HANDY MEN AIN'T SO HANDSY.
[SCENE: Pumpkin's Place. 10:56PM. The saloon’s full. The men are fuller.]
"I hear you, give me a second," Pumpkin lazily called back to the men rounding the bar. The women had a bit more class, but only before they had a few drinks pumped in them. Right now, the women had zero decorum, laughing and chatting so loud, Pumpkin swore the wooden floors shook with the weight of their words. Not to mention, the daring ones who commanded the dance floor. Good grief, she'd have a mess to clean up once the night owls filtered out.
"And another tequila and pineapple!"
"If that's you ordering that, Maggie, I'm cutting you off," Pumpkin said over her shoulder as she poured a round of shots for some of her heavy-hitters tonight; once their tab closed, Pumpkin's night would be written off completely. "Because you can't handle your drink and last time, you almost humped Daryl on the dance floor."
"That was one time." The older woman spoke, slurring her words.
"One time is one time too many, Maggie, I'm sorry," Pumpkin shrugged her shoulder, denim vest tight as she moved about the bar. "Call your husband." With a beat, Pumpkin set the tray of eight shot glasses in front of the group stationed at the bar. They parked themselves there an hour or two ago and haven't left. Pumpkin pretended to be oblivious to the lecherous looks they shot her when her back was turned, and she wasn't looking. "Alright, boys, here's your round. Bottom's up."
They cheered, thanking her as grabby hands snatched a glass off her tray—downing the shot in mere seconds. A mix of middle-aged men—fathers, husbands, and do-gooders who promised to never sin in church—couldn't tear their eyes off her. Pumpkin didn't mind. It was good for business that way.
Only when they touched did her mood sour.
"Pumpkin, why don't you take one with us?" One of them asked, eyes half-lidded with the liquor. His hand landed heavy as a cattle brand, curling around her wrist like he bought it. "We don't bite. You know us."
Here we go.
"I do know you, Mr. Ulrich. I know you've had a lot to drink." Pumpkin rolled her eyes, her retort dry on her pretty, plump glossed lips. "You want to keep drinking? You need to let me serve. I ain't got the time to be sitting and sippin' around." She informed them helpfully, trying to gently free her wrist from the man's hand, but his grip was iron clad. Sometimes, she forgot these men harvested crops, polished guns, and then used those same hardened hands to pray for a living. "Hands off the goods, Mr. Ulrich." She said pointedly, eyes flickering to her wrist that seemed so abnormally tiny in his large hands. He pawed at her because he thought he could. Thought he should.
He thought wrong.
Pumpkin kissed her teeth, having half a mind to pull her shotgun from beneath the bar and scaring him with it for even daring.
"Simon, you know she don't like it when you bother her while she's working."
Forearms braced against the bar counter was Geto Suguru, looking half-bored in the midst of the loud crowd, eyes laser focused on the way Simon Ulrich's calloused hand curled around Pumpkin's wrist. Anyone could see the way his jaw tightened at the sight. Had he slipped away from Satoru without the light-haired man noticing? Interesting.
For little 'ole Pumpkin?
"I think you should step outside and get some air," Suguru stated plainly, tone flat as ever. For a second, Pumpkin was distracted. Suguru's long hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, black Stetson perched on his head; dark flannel stretched across his chest, cuffs rolled up to his elbows. "How's that?" That voice of his was silk with a blade tucked under it—smooth ‘til it cut. It was posed like a suggestion, but it wasn't. It was a command. Despite being decades younger, Simon Ulrich immediately relented, letting go of Pumpkin's wrist. The woman's lips pursed as she stared down at the man.
"Kid's right, Simon," another man nearby chimed in, sipping his own beer—nobody could ever mind their business. That was Rodney Yates. "Go on before you embarrass yourself. Or he embarrasses you." Rodney said, nodding towards Suguru.
"He's done enough to embarrass himself—go home, Mr. Ulrich, tab's closed. I'm done serving you tonight." Pumpkin informed him with finality, writing off his name in her book. She read out the total, wordlessly telling him to pay up, and the man looked like a soggy noodle as he gave Pumpkin a few hundreds to cover his ass for the night. All the while, Suguru watched like a hawk. Watched the entire exchange up with sharpened eyes until Simon Ulrich walked his sorry-self out with his buddies who did nothing to nurse his broken spirit. "Thought you liked being seen and not heard, sugar." Pumpkin started, redirecting her attention to her white knight.
Sugar. She'd called him that since she found out his first name was Suguru—sounded close enough, and he always looked at her a little funny every time she said it.
"Yeah, but not when people are grabbin' at you like that." He muttered under his breath, sounding tired of the festivities and about ready to go home, but he wouldn't. On days like this, when Satoru dragged him to the saloon with a promise of only a few drinks, they—namely Suguru—stayed until the last stragglers left and Pumpkin began tidying up for the morning. Cute. "Why didn't you threaten him with the gun like you did with the last one?" He asked, lifting his hat up briefly to run a hand through his hair. Damn ponytail was falling out anyway.
"Because I know I always have someone watching me," she winked at him, shuffling over to his side of the bar. She planted herself right in front of him, in favor of ignoring the other patrons. "Maybe a little too closely. Weren't you across the room with Satoru chatting up those pretty dames?"
"Ain't nobody chatting up nobody," Suguru shook his head, cracking the faintest of grins, "you know that."
"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Pumpkin sang, poking his nose with the tip of her finger, "thank you for the assist, sugar, but please tell your friend to get off my damn table."
Because of course, Satoru had ended up on a damn table. With Suguru shooting her an apologetic look, moving to contain his best friend, Portia saddled up to the counter in his place, eyebrows raised up into her hairline.
"Don't ask." Pumpkin said dryly as she watched Suguru wrangle Satoru off her wood table, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I wasn't," Portia replied, just as dry, eyes scanning the younger woman up and down, “just wondering if I needed to grab my pocket book,” she said, already reaching down like she meant it. A glint of brass flashed in her purse. Portia wasn’t one to bluff.
