a quiet kick at the way she was looking at him, all confident and sure like she could see right through the quiet he wore like armour. His gaze darted away for a moment, a flush rising on his sun-warmed skin as he let out a soft chuckle. "Uh—I don't know about trouble," he started, rubbing the back of his neck, fingertips catching briefly in his still-damp hair. "You might be giving me too much credit." When she described her drink, that shy smile of his tugged a little at the corners of his mouth, eyes dropping briefly to the glass before flicking back to hers. "Sounds like it lives up to the name then," he said, a hint of curiousity and amusement in his eyes. "Guess I'd better be careful, huh?"
When she offered him a drink on the house, Wes's brows lifted, a soft surprised laugh escaping him. "Aw you don't have to do that," he started, but the way she was already moving, confident and playful, made him fall quiet, letting her. He checked his phone for the first time all afternoon, wondering where in the hell time had gone. At her comment about the housewives, Wes’ cheeks flushed, and he let out a quiet, embarrassed laugh, shaking his head. "Ranch keeps me real busy.. and uh, my bar in town, too." Still felt weird saying that, even though he'd owned the place a few months now. He pauses, then adds, "Ocean helps with the bad leg sometimes, so.." His gaze lifted back to hers, the thought that he should come by more often brushing across his mind, though he didn’t quite dare say it out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat gently, a shy smile forming. "That a Texan accent I'm hearin'?"
Cheyenne’s lips parted just slightly, that pageant-winning smile she inherited from her mother, returning and blooming across the edges of her mouth like a slow-burning fire. Wes’ bashful charm was dangerous in its own right. Not quite loud or flashy like the usual types who try to impress her, but quiet, unassuming, and just enough trouble to sneak in through the back gates and stay a while without askin'.
Chey set the glass of her self proclaimed specialty, down in front of him. It lands an inch away from his fingers with a soft clink and is light pink in color with a rim dusted in sugar and a hint of chili salt. It packs just enough bite to make an impression. Like her.
“Oh darlin’,” she sings, those blue eyes twinkling with candlelight and mischief, “that is most definitely a Texan accent you’re hearin’. Born and raised just west of Austin. Big sky, bigger personalities. And no shortage of cowboys who think a shiny belt buckle makes ‘em a gift to women.” By the sounds of it, Chey doesn't seem to agree with that logic. "Wait a minute," she pauses, after dropping a lime wedge over the ice in his drink. Try as she might, it's impossible for Chey to pretend her ears don't perk up the second he mentions owning a ranch and a bar somewhere in town. It was as if the skies had opened up above her and delivered one half of her dream guy out to her, on a silver platter. "You own a ranch and a bar? Where at?" Not that he asked her the same question but, she felt comfortable enough to share her own assets back home. Or enough of them to suggest they have some things in common. "My daddy owns a ranch too, back in Texas. It's been a while since I've ridden horseback. I miss it. I take it you like to ride, too?" She pushed off the counter just enough stand up straight again, displaying her hands on her hips now. "Is that the cause behind this bad leg of yours that needs ocean salt to make it feel better?"
Kit had just finished a circuit of RDL's and he was dripping with sweat as he set his 20-pound weight down. He had his hands on his hips and headphones over his ears as he walked around a tiny little circle in the little spot he was in. A subtle way to decompress between sets.
As he saw the girl approach him, he reached down for his phone to pause his music, and politely pull his headphones off his ears and just loosely around his neck.
A little laugh left his lips as he nodded. "New to Briar Ridge? Kind of. New to the gym? Not at all. But then again, I guess you could say I'm new to this gym," he spoke, bending over again to grab his towel to just lightly pat his forehead dry. There was no shame in the way he was sweating. This was the gym, afterall. It was almost a crime if you weren't dripping with sweat.
"Are you new around here? That accent is so thick but it's definitely not South Carolinian."
Cheyenne arched a brow, amused, as she tilted her head just slightly to the side like she was trying to figure him out. Maybe she was. There was something easygoing about him, something that didn’t scream 'Briar Ridge born and raised,' but also didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. That, and the fact that he wasn’t trying to puff his chest out or peacock around like some of the other gym bros she’d been expertly dodging all month. So far, that was already working out in his favor.
“Well now,” she started, hands resting on her hips as she gave him a once-over. Not in any rude way, more so like she was sizing-up a new potential friend. “That sounds like a very complicated way of sayin’ you’ve been around lurkin’ and I just hadn’t caught you yet.” She gave him a little smirk, clearly teasing. “But don’t worry—I ain’t gonna report you to management. Truthfully, a girl would be flattered.” Hand to her heart, they would. Little did she know, they likely weren't his type.
At his accent comment, she let out a low laugh and she wiped her brow off with the towel slung over her shoulder. “Guilty,” she curtsied, not at all embarrassed by the twang in her voice. “Texas born and bred. Hill Country. You ever been? Big skies, bigger opinions, and horses for days. My family owns a ranch there, actually.”
Beck takes the drink without much comment—just raises it slightly in the air with a lazy sort of salute like she’s just insulted him and made his day at the same time, which, knowing Chey, she probably has. The glass is cold against his fingers, condensation already bleeding into the worn wood of the bar beneath it.
He takes a slow sip but, doesn’t wince. “Still tastes like something you brewed out of spite,” he muses, voice low but flat, threaded with a flicker of amusement behind his bright blue eyes. “So, perfect.”
His gaze lingers on her for another beat—enough to read her mood, like he’s checking for weather on the horizon. Then leans forward, forearms braced on the bar, hair still damp enough to curl around his temples. The scent of salt and pine lingers around him like it always does, ocean-worn and a little wild.
“What am I doin’ here?” he repeats, as if the question itself is a riddle with more than one answer. His thumb runs along the rim of the glass. “Maybe I just wanted a drink that didn’t come from a cooler and taste like despair. Or maybe I missed your charming hospitality and devastating people skills.”
A pause, then—just long enough for the weight of something unsaid to slip in. “…Or maybe I just didn’t feel like goin’ home yet.” He doesn’t explain much more than that. Instead, he knocks back another sip, then eyes her again with a small, knowing smirk. “You ever smile like that at one of the tourists and, they’ll never leave. Town’s already crawling with too many people who wear flip-flops with jeans.” He nudges his glass slightly toward her with two fingers. “This one’s almost good, by the way. Not that I’d say it out loud.” Even though, he kinda already did?
A beat. “…You still mess with those drinks that had the tiny flaming rosemary sprig? 'Cause I’d pay good money to see you set somethin’ on fire today.” Beck’s mind immediately drifts back to that one summer, when Chey decided to show off her “mixology skills” with a little flair. She was convinced she could light up a rosemary sprig like it was some kind of magic trick—'For the ambiance, Beck. It’s all about ambiance', he could've sworn he heard her say.
He’d watched with equal parts skepticism and resigned amusement as she carefully balanced the tiny sprig over the flame, warning him to keep back. Of course, things didn’t go as planned. Instead of a gentle, smoky glow, the sprig flared up into a sudden, bright blaze that set half the napkins on fire and sent a plume of smoke spiraling into the ceiling. The entire bar at her family's estate had to scramble for the fire extinguisher, while Chey swore up and down that it was “totally under control” even as her hair caught a stray ember.
Beck still teases her about it sometimes, the dry grin tugging at his lips when he says, “I like my drinks like I like my fire—contained and not threatening to burn the whole place down.” But deep down, he knows that chaotic spark is part of why she fits here so well, and why he can’t stay away—even when the tides pull him elsewhere. Well that, and she was family.
Chey rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her head and into her cousin's drink. “You say that like it’s not the secret ingredient to all of my best work.” Her smile twitches, barely contained behind her lips and utterly wicked in its intent. It was the kind of smile that launched more than a few bad decisions and at least one or two confirmed one-night stands she'd swear she didn’t regret. But for Beck, it was softer, a bit teasing, and tinged with affection between family. It's an expression you only give to those who know all your ugly stories and still come back around anyway.
At the mention of not wanting to go home yet, Chey stilled for just a moment. Wondering why that was or what he meant by it. “Yeah, well,” she offered him a shrug, before slipping back into that classic sass of hers like it's a second skin, “some of us don't have a home to go to, Beck. Mine’s scattered between my bank account, my daddy’s name, and a town that still isn't sure if I’m the scandal or the entertainment.” A shrug followed, careless on the outside but if he knew her at all, he'd know there was something more sensitive underneath. “So if you’re here to haunt someone, might as well be me, I s'pose.” She watched him take another sip of his drink, those sea-blue eyes flickering with something he wasn’t saying yet. Typical Beck. All guarded tides and cryptic metaphors. At his jab about her smile and the flip-flop crowd, she huffed out a laugh. “You hush. I like the tourists. They tip like they’re guilty about their entire lives and think 'y’all' is exotic. Besides, it ain’t my fault your resting grump face screams ‘don’t talk to me unless you're bleeding or on fire.’” Her gaze flicked down to his glass as he nudged it. “Almost good? Well damn, I better call the press. Beck Foster givin' out compliments without cryin’ about it first.”
Then came the rosemary story—and Lord, if she didn’t immediately drop her forehead to the bar with a groan. “Do not bring up the great rosemary inferno of 2019,” she mumbled, muffled by the wood and her own humiliation. “That was not my fault. The humidity was off. And I told y'all to stand back!” She looked up, finger pointed at him like she was ready to defend herself against a jury. “It was gonna be classy. Sophisticated. A whole damn vibe. And instead, I got singed bangs and a reputation as the arsonist of our social circle.” She narrowed her eyes, mock serious. “You know Mama still brings that up every time someone hands me a lighter? I can’t even do birthday candles anymore without supervision.”
Morgan let out a low laugh, tilting her head as she leaned one elbow on the bar. She were not in uniform and definitely not on the clock, but still in her element. Morgan Johnson had once walked into Golden Hour Beach Bar and had never really left. "So," she plucked a napkin off the counter and placed it in front of herself, "that's how we are greeting people today?" Her lips curled into a crooked grin, "I'm actually here, looking respectable and you assume I'm here to cause trouble?" Morgan clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, though they both knew that if trouble was around, Morgan was always in the middle of it.
Glancing over at the menu, like she hadn't already memorized every item on it twice over, "I'll take something cold, strong and with a side of whatever gossip I've missed out since I clocked out yesterday." Her gaze lifted from the menu, looking at Chey, "And don't worry, I always tip. Especially when my bartender is charming as you." @cheybriggs
"Me? Charmin'? That's so kind of you." The people who knew her would beg to differ. Then again, Chey could be charming if she wanted to be. She usually chalked most of her charm up to her accent, though. It made everything sound so much sweeter than it actually was. Setting down the now polished glass she hadn't actually cleaned a minute ago, Chey propped a hand on her hip while her other tapped against the bartop like she was thinking of what secrets to spill.
“Well, Let's see..." she leaned in, just so their workplace gossip wouldn't be overheard by the other customers. “You remember Sam? He tried flirting with another bachelorette party again, bless his delusional little heart. I don't think he gets the hint that they're too young for him. And, Marcy from the kitchen is convinced her ex is spying on her through our Yelp reviews. I know, I know, it's crazy, don't ask. Oh, and there’s some new guy wandering around here lookin’ like he got lost on his way to Nashville. Interviewed to be a lifeguard. But, he's got great abs, a beard, is real tall an' broody, and probably emotionally unavailable. I think you'd really like him.” Chey didn't know much about Morgan's personal life but she could never resist setting up a good love match when she saw one.
“Now onto that drink, yes? You said you wanted something cold and strong? Comin' right up.” Chey gave the order a once over before she grabbed a bottle of something top shelf and honey-colored and poured it into a glass, sliding it toward Morgan with a little flourish. “Has it been a long day or a long night? I can't really tell. But I'm a good listener, so you can confide in me, I won't judge.”
Beck had taken the day off (considering it'd been a slow day at the Railhouse) only to show up at the Golden Hour Beach Bar with that slow, unhurried gait of is that comes from years worth of letting the tide set his pace. With his shoulders sun-burnt and tattooed, Beck has the sleeves of his salt-faded work shirt, pushed up. To everyone else, it might've looked like he was the type to belong to the sea more than he does on land. Still, sand dusts his ankles, and his hair—longer now, messier than it ever has been before—curls damply at the ends like he’d just come from a morning surf. Which technically, he had.
He pauses just shy of the bar, his lips twitching into something that isn’t quite a smile but might be the beginnings of one. His eyes, though—storm-colored—take their time traveling over the scene before settling on her. Chey. Steady. Appraising. Amused.
“Was gonna ask for the light beer and bad decisions, actually,” he teases her, voice low and roughened like the driftwood nearby and, touched with a rasp that makes it sound like he doesn’t often speak more than he has to. “But you ruined the punchline before I even had the chance. Nice goin, 'cuz.”
After sliding onto one of the barstools, with one hand bracing the edge like he wasn’t sure how long he planned to stay, the other reaches up to push his damp hair from his eyes.
“Surprise me,” he adds, after a moment. “Something that doesn’t taste like regret and won't give me the worst hangover in the morning. And make it ugly—too many drinks around here look like they belong on Instagram and are usually too gross and sweet.”.
Chey didn’t even flinch when she heard his voice. It rolled over her like a familiar tide, which was so very Beck in every way. Rough, teasing, and too close to home. Without bothering to look up, she just gave a little shake of her head, already smiling into the drink she was finishing for another customer. “You always were better at lurking than ordering,” she muttered, half to herself, before finally lifting her gaze to him. When her eyes met Beck’s, she gave him the kind of look only a cousin could get away with. Equal parts fond and exasperated. “Aw, Beck,” she drawled, setting the customer's drink down with a wink and a soft “Enjoy that, sugar.” Then turned her full attention to the weathered, sea-brined man parked on her barstool and leaking his sour attitude all over it. “Here I was, just startin’ to enjoy my shift, and you show up lookin’ like Poseidon’s personal problem. Or mine.”
She leaned on the bar, her voice lowering just enough to match his rasp while her smile widened with mischief. “And excuse you. My drinks are pretty, thank you very much. Like me. Not my fault you’ve got the palate of a mechanic and the attitude of a tired grandpa.” Still, she reached for a lowball glass. Something thick, simple, and with no frills just for him. “Somethin’ bitter and burnt, just like your soul. Comin' right up.” She threw together something dark and citrusy, a splash of smoked whiskey, a squeeze of orange, and just a whisper of honey before sliding it across to him with an exaggerated flourish. “Here,” she said, chin tilted. “No umbrellas, no glitter, a total mood killer and it won’t kill your liver before the weekend. But it might make you slightly less grumpy.” She paused, then added with a raised brow, “What’re you doin’ here anyway? You finally get tired of pretendin’ you hate people? So you thought you'd test that theory out by botherin' little ol' me?”
Wes shifted on the daybed, letting the warm breeze dry the last of the salt water clinging to his skin. His gaze snagged on a pair of ivory cowboy boots near the bar, catching the way they glinted in the sun with appreciation. Then came her voice — honeyed, teasing some teenager in a way that made them scatter almost instantly. That ignited a quiet smirk from him, followed by a low chcukle as he drained the last of his water bottle. He'd spent the afternoon letting the ocean do what the doctors said it would — something about salt water and movement being good for his leg, for the stiffness that sometimes prevented him from sleeping at night. Healing or something.. or so they claimed. He wasn't sure, but he quite liked the quiet it gave him after a long morning of ranching. His own boots scuffed lightly against the deck as he pushed up, gathering the courage it took to walk the few steps over to the bar. The pretty blonde behind it was hard to miss, her boots, her easy confidence, the way she seemed like she belonged wherever she stood.
Wes cleared his thoat softly, his voice lowering somewhat when he spoke. "Oh, uh.. no trouble," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, the sun still warm on his skin. "Just hoping for a drink before I head home." His gaze lingered on the bright, lime-coloured drink with the tiny umbrella in her hand, before lifting to meet her gaze. A slow, shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That your concoction?" He shifted, his fingers tapping lightly against the bar, his eyes holding hers for a quiet moment. "Looks like trouble," he added, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, betraying a hint of humour beneath the nerves. "Might have to try it sometime."
Chey gave him a once-over that was anything but subtle. It started at his own boots and gradually lingered on the way his shirt clung to his torso. Before finally settling on those shy eyes and that smile of his that underestimated just how dangerous it could be. Her own mouth curled in a slow simper before she leaned in and folded her arms over the bar like she was settling in for more conversation with the handsome stranger. “Well now,” she sing-songed, voice dropping into something softer and silkier. “You sure got that ‘trouble’ look about you, cowboy. All sun kissed skin an' quiet, an' probably got a truck nearby that needs a new alternator or smells like cedar an' leather inside it. I know the type.” Her eyes sparkled as she teased him, one perfectly manicured finger tapping against the glass beside her indicating her amateur attempt at becoming a mixologist. “But yes, this one's mine. I call it ‘The Heartbreaker.’ Wanna know why? 'Cause it's tangy, sweet, and will sneak up on you if you’re not careful. Kinda like me, if I’m bein’ honest.”
She winked, then pushed off the bar just enough to grab a clean glass. “Tell you what, guy who claims he's no-trouble.” She didn’t know his name yet, but she was good at reading people, and this one said plenty. “I’ll whip you up one on the house, since you look like you've had a long day and you’re bein’ real polite about it. But then you'll have to promise to be honest with me about how good it tastes. Alright?” As she started mixing and pouring with ease, she glanced back at him, curious. “You come around here often?" Never when she's workin' that's for damn sure or else she'd remember. "If not, you should. The housewives would eat you up." Not that, she could blame them of course.
Chey had been leaning against one of the polished edges of the bar, her freshly glossed lips wrapped around an umbrella straw as she sipped on something sweet and limey and definitely not on the menu. A concoction she just whipped up five minutes ago and vainly named after herself, should anyone ask to try it. Her name tag glinted against her crisp white tank top tucked into a designer pair of cut off denim shorts that cost more than most folks' car payments and showed more than enough legs. And on her feet? were cowboy boots, of course. The ivory leather kind with the silver inlay. Her legs crossed at the ankles while she people watched like she had all the time in the world.
Which maybe she did? Either way, Chey watched as a pair of teenaged tourists stumbled over their chairs near the outdoor fire pit. Instead of flinching or rushing over to help, she just smirked into her drink, had sugar and salt catching on the corners of her mouth while she stifled a laugh. "Y’all okay over there, or do I need to call the lifeguard and your mama for some back up?" Her texan honeyed drawl came out edged in sass. Meanwhile behind her, the ocean sighed against the shore while the bar hummed with a lazy summer energy that never seemed to wane. To pass the time, she proceeded to busy herself by swiping a cloth across the counter, mostly for show and to look like she was actually working, as a new figure approached.
Without missing a beat, she turned their way and smiled. “Well hey there, stranger. You look like trouble or someone who jus' needs a drink. Maybe both.” She set her glass aside from earlier and arched a brow in their direction. “What’ll it be, darlin'? And before you ask, no we don’t serve light beer and bad decisions before 6 o'clock. But anything else, I can consider makin' do. Jus' don't forget to tip your bartender, 'kay?”
open to anyone (0/2)
location: briar ridge rec center
He'd been out of the game for a little while, mostly since he had moved to Briar Ridge. But back home, Kit was somewhat of an athlete. As a child, he played little league, which rolled over into what could've been a professional baseball career had it not been for that fateful night in October when he was 16. Dislocated his knee in the middle of the SEC Finals and he never went back to baseball again.
However, as he grew older, and he needed to find a new way to occupy himself between the depression and the alcoholism, he took up being a little bit of a gym nut. Everyday was the same routine, and he liked to stay consistent. Wake up 4:30am. Drink a protein shake 4:45am. Gym 5:30am. Healthy breakfast 6:45am. Then he could start his day.
But it had officially hit the three-month mark of not being consistent in the slightest. In LA, he also had the pleasure of having an in-home gym where he could roll out of bed and just get started. But here, he had to make sure his schedule and his babysitter aligned with the times he wanted to go out to the Rec Center and get a workout in.
Finally, this particular Thursday evening, he had the opportunity to go get his work out in. He headed to the gym, found a little place in the corner to get started on his stretches, put his noise-canceling earphones on and got going.
Cheyenne had just finished her workout on the elliptical and had sweat glistening from her brow when she spotted the other in the mirror before she saw him more properly. She’d been a regular at the Rec Center for about a month now, working on her glutes. As a cowgirl, they were an important part of the body one ought to treat well. And truth be told, she didn't much mind the place. The folks were friendly enough, and it reminded her a little of home. It wasn't Texas exactly, but there was a warmth to Briar Ridge if you bothered to look close enough or try to find it.
Bored and looking for a source of entertainment wherever she could get it, Cheyenne grabbed her water bottle from the cup holder and made her way over toward the mats, casually stretching her hamstrings as she offered the stranger a half tilted smile. Not flirty, more so neighborly. “Well hey there,” she greeted him with a wave, in that thick southern drawl of hers that made everything sound much sweeter than it actually was or it was intended to be. “Ain’t seen you around here before. You new or you just blend in real well?” Despite the question, her eyes sparkled with curiosity. She wasn't being nosy, she was just genuinely interested. After all, Briar Ridge could feel real small if you didn’t make an effort to talk to folks.
