The thing about being from a small town was that there was slim pickings when it came to what drunk-night-out food a guy could have. Luckily, Corey wasn't picky. They'd been living on a budget their whole life, so they weren't gonna stick their nose up at some cheap runny eggs and a side of overcooked, oversalted bacon. This time of night, though, Corey would settle for a greasy cheeseburger and some fries. "Dude, I ain't seen you in forever," Corey greeted to the muscular, oak-tree of a man as they invited themselves into his booth. "Although, to be honest, I've been avoiding this place. That waitress I was screwing around with took offense to me not being the settling-down type, and I was afraid she'd spit in my coffee. She usually works the day shift, though, so hopefully I'm safe and her co-workers haven't heard what a huge asshole I am." They stretched out in the booth, long limbs taking up way too much room. "What're you having? I'm not paying for it. I'm just taking suggestions."
Starter For: @carverbrunswick
Location: Outside Last Call
Corey had never really paid too much attention to whatever dramatics their employer was involved in. Why the hell did they care what people who had more money than Corey would ever have got up to? They respected and appreciated Declan for giving them a hand when things were rough, offering them a place to perform on a regular basis to supplement their carpentry income, but Corey wasn't gonna go to bat for the guy. He could take care of himself.
Still, they'd figured it was the smarter move to stay out of Wild Horses for now, in case anyone got the wrong idea about someone who had the name Byrne sign their pay checks turn up. Corey would handle themselves in a fight, but right now, maybe it was best not to go looking for one. Of course, that could easily change if Corey's oppositional defiance and rebellious nature decided to rear its head.
"Carver, ya got a light? I can't fuckin' find mine," Corey huffed, patting down all their pockets and digging through keys, wallets, and even a few nails and a small screwdriver, but still coming up empty. "Ain't seen you around at Lady Luck for a while. Yours run out or something?"
"Itâs like some of us are chasing after our nightmares the way other people chase dreams." Some insight, rare, from Catalina. The woman was looking at the sky, the stars, feeling overwhelmed by life and strangely, comforted by how small and insignificant she truly was. In the end, she was only one, barely one. Catalina was not looking at whoever was next, didn't even know if they had just stood there or sought her out. "I think I need another drink," she finally said with a laugh.
It was cold as balls outside, and Corey was disgustingly sober (or at least not drunk). That could be changed, though. Corey's thick flannel jacket was pulled tightly around them, breath frosting on the air. "Huh?" they turned their head towards the woman. Decidedly not sober. "Damn, you feeling all, uh, what's the word? Macabre or whatever?" They pulled a cigarette pack from their pocket, lighting one before offering one to the woman.
Their acoustic guitar was strapped across their back, leftover from their open mic night performance at a bar filled with old cowboys who weren't easily impressed by a performer they saw as not-a-man dressed in courderoys and a baggy denim shirt. If they weren't gonna dress for the male gaze, what use were they? Running into someone who seemed to be the exact opposite of that might make their night a little better. "I could get ya that drink after I put my guitar back in the car. Or I could give ya a ride home, if you'd rather sleep off the future hangover."
Name: Corey Jensen (The Performer)
Age: 33 years old
Gender & Pronouns: Non-binary, they/them
Occupation: Musician
Affiliation: Byrne
Faceclaim: E.R. Fightmaster
Biography:
TW: illness, death, misgendering
All of Coreyâs life, they were forced into boxes. The first boxes came in the form of labels; princess, beauty queen, precious flower. They came in the form of pretty dresses and ribbons and tiaras. Coreyâs childhood felt like a constant reminder of their motherâs expectations, winning acclaim in pageants and contests. They were forced out of dirty grey sweatpants and into evening gowns, messy ponytails were transformed into perfectly curled hair, Â and basketballs were shoved into a cupboard in favor of piano playing and singing. That last part was the only part Corey found any joy in.
They had a talent for music early on, and it was their only real interest that their mother allowed them to pursue, even letting Corey embrace their passion for playing guitar, so long as they kept up with piano and keyboards as well. Corey was paraded around the state competing in competitions where talent played a distant second to being a painted doll. They were their motherâs only child, the one chance to live out the dreams their mother had fallen short of. Corey became the receptacle for all their motherâs hopes, their own wants pushed aside. Corey knew their mom loved them. She loved them enough to lose an entire family who refused to support an unwed mother, enough to work herself to the bone raising Corey alone as a single mom when their father never wanted to be in the picture. Yeah, Coreyâs mom loved them, but sometimes Corey felt their mom never really saw them. In Angela Jensenâs eyes, Corey was a perfect little girl. It took Corey many years to grapple with all the reasons their momâs words and expectations had never felt right for them.
Corey had enough independence to put their foot down and stop participating in the pageants when they turned eighteen. They stood as tall as their lanky, six-foot-one frame would allow to tell their mother that being looked at by mostly grown men as a symbol and object of the most boring and traditional femininity made their skin crawl. They wanted to pursue music, real music (or what constituted real music to them, at least). They wanted to be a freaking rock star, not a beauty queen. They started playing local shows, digging as deep as they could into the contacts theyâd made in the years of pageantry, kicking and clawing and scratching for any chance they could get at performing in a way that was fulfilling to them. The shows got bigger, the audiences more intense, and Corey even caught the eye of a record label who wanted to help them put out an album. But then came the diagnosis.
Their mom had been growing more and more clumsy lately, dropping things, tripping. After months putting off going to the doctor, Corey finally bothered their mom into it. They almost wished they hadnât, an entirely selfish thought that would keep them up at night wrecked with guilt for even thinking it, but when Corey found out their mom had Huntingtonâs, that things were only going to grow worse as it progressed, they couldnât leave her alone. Corey did everything they could to pay the bills, to be a caretaker just like their mom had done for them, apprenticing and becoming a carpenter and laborer so they had something reliable, outside the music they loved.
They spent years burying their dreams and desires, a life of art no longer seeming to be possible under the weight of brand new expectations. Corey had all but given up hope when the Byrne family became the closest thing to their saving grace, offering them a permanent position as a performer at Lady Luck. It wasnât touring, travelling, new crowds every night, but it was stable, and that was about all Corey could ask for.
When their mom passed away, a decade after the initial diagnosis, Corey was left with an empty house and a mixture of relief, and guilt for feeling that relief. Now theyâre free from the shackles that once held them to town, all shackles that is except their loyalty to the Byrne family and their fear that maybe itâs too late for them to start over.
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