Dark hues flicker back towards a group of male but nothing registers. In truth, she doesn’t want to spent too much time looking at them in fear that it gives them the wrong idea. Least of all does she want them to come here. Her initial thought is someone that she may have ignored at a bar or ghosted in the past. A faceless individual who she’d let be above her for a night in order to get her kicks off. It had happened a time or two where they’d returned to give her a piece of her mind but she was fairly quick to threaten them with a phone call to the police.
“Just ignore them,” she tells Rodeo. While she would like to tell him that this doesn’t happen often, it does. There isn’t a place she can go to without at least one person undressing her. Her tight fitted clothes hugged her curves and left little to the imagination which got the attention of men and women alike. She’s gotten used to it, and most of the time, she can easily shrug it off.
This time, however, there’s something that brings a shiver to her spine and she soon finds out when the group approaches them and entraps them within the bench. Dark hues flick as she looks at every individual face until it lands on him. The one who speaks and the one who has a problem with her. An old client. “Oh,” she says with a laugh and a shake of her head. “What is this? Some kind of intimidation act?” Revenge. Not that she wanted to say that aloud in fear of what the men had in mind. They were outnumbered and she couldn’t help but feel panic beneath to creep inside of her chest.
She wants to kick Rodeo under the table because he seems to be hitching for a fight and all it takes is two of them to deal with him while the other sweeps her up. “Let’s all think clearly now. There’s cameras and other people here. I’d hate for me to end what I started with you ending up in jail.” She says directly to the male who isn’t happy that she couldn’t save him from jail time. She had promised that he would most likely walk but the evidence had been too strong and her hands were tied. He’d left for his sentence and she’d never thought of him again.
Clearly, he had thought of her. Now, she wondered if he even followed her here as he clearly knew who she was with. God, she couldn’t be more grateful that they hadn’t found her when she was alone.
He continues and she shakes her head at them as she begins to rise from the booth. She wants to walk away and she doubts they’re brave enough to do anything in public. “Come on, we’re leaving.” The brunette tells the other male as she tries to walk out but is blocked by a large frame. “Move the fuck over before I call the cops.” Just as she’s about to shove, she feels a large hand wrap around her bicep which makes her reel backwards.
The male’s words echo behind her on how this is going to go, and all Morgan can do is wish that they’d never come here to begin with. “Let me go,” she hisses until she pulls herself out of his grasp and falls back into the seat she’d just vacated. Wild eyes search around in the hope that someone sees what’s going on and is in the process of calling the cops. When she doesn’t see anyone, she reaches for her own phone.
“This has to do with me and the fact that this ass hat couldn’t keep himself out of jail to save his own life. He fucked up and there was video of him committing a crime.” Her eyes direct up to the male in question who was pissed about her service. “I’m not a miracle worker.” She tells him with a shake of her head as she peers back at Rodeo. “They’re not worth it.” And they weren’t. Mainly, she feared that he would be turned into a puddle on the ground when they were done because he was outnumbered. As for her, well god knows what would happen if they started to break out in a fight.
“I’m calling the cops.”
...
Sure, there are cameras here. But Rodeo ain’t worried about them, or the witnesses, or anything besides the wrath of god he’s about to rain down on these dumb motherfuckers. He’s sure of one thing, and it’s that no one who works at Lewis’-- and not many of its patrons neither-- got love for the police, and they won’t be calling in the cavalry over a brawl started by a man they know is a member of Valencia. The gang whose brand he wears on his wrist affords him protection from anyone with a mind to get on the horn with the pig pen downtown, and as long as he makes this quick he don’t imagine it will net him much trouble.
Besides, it won’t be the first fists he’s thrown in this bar. There’s a precedent, he ain’t worried-- he’s nothing but mad, sweat burning his scalp and rage rising higher with each wrong move the men make.
First, they don’t heed his warning. Maybe that’s ‘cause Morgan butts in, getting up as if to leave, as if retreating is even an option for him. No. He don’t walk away. He doesn’t even get up when she does, he just lifts his blue gaze and watches her try. It’s no surprise that they don’t let her go, but the bug-eyed fuck with whipcord amphetamine muscles who grabs Morgan by the arm seals their fate.
These men are gonna know his wrath.
[ tw: gratuitous violence beneath the cut ]
“No fuckin’ cops,” he snarls at Morgan, cutting his cold blue gaze her way. He hopes she’s bluffing, but the look he gives her is a warning just in case she means it. She’d better not call the fucking cops while he’s in this bar, or she’ll have made herself another enemy tonight.
Now, the stone-faced desperado who has taken the Good Time Cowboy’s place turns his eyes back on the trio at the end of the table. He’s sure these pusillanimous crankheads think they got the upper hand on him, just ‘cause they got him outnumbered. Three of them and one of him oughta put the odds in their favor, and he doubts that Hip Holster is the only one of ‘em packing heat. But three guns are nothing when he’s this boiled up on righteous rage, and he’s not afraid to show ‘em.
He’s got a good idea that the head honcho, the fella with the high-and-tight and the Baghdad hangover, is the only one who might give him any trouble. So he starts there. In one snap-fast move he reaches across the table, grasps the man by his shirt collar, and wrenches down to slam the fella’s face against the tabletop. He hits so hard his teeth bite through his lip and leave dents in the wood, and when he comes up in a blur of whiplash delirium there’s blood running down his chin from his busted mouth.
The vet’s two compatriots jump to his rescue, but Rodeo was expecting as much. He rises up from the booth as Hip Holster draws his revolver, and in a move that’s so fast and instinctive it looks like he’s done it a thousand times, Rodeo grabs the man’s wrist before he can even lift it past hip-shot height and snaps it to the side, dislocating his shooting hand from the ball of his wrist. He takes the gun from the man’s limp grasp, spins it smoothly in his hand, and wraps his fist around the grip. Using the butt of his own pistol, Rodeo delivers two quick hits to the would-be Butch Cassidy’s nasal cavity, creating a shattered mess of bone and cartilage that leaves him struggling to breathe through bubbles of blood.
It only takes seconds, and Crony #1 is on the ground glugging blood and groaning before the other even makes his move. Rodeo turns to the tall fella with the bug-eyes just in time to see that the move he’s settling on is to whip a knife out of his pocket and reach for Morgan, and Rodeo actually laughs at the sight of it.
“Oh, you’re dumber’n dogshit, ain’t you?” Rodeo growls with a mad grin on his mouth, eyes alight with elated bloodlust. He grabs hold of the other man before he even gets a hand on Morgan, dragging him back out of the booth. The man might have a hunting knife in hand, but Rodeo acts for all the world like he doesn’t, throwing fast punches into the man’s face and gut until he’s windy enough not to know what to do with the knife anymore. He slashes blindly in his confusion, but any concern Rodeo might have about that knife is eclipsed by the Marine motherfucker who has finally recovered from the initial blow delivered by his collision with the tabletop.
The vet twists out of his seat and dives for Rodeo, driving a shoulder into Rodeo’s gut. It throws his footing, and he careens backwards until his spine hits the bar behind him, upsetting glasses and earning a chorus of shouts. Rodeo gives a breathless laugh when the air is knocked from his lungs. The laugh throws ol’ leatherneck, who looks up like he didn’t realize he was tusslin’ with a mad dog. Rodeo gives him a rabid smile and then smashes his forehead against the man’s military cut cranium.
Blood runs down the man’s face, but he still tosses his fists just fine. He gets a hook into the crescent arch of Rodeo’s eye socket and a second punch to Rodeo’s kidney, but that’s the most he gets before Rodeo snatches a beer bottle from the bar behind him and swings it across the other man’s head. The glass shatters, lukewarm beer splashes, and then Rodeo drives the Marine into the ground and bounces his skull against the floor ‘till he stops moving.
Cracking the vet’s high-and-tight melon has him so preoccupied that he don’t notice the bug-eyed man at his back ‘till the fucker tucks a blade up under his chin, but that’s no use. He grabs the skinny shit by the wrist and flips him right over his back, slamming him to the floor quick enough to cut off a shriek that tries to leave the man’s mouth. Rodeo gets up, stepping on the man’s throat while he takes the hunting knife out of his hand. With his jaw clenched in tightly wound rage, Rodeo sinks the blade to skewer the man’s palm, leaving a stigmata piercing to remember him by.
With all three men on the ground-- two writhing in pain, one not moving at all-- Rodeo steps over the mess he’s made and crosses back to Morgan. He’s still dark-eyed, still looking nothing like the man Morgan knows, but he holds out a battered, bloody hand to her anyhow.
“Now we’re leavin’,” he declares, waiting for her to come with him.
Kira has learnt to follow her gut. Granted, it’s a lesson that she learnt the hard way a long time ago. She had been a different person at the time. Someone who was hooked on alcohol and drugs, and who danced for men so she could pay her rent. She’d allow most people the benefit of the doubt until a couple had taken advantage of that. Despite the twist of her gut that should have made her halt, she went ahead without thinking twice.
Never again. While she didn’t begin to fear people, she knew better than to ignore the warning signs that came with some individuals. While some may have been weary about a large male hanging around the women’s shelter, it took her a few times to understand why he was there. When no one knew who he was and he put all to women at ease, she began to trust him. He was there as a layer of force. His presence would be enough to deter any ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, or any male who’d decided to come here for payback. It was why she also felt safe with him around.
She trusted him. At the sight of the dog — well, that was easy enough — because she adored animals. They were better than humans and any mean dog was that way because there was an horrible human behind them. It was something that she truly believed, which was why she instantly reached out for the animal. She trusted her owner and it was evident how much care he had for his dog. He loved her, from what she could see.
“She’s gorgeous.” Kira mumbled as she sat beside the dog and began to pet her in the way everyone should. It was actually a miracle she hadn’t full on laid beside the animal and stayed there for the next hour.
“God. Old beef from any gas station sounds horrible. I don’t think I can blame her for that.” Kira says on a laugh as she leans down to press a kiss to the animal’s head. She almost jokes about taking the dog home with her because she seems so sweet but decides to hold it on her tongue. She’s already got a good home with him. “You should have said that before.” The brunette says as she nudges the male playfully. Placing her cup of coffee on the picnic table, she heads back inside to get some sandwiches going.
When she’s done two each for both the owner and the dog, she comes out with an additional pot of coffee. “Here you go, babe.” She places the coffee in front of Rodeo and a plate, before she kneels down to place a plate with two sandwiches in front of Mags. It doesn’t take long for her to eat and the brunette can only smile. “There’s a lot more where that came from. Eat up.”
...
Rodeo is grinning, glad and good-natured, while Kira gives Sweet Melissa a good scratch-down. He can tell by how the mutt rolls on her back and kicks her foot that Kira is doin’ it right, skritchin’ that spot on her chest that she loves the most. He laughs when Sweet Melissa’s kicking foot thumps against the leg of the picnic table rhythmically, pounding out a beat that shows her appreciation for the scratches.
By the time Kira stands, he’s warmed up to the idea of taking the food she’s offered him. He really had wanted to insist that he was fine, but Kira don’t seem to mind feeding him and he is awful hungry. Food, like sleep, is something he’s rather neglectful of these days. The need to keep moving to outrun his blues prevents him from stopping long enough to even microwave a frozen dinner for himself. It’s always gas station junk food for him, or take out, or chugging a cold can of chili while he heads out the door of his trailer.
But there’s something to be said for food that’s made for him, even if it’s just a sandwich put together with him in mind. Back home, he always reckoned the meals made by his sister gave him the best nourishment on account of her love for him being a real ingredient, just the same as everything else she tossed in. And even though Kira is still just an acquaintance, bordering on being a friend, Rodeo thinks it’d do him good to eat what she brings him. Maybe chase the hollow pangs in his heart away, just as much as the empty feeling in his stomach.
So, when she returns with some sandwiches and coffee, Rodeo is real glad to accept. He stubs out the butt of his cigarette in the ash tray on the table and eagerly takes the plate she offers him. He’s already torn off two chomping great bites of one sandwich before Kira even gets the second plate down in front of Sweet Melissa, and he chuckles around a mouthful of food as his dog tears into the meal with the same ravenous ferocity. Her tail wags as she wolfs down the sandwiches, and Rodeo reckons if he had one it’d be waggin’ too.
“Shit, mama. You the real sandwich artist, all them motherfuckers at Subway just gone ‘n stole your valor,” Rodeo tells Kira as he swallows the last bite of the first sandwich, already picking up the second. He holds it up as if to toast, shaking his head in genuine appreciation for what he’s been given. “Thanks for this. To be true, I was hungrier’n a moth in a nudist colony. And thanks for not tellin’ me to scram, too. I know y’all can handle your shit around here. I’m not meanin’ to imply otherwise. Just hopin’ I can make myself useful, is all.”
it was a thunder’n and thunder’n and lightnin’, you know the day this poor boy was born. i ain’t never known nothin’ but your trouble, your trouble and your hate and scorn. you know my daddy, lord, he died in a train wreck. yeah, my momma, she was born to lose.
you know my middle name is natural born trouble,
yeah, and my last name is the blues,
oh yeah, my last name it is the blues...
i see the cold light a-comin’ from the window of your warm forty-thousand dollar home. oh yeah, but i don’t need you people because the blues they was meant to roam.
well now hunger is my companion,
cold and pain they know my cry.
oh yeah you people, you can pray for salvation,
but the blues don't never die, no no.
yeah, the blues don’t never die.
As soon as the other man speaks, Acacia looks away. Embarrassment makes her smile fade and she can’t help but wonder how desperate she must seem to everyone around them. It was almost as though she’d forgotten about the people around them. Her expression shifts to something more apologetic as her eyes flick to meet his briefly. When Rodeo speaks, her head cants to the side as she tries to understand what he’s saying. Wariness settles in her warm brown eyes - after her ex, it’s understandable. There’s some silent communication going on between them, and she doesn’t realize that she was holding her breath until the strangers.
The smile she flashes up at Rodeo is grateful, and any wariness dissolves when his smile returns. Far too trusting for her own good, as long as Rodeo seemed to be okay with how things resolved Acacia was happy to accept it. She nods eagerly, clearly pleased by his decision. “Thank you. I’ll try not to keep you waiting long,” she promises before scurrying away to finish up.
Once her shift was up, she rushed to the employee-only area and changed into something more appropriate for getting dinner. Glad she had the presence of mind to keep a spare outfit in her locker, Acacia isn’t able to help lingering in front of a mirror to touch up her make-up and hair. It might be an impromptu date, but the butterflies in her stomach are impossible to deny. When she steps back on to the floor, that same hope is shining in her eyes as when she asked if he’d mind waiting for her. True to his word, she finds him just where he says he’d be.
Much like before, she hovers at his elbow with a shy smile. “Did you still want to grab a bite to eat?” Acacia asks, hope radiating from her petite form. She wouldn’t be able to fault him for changing his mind, but god does she hope he still wants to. It’s juvenile and stupid, she knows, but she can’t help it.
...
Here’s how his hour went:
First, he folded that two of hearts and washed his bets ‘till the next deal. But it wasn’t ‘cause of the shit hand he’d been holdin’. It was because it’s Rodeo’s policy not to leave a table when he’s got money in the pot, and he knew he was gonna have to leave this table. Because that gout-fat Bushmills sausage don’t have any such policy, and Rodeo knew eventually the fella’s Irish whiskey would run through him and force him on a piss break.
He wasn’t wrong. Just before the dealer turned the river, the man got up and made a beeline for the bathroom-- and Rodeo got up too, crossing the casino floor with his typical purposeful swagger.
Here’s the thing. He woulda let it all slide, odious as the motherfucker’s unwanted intrusion was, if it wasn’t for the shadow it had put on his lil cupbearer’s face. He’d watched the look of shame and embarrassment darken her big brown eyes and he had known absolutely, at that very moment, that the man who put that look there would have to pay for it.
So Rodeo followed the man into the bathroom and taught him a lesson he really oughta have already learned by his age. He didn’t go overboard or nothin’. The ol’ drunk’s got a weak enough constitution that Rodeo was aware he wouldn’t be able to take much of a beating. But he still got his nose cracked against the tile behind the urinal while he was unzipping for his piss, and with blood gushing from his nostrils he cowered and nodded as Rodeo told him, “you better run on outta here, and if you ever come back, best hope I don’t catch you. You ever see my face again, partner, it’s gonna be the last thing you see.”
Then, with that settled and done with, Rodeo sauntered on back to his table and threw in his blind for another round.
With only a two pair in hand by the last bet, Rodeo still managed to get the rest of the table to fold. By the time his Queen of Cups arrives, he’s up $840-- as much as he promised her he’d be. It’s a sure thing their dinner won’t cost near to that much, not even if they ordered one of everything off the menu at Blue Hill, but it’s the flex that counts.
He’s right where she left him, like he never moved at all. Like he didn’t take a detour from raking the table to bust a man’s face while she was away. There ain’t a hint of that darkness when he twists in his seat to look to her, eyes just sunny as an unclouded day as they take her in.
She changed her clothes, she did her hair, and she’s got such a sweet and hopeful look about her... a stab of guilt pierces his gut, but it don’t carry up to his face. He’s real used to ignoring that voice inside, these days it’s locked in a redwood coffin and buried six feet down in his chest and any utterance it tries to make is swallowed up and lost to the grave. If it’s tellin’ him now that what he’s doing is wrong, well, it’s just too bad he can’t hear none of it.
“’Course I do, darlin’,” Rodeo smiles at her. He stands from his seat, a big hand coming up to touch to her elbow as he rises up beside her. His palms are rough and callused, his knuckles are split and bruised. But if he’s worried about what that might tell her, he doesn’t show it-- instead he nods at the dealer and drops his hand from Acacia’s arm to sweep his chip jackpot into the bucket the dealer offers him for cash-out. Once he’s gathered his winnings he reaches for her again, tucking his arm behind her back, as greedy and bold as he pleases. He shakes the bucket of chips and nods his head towards the cashier’s cage. “Just gotta cash out. Hope you’re hungry, darlin’, ‘cause knowin’ I’d be earnin’ my chips for you made me a real industrious bounder, I’ll tell ya what. How about we buy out the whole dessert case at Blue Hill?”
He’s not concerned that she might know the cashier he hands his chips to when they reach the cage. He keeps his arm around her, and while the cashier counts out his winnings he looks down at her and lifts his brows, adding another question. “And how you feel about takin’ the ride over on my bike with me?”
[ 2:56 AM ]
[ → rodeo ] woah did you know if u start slayer's reign in blood exactly 1 min 21 sec into maximum overdrive the lady i invited over will leave
[ ← axel ] that mean she's headed over here? Should have played angel of death bitches love death
[ → rodeo ] listen brother. she can make her way on over to you but ya might wanna pretend not to be home if she comes knockin. the gal drives a champage lesabre & thinks plato is a sculpting material so you know she the type to poke holes in the condom.
[ ← axel ] nevermind I don't need any more kids and I can't trust anyone who thinks champagne is a color.
[ → rodeo ] champagne is a color. the color of cowardice & jejune. a color that should serve as a warning in nature. like the poison dart frog. but for bitches who likely got a "live laugh love" tramp stamp & dab the grease off their pizza with a napkin.
[ → rodeo ] bro why you even UP at this hour.
[ ← axel ] i tend to terrify those types anyways. just like slayer did. your mind really does go crazy elaborate with everything doesn't it?
[ ← axel ] no rest for the wicked and I took a nap already.
[ → rodeo ] damn. i'm out here stargazin. you should come meet me on the wide blue yonder sometime, check out my sweet digs, have a drink, let me challenge ya to fisticuffs under the twinklin stars. it'll be a night my friend.
[ ← axel ] might just take you up on that now that I know you're awake at this time of night. normally I am just getting home from after hours at Rogue's right now
[ → rodeo ] like a long haul trucker on a bennie bender, i'm always up. just let me know when, brother. i'll play ya in with angel of death.
Typically, she doesn’t smoke, but he’s being a gentleman about things so she indulges, leaning in to light a cigarette. “I’m saying you remind me of school,” she clarifies with ease. Or at least..the bits she was there for. Maite shrugs. “Sounds about right..men being vengeful just ‘cause they can’t keep their own fuckin’ balance.” Perhaps her views aren’t entirely fair, but the thought of lingering in a world you no longer are part of because you’re mad you tripped..isn’t a brilliant light. Add to it the fact that over the years, someone else’s anger almost always sparked alarm bells in her mind.
It also speaks to how little schooling she actually paid attention to on the occasions she was in a classroom. She doesn’t know the conditions factory workers labored under, especially in the first part of the century.
Darlin dagger gets him an eye roll and a smoke ring for his trouble, but it’s better than lil mama. “I mean..they printed textbooks, didn’t they? Been called a lot of things but ornithologist is sure a fuckin’ first,” she answers, opting for another drag on her cigarette. Maybe she did pay attention in a classroom because context clues are the only reason she can guess at what it means. who talks like that? she wondered.
“Crows are smart. You can tell a lot about where they live if you get to know them…They like shiny things, you know,” Maite adds, almost thoughtfully. Her cuervitos were the same way. She left offerings that they liked, they left little things they thought she might like. But he didn’t need to know that, if he didn’t already. Members of Valencia didn’t need to know that she cultivated a network of eyes around the city if they didn’t already. Admittedly, if it was seen as a threat, they likely would have dealt with her by now. Turning to look up, she searched the depths of his eyes as if they would reveal something he didn’t want. There’s no helping the question that falls from her lips: “If you’re so afraid of ghosts, cowboy, why are you in here by yourself? Lose a game of truth or dare?”
...
He likes her take on his tale of vengeful steel workin’ spirits, and it shows in an amused smirk that pulls at his mouth. She’s right about the nature of man-- that vindictive pride that makes a fella place blame for his own failings, a facet of testosterone derangement that he’s known since his earliest days. When Cornelius Hawkins was busted out on a bad bet, it was often his spitting image son who paid the price. He wonders if maybe his lil ghost story is some kind of Freudian allegory, but then he decides it ain’t-- it’s just some bullshit he’s been makin’ up, tellin’ the other soldiers when they come here in the dark of night for a deal just to see whose cage he can rattle. There’s nothing else to it.
He’s interested in the factoid she feeds him about crows. He guesses it ain’t a euphemism, then-- she really is out here lookin’ for birds, and she knows a thing or two about them too. He wants to press for more, intrigued by the idea of learning from this bird-watchin’ little switchblade of a woman, but then she asks her question and he’s pinned on the spot.
Well, she’s got him there, don’t she? What’s gonna be his excuse, then? He’s out here with a ladder, clearly doing some kind of work, whether she’s aware of the nature of his task or not. The cameras he installed are no bigger than the rusted bolts that dot the beams overhead, so he knows there’s a good chance she didn’t actually see anything clearly enough to be certain of it-- but it’s also possible those sharp eyes saw everything, and she’s just too cunning to let it on. Rodeo draws on his cigarette, squinting against the smoke that wafts by his eyes as he studies her in the patchy dim of the sunlight filtered through the shattered warehouse windows.
“Guess you could say I drew the short straw. Job’s a job, though,” he says. It’s vague, and probably reads as purposefully so, but if she’s already figured out who he works for (and he’ll bet she has) then she likely figures he can’t say more.
Rodeo turns away from her and sticks the cigarette between his lips for safekeeping. His hands grasp the ladder and wrench to collapse it. The clatter of metal echoes loudly in the hollow warehouse, bouncing off cement and steel. He sets the ladder on its side by his feet and looks to her again, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and speaking on a smoky exhale. “M’just about to pack it in, matter of fact. Don’t reckon you’d wanna show me these crows of yours, would ya? I’m a curious fella, wouldn’t mind addin’ a chapter to the ol’ textbook,” Rodeo tells her. Then he realizes that even though he’s picked out his own name for her, he ain’t given her his-- and maybe he ought to, at the very least to drive home the point that he’s got nothing to hide. “Name’s Rodeo, by the by. But cowboy’ll do just fine.”
Morgan can’t help but smirk when the male finally clues in that perhaps she doesn’t know what the hell they’re playing. Despite her guess being right, it was truly a guess on her part. A wry grin creeps upon her face as she inches closer when he begins to go over the rules of the game. Dark tresses bob with the nod of her head as she looks him over. It doesn’t seem that hard to comprehend. In truth, she feels like she has already played it but needed a mere reminder of the rules.
Lips part to tell him that its his turn. Mainly, she wants to know all of his truths and plans on throwing her hands in such a way that she can find out as much as possible about the handsome man opposite her. However, it doesn’t exactly seem like the opportunity is possible as his eyes train on the bar.
His stance makes her want to turn around and stare as well, but she knows better than to be obvious. Rather, she slumps back slightly as he shifts his form. When he inches closer, the brunette leans forward and listens carefully despite the way his breath upon her neck brings forth shivers down her spine. Men. A couple of them. They had been watching her and now that he mentions it, she can practically feel the weight of their gaze upon her.
The way they look down her exposed legs, angled enough to catch the swell of her breast as she exhales. Swallowing thickly, she lets her gaze flick towards Rodeo’s before they venture to the group of men who immediately flash her a smirk. Her stomach flips and she knows this isn’t good. Especially not when they begin to rise from their seat and make their way towards them. The blatant disregard that she’s with someone doesn’t settle her nerves.
Perhaps it’s because they think there’s one of him and multiple of them that they’re able to saunter over. “No,” she quickly tells Rodeo before mossy hues flick up to the group of men who drag chairs to their table. “I’m busy.” She tells them blatantly. It’s evident that one of them is taken back but the rest only seem to laugh.
Their eyes look her over and she suddenly feels naked, cornered, and afraid. A sensation that the brunette hasn’t had in forever. “I suggest you boys find someone else to bother because I doubt you’ll like where this ends.” She spoke quickly, hoping to keep Rodeo out of this as much as possible.
...
[ tw: misogyny, threats of violence ]
Rodeo’s surprised to hear that she doesn’t know them, ‘cause he’s sure that they know her. Take it from a fella with a lot of grudges held against him, he sure knows a man with a vendetta when he sees one. The lecherous stares are just how they’re choosin’ to channel their neanderthal bullshit, but it ain’t the whole of it. Of that, he’s sure.
But there’s no time to try to suss out any more details, try to figure out exactly who he’s dealing with and what their problem with Morgan is. Soon as she notices them, they take it as their cue. Rodeo breathes out through his nose and sits back as they approach. His brows incline as the men grab chairs to settle themselves in, arranging them on the end of the table so that Morgan and her date are ostensibly trapped in their booth seats. They got no clue, really. They could outnumber him ten-to-one, and he’d still wipe the bar with their faces if they get him pissed enough.
He suspects Morgan doesn’t know what these men are biting off, neither. She tells them they won’t like where this ends, but he doubts that she knows just how true her words will ring once these fellas force him into action. And judging by the smirk on their lil’ ringleader’s face, they’re all gonna find out sooner rather than later.
“What, you won’t deal us in?” the man sneers. He’s got a high-and-tight to match his chicken scratch USMC ink, and he’s lookin’ like he’s probably committed himself a couple’a war crimes in his day.
To his left, there’s a fella with bugged out eyes who has the birch-cane build of a man that’s done enough meth to knock a buzzard off a gut wagon. To his right, a thick ol’ ham who’s got his palm rested on the grip of the gun in his hip holster. Rodeo doubts the man knows what he’s doing with that revolver, else he wouldn’t be fingerin’ it like the end of a junior high formal.
“Y’all get turned around somewhere?” Rodeo asks conversationally, twisting in his seat to throw his elbow over the back of the bench so he’s facing the men. His tone, his posture, it’s casual in a way that promises that he’s perfectly confident that not a single one of ‘em is a match for him. “Bathroom’s back that-a-way. Think the glory hole’s in the third stall. Since it seems like y’all are lookin’ to fuck yourselves.”
“I suggest you stay quiet, pal,” Hip Holster snorts, shooting a glare Rodeo’s way. “This doesn’t have to concern you. Our business is with this bitch.”
“Alright. Well, consider me her secretary,” Rodeo says. His eyes flick down to the revolver the man is groping, and his gaze comes back up looking distinctly unimpressed. “You got business with her? You go through me.”
High-and-Tight chortles wetly, shifting in his seat as he takes his eyes off Morgan, finally taking a good long look at the man she’s here with. He seems to come to a conclusion and he gives a huff of understanding as he nods at Rodeo. “Ah. I see. She’s fishin’ for hookups out of her client pool, huh?”
Rodeo’s just about had enough of this now, and it shows. His eyes are stormy weather, his expressive face hard and cold. His fury is focused, still, tensed-- like an eye staring down a sight, finger on the trigger, and they are the target in his crosshairs. The Good Time Cowboy is gone. A different man has taken his place, and the version of James Hawkins that sits across from Morgan now bears almost no resemblance to the ones she’s seen before.
“You got it all wrong, partner. But let me set ya right. This is gonna go one of two ways, and you better decide which road you’re takin’ quick. Either you three meth-mouth shitstains get your asses out them chairs and escort yourselves on outta this town, or you tell your man to draw that pistol and see if he can get it out faster’n I can lay the lot of you into the ground. Your choice,” Rodeo says. His tone is still cool, almost casual, but his eyes hold a deadly promise. It’s real clear he means what he says, and if the men don’t get up and go, this bar might just become his killing floor.
If he’s being honest, he kinda hopes they don’t retreat. After the way they looked at Morgan, Rodeo thinks the three of ‘em oughta get their skulls cracked by a mighty fist. In the moment, he’s not thinking about the consequences, not for him and not for her either. He’s just thinking about how good it would feel to bloody his knuckles busting in that war pig’s face right about now-- witnesses and the law be damned.
Kira doesn’t find it weird to find Rodeo seated at their picnic table in the middle of the night. Rather, the shock had come from the initial fright of not expecting to find someone there only to note the shadow. Perhaps she should have looked out of the window before coming out, but she hadn’t and she was merely happy to find him there as opposed to the male she wanted to avoid tonight. The one who’d promised he’d return to harm the workers and women who slept here safely. In truth, Rodeo’s presence had immediately put her at ease.
“Are you sure because I’ve got a whole feast in there and I’d feel pretty guilty about eating it on my own.” She said as she looked him over. While she doesn’t want to force unwanted food upon him — she would still feel better if she wasn’t worried about him being hungry outside. “You’re bound to get hungry at some point so I’m going to save you something. I’ll bring you some coffee out too.” It was the least she could do.
Her head shook when he mentioned that he didn’t need any tending to, waving him off. “It’s already done, you might as well make it easier on the both of us and just accept it.” Kyra was a woman who liked to do things for others and one who rarely took no for an answer, which was why she hadn’t even taken his words for consideration. She’d bring him out food and if he ate it, then fine, and if he didn’t — that was also fine.
Flicking her eyes towards the head that popped up from the animal she’d barely noticed, she couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll get you something too.” Kira said as she wandered over to the dog and bent down to pet her behind the ears.
She’d come to learn that humans were horrible in their own right and that animals were often the victim of that. If she was honest, she liked animals better than she liked most humans. They only demanded love and gave everything in return. “I’ll get her some water and maybe… some food?” She questioned as she looked over at Rodeo. “What can she eat?” She didn’t have any dog food on hand and she knew that they could eat some human food but not all.
...
As far as Rodeo is concerned, the truest test of character comes when folks meet his dog.
He’s liked Kira just fine the other times he’s encountered her, here ‘n there when he’s working around the shelter. She’s been kind to him, doesn’t seem to regard him with the same knee-jerk suspicion most folks do. It gets tiring, always seeing faces who are lookin’ at him like he’s up to something. So far Kira seems not to think there’s some kind of ulterior motive for the work he does around the shelter and that’s been a relief to him.
But it coulda all gone south real quick when she noticed the dog under the table. Granted, Sweet Melissa ain’t a small thing, but with her gentle amber gaze and her scruffy blonde fur Rodeo reckons she’s anything but threatening. Still, there’s been plenty times where people he thought were perfectly decent revealed their true dearth of character to him by acting a fool around his dog.
There are some folks who are just plain afraid of her, askin’ why she’s got no leash, flinching and jumping when she moves around. There are some who say they ain’t dog people, who seem annoyed and disgusted if Sweet Melissa tries to introduce herself to ‘em. There are some who just plain got a nervous energy, which tells Rodeo that they suspect the dog might see some internal defect they been hiding from the world. Whatever the case, if somebody’s weird about Sweet Melissa, Rodeo takes it as a sign to get some distance right quick.
So he’s curious, when Kira first notices the dog, how she’s gonna land. His blue eyes watch, taking it in-- observing as a warm light comes to her eyes, as a smile seeps across her full lips. She greets Sweet Melissa with just the kind of warmth Rodeo reckons his mutt deserves, which pleases him. He draws on his cigarette, a gratified grin tucked in the corners of his mouth as he watches Kira kneel down to scratch at Sweet Melissa’s floppy ears.
“Oh, darlin’, she can eat anything,” Rodeo assures Kira with a laugh. “Except for gas station roast beef, apparently. She’s too good for a day old checkout rack sandwich.” He sucks on the cigarette, breathes out smoke. “We’d be real grateful for whatever scraps you got to spare. To tell ya the truth, we ain’t ate much today. Kinda slipped my mind.” Rodeo taps the paperback on the side of his head, ruffling his long hair with each blow. “Might look roomy, this big ol’ noggin, but it’s about six inches of skull to two inches of brain in there. Can’t hold much.”
some days are easier. today has been a million-pound weigh cracking the bones on her chest. no clear reason behind it, no justification for the ever constant pounding of her heart: this morning, waking up, she could swear she smelled burning in the air — she asked the patrons, too. any news of a fire? no fred, they all smiled. it’s all in your head, girl.
perhaps it is all in her head, after all. perhaps a million different variables have piled up, exotic ingredients mixed up to give off a sense of doom. there’s that article on the news, her uncle’s face plastered in the corner like some demonic figure leaking out of a screen. there’s the secrets she’s been keeping, personal hauntings that must not be voiced out loud. there’s the fact she hasn’t heard jay in a week, now, and whatever sense of safety she’d found in their relationship, the way it had turned to a shelter — it all feels a lot like quicksand now. shifting quickly beneath her feet, wondering: how steady, really, are you?
most of all, perhaps, it’s the hours she’s been putting in. whole days spent behind the counter, because st. peter’s, at least, still feels like home. the embodiment of the life she’s picked in red ridge: between blurred lines, a smudge between the clear-cut shapes that should represent good and evil. she’d rather stay there, a single dot on the line — where evil can’t reach and she can’t delude herself with good, either. but the hours are long, and her back has been feeling much older than thirty-three, lately — it takes her just a bit of time to focus her attention on the silhouette at the end of the counter (the only one: that, too, is odd for st. peter’s).
her smile is the lazy grimace of a close-to-lifeless body. she’d like to burn brighter, offer him, as well as any other customer, that freddie dawson brand of hospitality that made her so fucking good behind a counter. best she can do is smile, hook a towel over her right shoulder and lean over the counter, a hand lazily trying to hold her head up right. his question is more an enigma, and if she stops to really think about it, she will see the answer is dreaded and pitiful: her mind is clever in avoiding corners it doesn’t need to wander into, so she turns to irony instead: a light, ash-flavored laugh coming out of her in gentle ripples, she turns away and looks to the rest of the bar for a clue. well, she woke up today: that’s gotta count in the toll of favorite things, doesn’t it?
“found a dollar bill in my dirty laundry, does that count?” she turns to him now, an eyebrow quirked (excessive expressionism to make up for how half-alive she looks). “‘m’afraid you’re just gonna find sad, boring stories on this side of the counter, buddy”. a sharp sigh, an apologetic smile — she wishes she could offer more, really. she used to be good at this. all smiles and kind words, at the right time, offering the kind of perspective that turns someone’s day around. she’s turning herself around instead, going crazy in a trap of her own doing. pulling back, fred leaves a hand on the edge of the counter, as if she needed it to hold herself up — as if she could crumble without it. she’s only looking at him now: there’s something about him, like perhaps he shares that same nervousness. maybe there is, in fact, a fire. maybe their noses are just better. for a second she almost wants to ask him: that look on your face, is it because you feel it too? it’s real, isn’t it? something’s happening. something’s burning.
freddie sucks in a breath, pulls herself together as best as she can — then smile. “you want a drink while you play philosopher? the usual, yeah?”
...
A dollar bill in dirty laundry. Maybe that’s the whole truth. Maybe today has been that much a crapshoot for her, maybe it’s just the kinda day where a dollar bill in dirty laundry is all you got to say for it. Or maybe the truth is something more personal, something she ain’t gonna just spill for some stranger who takes a seat at her bar a couple times a week. He won’t press. But it does leave him more curious than he started.
Rodeo sits up, lifting his elbows off the bar. His hand comes up to the toothpick in his mouth like it’s a cigarette he’s needing to ash, but then he realizes it’s not and his hand drops away. He chews a couple times to stave off the itch. “Yeah, sweetheart. Ball the Jack for me,” he says. Sure, he’s aware that there’s better liquors in the world. But he saves bourbon for better days, and that ol’ Tennessee whiskey will never get spoiled by all the bad memories he’s making here. It’ll always just taste like home.
The TV switches over to a trivia game show. The first question is, “The phrase ‘dark horse’ comes from what 1831 novel?” and Rodeo knows the answer is The Young Duke ‘cause one time he picked the novel up while serving an in-school suspension in the library, thinkin’ it’d be the source material for the grainy John Wayne serial he’d catch on TV late at night. It wasn’t, it was nothing like John Wayne at all, but he remembers the dark horse that wins the race anyhow.
Rodeo takes the glass she poured for him and brings it to lips. Frankincense and myrrh. And maybe something else this time... Something smoky and scorched. He swallows around the toothpick gritted in his teeth. The bitter taste is a match for his mood.
“I don’t believe you,” he declares as he sets his glass down on the bar and spins it idly on the slick condensation gathered beneath it. “Folks who only got boring stories love to tell ‘em. But you ain’t tellin’ nothin’, so I’ll bet whatever you got in there--” he taps his finger against his temple-- “it sure ain’t boring.”
And so, with that as his thesis, he polishes off his glass, slides it forward for another pour and asks, “You always live here, lil ember? Or did ya float off from some faraway fire?”
Acacia keeps beaming at him, her head tilting to the side as he starts. She expects him to ask for another drink, maybe even a soda. Her eyes widen in surprise at his request. Offers like it aren’t uncommon, but his seems more genuine than others that have been made. It’s also the first that makes her blush, that pink in her cheeks going a shade brighter. “You sure you don’t mind the wait? I’ll probably be another hour yet,” Acacia informs him shyly, but there’s an undeniable hope in her eyes.
She wants him to say yes, wants to feel like she’s worth waiting for, even if its only an hour. Acacia would be the first to admit to a good many faults, and she knows that chief among them is just how desperately she chases any sort of kindness. She fully expects a regretful light to fill his eyes, and perhaps he’d spare her and say he has to be up early in the morning rather than admit that he wasn’t serious in his offer.
Still, she wouldn’t be able to help but daydream about how nice it would be to sit across from Rodeo and just..talk. Even just listen to him talk in that honeyed drawl of his somewhere that isn’t as loud as the casino.
...
He’s doing a real rotten thing right about now, and he knows it too.
That glittering, beaming, sweet ‘n hopeful look on her face says it all. She’s a force of pure good, her innocence and rectitude untarnished by this seedy world she’s found herself in. She’s out here on this floor like some golden seraph, floating above all this wicked bullshit as she doles out little glasses of her warm glow like the one he got in his hand now. But what happens to her when he’s drunk her all dry? What happens when his darkness casts its shadow on her light?
She don’t know what she’s agreeing to. She don’t know it’s the devil that just asked her to dinner. But he wouldn’t be the devil if he let that stop him, now, would he?
An hour is hardly a long wait to him. It ain’t like he’d be packin’ it in any time soon. Sleep is an elusive beast when guilt is beating the war drums in your skull all the livelong day. Likely he’d be right here ‘till sunup anyhow, gamblin’ his ghost away. He’s about to tell her so, but the fella to his left swivels in his seat to toss his two cents in.
“Hell, gorgeous, if he won’t wait for you, I sure will,” the man chortles.
Rodeo doesn’t turn to the dumb fuck who spoke up, not fully anyway. Maybe it’s the stillness in the way that he keeps his boots planted on the patterned carpet that warns the other man that he’s butted in on the wrong dog’s dinner. Rodeo can see the oh shit realization pass behind the man’s eyes when he tips his head back to look at him. It’s not like he’s worried she’ll take the fella up on his offer-- gout-blotched and more than middle aged, so thick with uric acid he looks about ready to pop like a Bushmills balloon, it ain’t like the man cuts a tempting alternative-- but that don’t mean he plans to let it slide.
“You lookin’ to get carried outta here by the handles, partner?” Rodeo asks him, his tone conversational but his eyes cold with deadly promise.
“Ah, I was just playin’ with you two lovebirds,” the man laughs, waving a swollen hand like a white flag. The corner of Rodeo’s jaw flexes, but he lets that warning simmer for now. He turns his chin back to Acacia, rolling his eyes like can you believe that guy, acting for all the world like he couldn’t straight up kill a motherfucker on the casino floor. No way. He’s a standup guy with a real solid grip on his temper.
“An hour’s nothin’, sweetheart,” he says with an easy smile. “Give me just enough time to take another round, buy us some dessert too. You swing on back when you’re off, alright? I’ll be right here.”
It’s almost all in the details. Maite’s dark eyes sparkle with interest at his chosen..does that even count as profanity? Other than that, she’s remarkably still given the way the man shouted. That was from years of practice, though. Years of having to convince men, who like this one were bigger and stronger than she was, that they didn’t scare her.
Interest turns to annoyance at being called ‘lil mama’, and one brow arches high, a silent excuse you, if ever there was one. She catches sight of the V on his wrist and that eyebrow lowers just a touch. His talk of ghost earns him an eye roll. Lil dagger is certainly better, but she doesn’t want to let on that he’s inching his way towards interesting.
Make them chase you is harder in practice than she thought, but still the young woman offers a shrug. “I don’t see why I’d fear the dead. I’ve never needed a baseball bat to manage them like do the living.” Maite is matter-of-fact in the way she answered. As if everyone needed some kind of weapon to deal with the living more often than not.
Maite tugged lightly on her braid as she took a moment to consider how she wants to answer him. She settles on, “Looking for crows. This is about as good a place to nest as any. Did you find any up there?” Her head tilts as she reaches into her backpack with one hand. Meant to be a gentle tease, she holds out a pack of cigarettes, silently asking if he wants one. Asking without offering would likely either get her nothing or the chance to see if she’d hold her own against him.
“Tell me cowboy, do you always sound like a textbook? Or is that the phantoms talking?” Lightning fast, she winks up at him for good measure just to see what he’d do with it. Maybe she shouldn’t be enjoying this quite so much, but here they were.
...
This little dagger’s a sharp one. There’s an impressed lift to his brows when she mentions a baseball bat, but far as he can tell she ain’t draggin’ a slugger with her so he reckons he’s not about to get his head swung outta the park this very instant. Maybe next time, though. He’s got a feeling it ain’t hyperbole she’s speaking.
It’s quite a standoff they’ve found themselves in. Here Rodeo is, cloudless blue eyes watching for any sign that she’s aware of what he’s been up to, that she might have a mind to tell somebody what she saw in this warehouse. And there she is, eyes sharp as blades, tellin’ him she’s here looking for crows.
Neither of ‘em are showing their hand. And if it wasn’t for what’s at stake, Rodeo would kinda be enjoying himself right about now.
But this ain’t a game, and this little dagger might bleed him out if he lets her. Before they leave here, he’s gotta be sure she don’t know what he was doing at the top of the ladder. He carries on leaning against it, painting the perfect picture of lassitude even as he watches her reach a hand into her backpack with tension coiling at the base of his spine. Is she about to draw on him? With how his day’s been goin’, it seems about par for the course. He’s waiting to see cold steel gleam in her hand as it comes out, but... it’s just a damn pack of cigarettes.
Shit. Paranoia is really getting the best of him these days.
It ain’t like he’s got his Luckies right now, and a subpar cigarette is a subpar cigarette. So he nods in wordless assent and reaches out, pinching one of the cigarettes from her pack. He slips his old gold Zippo from his flannel pocket, thumb flicking the wheel to spark the flame. He holds it out to her so she can light her smoke first before he lights his own.
“A textbook? You sayin’ I’m fit to print?” he smirks, as if she meant it as a compliment. “N’I wouldn’t be so blasé if I was you. Heard tell when this place was open, men would fall into the vats of molten steel and burn up like goddamn Terminator 2. And granted, that does sound metal as fuck, but I’d wager that’s a recipe for a Grade A Vengeful Ghost.” Rodeo pauses to bring the flame to his own cigarette, lighting it up and sucking in a deep breath of smoke. His rough mahogany drawl continues on a smoky exhale. “You some kinda ornithologist, darlin’ Dagger? What business you got with the crows?”
throw me a bone, feed me a line.
pour a hard drink for harder times.
i'm the king of the gutters, the prince of the dogs.
one or the other, a ship lost in the fog.
Jer walked into Rogue’s with purpose. He was ready to start some shit, get into a fight or take out the next person who looked at him wrong. There was no such luck on getting someone to bite, despite his very antagonizing threats and insults. So if he couldn’t punch someone, he could at least watch other people hit each other next door which was why he was at Rogues. Besides, there he was likely to run into his family there. The family he chose, not the blood that abandons, neglects, or abuses then shows up years later acting like nothing happened. Maybe seeing Mitch again had him reeling a little bit, or a lot. Feeling things he’d shoved down, deep inside him never to see the light of day again. Till he saw her, spoke to her. It was like a bomb had been dormant inside of him since he was a kid and it exploded overnight.
The first face he saw belonged to Rodeo, and damn if he wasn’t happy to have that distraction after the week he’d had. “Aye, shithead!” He greeted from the entrance as he made his way toward his table. “Whiskey and not that cheap shit either.” He barked at one of the servers before taking a seat across from the man. Blue eyes glanced up at the screen to see the progress on the current fight. He’d give anything to be a bone breaker later that night, damn if he couldn’t use that release. “How have the fights been?” He asked looking away from the screen at his former sponsee. Through Rodeo’s time as a street rat. They’d bonded through their mutual love of Colts, vintage cars, and whiskey. That and the fact that they were both dirtbags with a criminal mindset. Rodeo took his harsh way of teaching like a champ, the only sponsee that stuck around long enough to make a rank.
“Glad I got to see a familiar face tonight. Even if it’s as ugly as yours.” He teased, lighting a cigarette and throwing his card on the server’s tray when she brought him his drink. “Keep ‘em comin’, sweetheart.” He murmured. His leg was bouncing, one hand fidgeting with his glass the other scratching at his face. Jer was never great at hiding when something was on his mind, he wasn’t a stoic man, he was an explosive one. “What are you up to tonight?” Small talk was also not his strong suit, but he needed something to fill the air and drown out the torturous memory replay his mind was plaguing him with.
You wouldn’t think that watchin’ fellas pound each other’s lights out would be an emotional thing, but for Rodeo it is. The fighting arena, the gym where the fighters train, the bar attached to it all, the shouts and sweat and pounding of fists-- it reminds him of home, of his brothers, of the pack of wild dogs he grew up tough and mean alongside. It reminds him of his best friend, the best fighter he knows, the man who once broke one of Rodeo’s ribs by accident when they were playin’ like they were life-size Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots for his sister’s amusement. It reminds him of everything that’s being kept from him by his masters, and it makes him crave his retribution.
But sometimes coming here is like gnawing on the canker sore that is missing them. Sometimes he needs to stew in his anger over their shared internment. To scent the blood in the air and resolve himself to keep brawling for the ones he loves the most. His brothers. His Hellhounds.
The strange thing is, he has found a certain brotherhood in these forced circumstances too. The gladness he feels when he glances up from his glass of Jack and sees Jericho making his way over is proof enough of that. He’d gotten to feeling so alone, sitting here and thinkin’ on the boys he’s missing-- the reminder that he’s not totally alone is a thankful one.
And it seems like Jericho’s arrival has come with a helpful distraction from his woes, too. Rodeo can tell immediately, before his friend even takes his seat, that Jericho is agitated.
To some, it might not be obvious. Jericho kinda always seems agitated. But there’s a reason why Jericho has two distinct nicknames, for the two distinct sides Rodeo sees to his friend. First, there’s the name born of Jericho’s rough training style. Rodeo took to the insults and the occasional thrown fist with ease and familiarity, but that didn’t stop him from calling his sponsor Sergeant Zim after the dickhead drill sergeant in Starship Troopers.
And second, there’s The Fucked.
He calls Jericho The Fucked when he’s lookin’ like he might crack a skull just to hear the sound it makes when it breaks. When his temper snaps like a brittle branch at the slightest provocation and savage rage takes him over. When he’s twitchin’ like a coke fiend for violence, pain, blood, fists-- anything that will distract him from something going on inside of him.
Rodeo’s not sure if Jericho is The Fucked level agitated right now. But he’s sure it wouldn’t take much to get him there, if not. Something’s under his skin. And for Rodeo, figuring out what it is ain’t just a sufficient distraction from his own bullshit-- it’s his brotherly duty.
“Fights’re fine,” Rodeo tells him with a half-hearted shrug. “They’d be better if I was in ‘em.” He has a feeling Jericho is of the same mind right about now. Rodeo watches him pay for his drink, bounce his knee and scratch at his face, all with a kind of pensive stillness of his own. He lights up a cigarette too, sparking his Lucky with his etched gold Zippo. He breathes out smoke through his nose like a dragon while he takes up his glass and tosses down the last spill of whiskey. He raises it to the server before she goes, silently demanding another.
“Mm. I been sittin’ here, just contemplatin’ the mysteries of the universe,” Rodeo tells him, taking the cigarette from his mouth. He sits back in his chair, stretching out his long legs under the table to cross them at the ankles, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling in feigned rumination. “Like... you ever wonder if that Cap’n Crunch Oops All Berries catastrophe was really an accident? Brother, what if the berries were an inside job?”
Kira peers down at the book the male is reading and frankly, the mere sight of him seated in the corner with a book in hand throws her for a loop. She doesn’t necessarily know why it does — but she would have expected him to be reading anything but a paperback.
She looks for a second longer and realizes that she’s pleasantly surprised. She likes it. He looks good with a book in hand. More sophisticated, somehow.
“Don’t underestimate me, goldilocks. I could take you.” She says with a playful wiggle of her brow. It’s not necessarily the quipped comment that forces a smile to her lips but the use of the word ‘mama’. Somehow, she kind of likes it and it’s mainly because its an endearing word and she hasn’t heard any of those in association with herself in a very long time. No flirtations or anything but underlying anger.
Before he even tells her why he’s here, she’s sure that she knows. It’s the same reason that she has a baseball bat tucked outside of the shelter. Why she locks the door behind her and looks over her shoulder when she hears something. She was here the night the male attempted to break in. She had been the one who had attempted to talk him down from smashing the door. It hadn’t worked the way she wanted it and while she’d dealt with that type of behaviour a dozen times in the past — it never got easier.
Inching closer to the male when he holds up the fire for her, she lets the cherry turn red before uncurling her hand from around his and stepping back.
“You should have told me you were here. I would have brought you out something to drink or eat.” Her way of showing her appreciation towards him.
...
There’s a reason he didn’t tell anyone he was here, and it’s a two-parter.
First, he reckoned it likely that the ladies who keep this safe haven would tell him his guard dog act ain’t necessary, and it's not like they’d be wrong. They’ve kept this place safe many nights before him, and they’ll continue on when he ain’t here just as well. He don’t mean to imply that they can’t handle their shit. It’s just... hard for him to hear that somebody came around here with a mind to hurt a woman and not feel this vengeful hunger in his gut. He ain’t afraid to do the lord’s work. And in his estimation, striking down a man who terrorizes women is a righteous duty.
But there’s a second, even more cogent reason why he didn’t announce his plan to anyone. See, he’s of a mind that the ladies of this place wouldn’t just tell him his protection ain’t needed-- it ain’t welcome, neither. They got no use for a scoundrel sittin’ outside their door all the live-long night, a beast just as rotten as the men he thinks he’s there to protect ‘em against.
He’s afraid they’d tell him he’s just as bad as the next one. He’s afraid they’d say they don’t want the likes of him hangin’ out in the dark around their refuge.
He’d likely deserve that damnation. He’s just not sure he could handle hearin’ it.
But Kira don’t chastise him for lurkin’, not just yet anyway. She mentions feeding him, even. He’s near to ravenous, the slime-flop sandwich he picked up from a gas station counter around lunch time having done very little for him. It’s a tempting thought, but he doesn’t want her to think he’s doing this in hopes of some payout, even if the reward is just a fixed meal. Why should he be thanked for something nobody asked him to do in the first place?
“Nah, sweetheart, I don’t need no tendin’ to,” he promises her after he lights his own cigarette. It dangles from the corner of his mouth as he flips his Zippo closed and tucks it back into his pocket. “M’not here to be a pain to nobody. I just don’t get much sleep anyhow. Might as well sit awake somewhere I might be useful, right?”
Sweet Melissa, however, is not so tactful. At the mention of the word eat, his big scruffy mutt lifts her head off the dusty ground. She’s half-hidden under the picnic table he’s sitting on, but when she moves the jingle of her collar alerts Kira to her presence. She looks up at Kira with pleading honey eyes, heaving a big ol’ sigh as if to tell Kira of her troubles, how wholly unsatisfied she was with Rodeo’s offering of a gas station roast beef roll for her supper.
“Hey now,” Rodeo chastises gently, leaning over the table to look at his dog. “Don’t put the lady out. What manners she gonna think I taught you, babygirl?” Sweet Melissa gives another big sigh and then drops her head back on the ground, though her doleful eyes stay on Kira anyhow.
Morgan wouldn’t let herself be pulled into these games because she hasn’t paid enough attention to these sort of games to plan ahead. She likes to see the cards so she can put them in order to ensure herself a win and leaving it up to risk was idiotic. However, she believes that whether she loses or wins — it’s all in her favour.
Especially when he conveys that he’ll be bringing her for a ride should he win. Does she even want to try then? He can take her wherever he wants but she’s a good sport and she plays along anyway. “Always baby, I barely have to try.” She teases him before pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Dark hues roll when he indicates that she’s not set up to win anytime soon and that would be just her luck.
She looks him over and snorts at his truth. Then again, is it really just that. “Bullshit,” she says with a shake of her head. Her fingers tap on the table as she looks him over and chews on her lower lip. She wishes she’d asked him to go over the rules because she’s not certain where she should go. If she should tell him a truth or ask him for a date. “I’m not wearing any underwear.” The brunette says with a wry grin.
For a moment, she wonders how long it’ll take for him to realize she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. After all, she did tell him that she doesn’t gamble because she isn’t one to leave anything up to chance. Especially where her money, heart and pride is involved.
...
He’s startin’ to cotton on that she’s never played hold’em before, but not because she does anything wrong in the game’s context. The admission she gives-- one that draws an appreciative brow-raise from Rodeo-- is a perfect call, and a less astute man would reckon she’d looked at her cards, taken into account the flop, and has a hand in mind. Maybe not a strong enough hand to raise, but a hand nonetheless.
But Rodeo doesn’t spend time around anyone without getting to know them, one way or another. His sunny sky eyes are always watching, observant of things that might slip by someone less present in the moment. And though neither of ‘em dig too deep on these nights they spend together, Rodeo has still gotten to know her well enough to be certain that right now she’s got no clue what she’s doing.
It’s not obvious. She’d probably make a real good poker player if she learned the ropes. She follows his lead like she ain’t lost on the plot, like she knows what he means when he says call and raise, but Lady Luck is not the type for following leads. She is confident and competent in all that she does, her actions unhesitating, her decisions possessed of a poised resolve. If she knew what she was doing, she’d already be three steps ahead of him. Instead she waits to absorb the next step of the game, still confident that she’ll find her feet but not sure enough to stride on ahead without him.
He shoulda known. She did say she wasn’t a gamblin’ woman. But Rodeo’s been playing the cards so long, he forgets there’s even folks around who ain’t played poker before. So, while he’s still grinning appreciatively at the mental image her truth-to-call gave him, he adds another card to the trio on the table for the turn and says, “Alright. Now that we got the turn on the table, let me refresh ya on your hand rankings.”
The turn adds a four of hearts to the table. Which is lookin’ good for him, considering he’s got two heart cards in hand. The river might give him a flush, but it’s a big risk. He’s ready to raise anyhow. Still, he takes his time-- he draws his Luckies out of his pocket, bites one out of the pack, and lights it up. He puffs out smoke and he tells her in his drawling cadence about the hands she could make, using the two she’s dealt and the four on the table, reminding her that a fifth is coming before the final betting round. By all accounts, he’s just the patient teacher in the moment, smoking his cigarette and waxing on about high cards, pairs, straights and flushes.
But there’s something going on in the background. Something he’s tuned in on even while he seems totally tuned in to her.
They’re over at the bar. Three men with beer bottles in hand, sipping and staring and talkin’ amongst themselves. It’s got his hackles up, his sixth sense for trouble sizzling on his skin like grease on a skillet.
They ain’t lookin’ at him. He doesn’t have to turn fully towards them to know that they’re looking at her. If it was just some appreciative ogling, he might not be able to blame ‘em but it don’t preclude the possibility that he might stand up and tell ‘em to go to a museum for their art lessons. But there’s something more going on here. He knows the tension that comes when a fella with an axe to grind is gearing himself up, guzzlin’ his liquid courage, gettin’ good and steamed up on his righteous rage. Rodeo’s eyes never waver from Morgan, but all the while he’s acutely aware of their presence in the corner of his watchful gaze.
They’re gonna make a move. He wants to know what he’s dealin’ with before they do. Rodeo puts an elbow on the table and leans over their cards. He drags a callus-rough thumb along Morgan’s jaw and sweeps her dark hair back from her ear. His fingers hook behind her neck to draw her forward a little. His scruff scratches her jaw as he trails a couple kisses across the crest of her cheek. Near her ear he murmurs, “Check the bar. Snap, Crackle n’ Pop over there been fixin’ on you. You know those guys, my darlin’?”
said we're both tied to our own trees,
cut me loose, cut me loose.
little beast, are you wild as me?
left some teeth in your enemies...
It’s getting harder now.
Not that it was ever easy, this razor’s edge existence he’s been livin’ for over a year. All this betrayal is the antithesis of him. Every traitorous act is a viper bite pumping venom to his very core. By now his soul is necrotic, rot-black and fang blistered. He reckons if ever it managed to limp its putrefied ass up to the pearly gates, God would smite him down like scraping a slug off his shoe, lip curled in repulsion.
Hell, at this rate, even the devil won’t have him when he’s through.
Yesterday it hit a point of no return for him. Up ‘till now everything they’ve asked him to do, rotten as it’s been, has only involved the active members of Valencia’s street crew. Folks who signed on for this life of wicked deeds, knowing full well that violent delights have violent ends. It doesn’t make it easy on him, but he can justify it.
This, what they’ve asked for now-- there’s no justifying it, no matter how he tries.
‘Cause here’s what he knows: if his brothers were aware of what he’s been asked to do, they’d tell him not to fuckin’ do it. There’s not a man among ‘em who wouldn’t die to spare an innocent woman’s life, that’s certain. So if he goes through with this, he can’t say it’s for them anymore. If he really does this, it’ll be because he don’t wanna walk this world without his brothers at his back. That’s on him. It’ll be pure selfish, pure cowardice, pure hemotoxic rattlesnake venom rot to whatever’s left of his soul.
But what’s it worth to have a soul if it means his brothers gotta die for him to keep it?
He knew her soon as he saw the photo flashed on a phone screen at him. He played dumb, pretended he’d never seen her before, but he has. The blue light beams of her eyes, two shining rings with a soft halo glow, have met his across a bar as she poured him his glasses of whiskey. Is there anything sweeter than being handed a drink poured by a beautiful woman? It feels like love, he bets, but he don’t know what a woman’s love feels like for reference. There’s something extra sweet about the way she serves his whiskey to him. He could swear when he brings it to his lips, the Jack she poured him smells like frankincense and myrrh, tastes like orange peels and fields of strawberry blonde wheat.
There’s a reason why they want her. And it sure as fuck ain’t a good one.
He’s got no clue what he’s gonna do about this. He can buy some time pretending he ain’t found her yet, but it won’t last forever. Eventually he’ll have to tell them something. He considered just strolling on in here tonight, leaning over the bar and saying to her, “you gotta run, lil ember, and don’t ever look back.” But what if she don’t go? What if this whole thing isn’t what he thinks it is? He’s gotta get closer. He’s gotta get a clearer picture on it all.
The bar is a warm brown enclave, stained wood floor, orange neon glow through the black windows. A TV over the bar flashes a Ford commercial, a cherry red pickup carving through a mountain road. And there she is behind the lacquered black bar top, the double blue rings of her eyes gleaming in the dim. She’s backlit by the Ford commercial, casting a glow around her like a cherry red mandorla, bloody crimson on her bright amber hair. It’s not a good sign. He needs a fuckin’ drink.
He’s got a seat he prefers, the stool two in from the end of the bar closest to the door. He likes the window view. He likes to be close to the exit. He likes that when she comes down here, there’s usually no one around but him.
If he seems on edge, he reckons she won’t think much of it. No doubt there’s a lot of folks who come in here looking for something to dull them down. He takes his seat and reaches over the bar to help himself to a toothpick, shoving it in the corner of his mouth to gnaw out the constant craving for a cigarette. He waits for her to come to him, chomping down on the splintering wood between his molars.
Run, ember, run, he begs.
But she’s already makin’ her way over.
The smile he forces into the corner of his mouth likely ain’t what she’s used to seeing from him. So far he’s only come to this bar in his best moods, ‘cause he feels less guilty about having a bad attitude at Lewis’ and this blue-eyed clementine is hard not to smile at. But the half-hearted attempt don’t reach his eyes this time, and it’s gone almost as soon as it appears.
“Evenin’, darlin’,” he says to her. He doesn’t bother ordering-- he never drinks anything but Jack, and lots of it. Seems like it’d be taking her for a fool to mention it at all. “Tell me, what’d’you reckon is your favorite thing that happened today? Gimme a good one.” He doesn’t specify. Could be something funny, something unusual, something happy or exciting. A favorite thing that happened today could be anything, really. He’s curious what that would mean for her.
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