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We'll do a little frog giggin', cow tippin'
How 'bout a little skinny dippin', bass fishin'
Take it easy on the 'shine
And stay away from other boys' women
That's one damn good way for a
man to get it whooped down here
These boys tough down here
Get your ass tore up down here
And be an all nighter with the hippies and the hicks
Jocks and bikers, they all came
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Ruger barely noticed her hesitation as she moved to sling the whiskey back, drawing his own glass to his lips for a deep and firey drink. He savored the burn on his lips and tongue as he lowered the crystal to the surface of the bar once more. Ruger had always been a whiskey man, though it wasn't unsual for him to take in a beer every once and again. It was brandy he couldn't do. His father had favored that poison, and the mere scent of it was enough to turn his stomach even now, many years later. It reminded him of whippin's in the corner by the harsh end of a belt, and those weren't memories anyone would want to conjure up willingly.
While Ruger didn't have the term 'demisexual' in his vocabulary, had he known it existed he would have likely identified with it. There hadn't been another for him, not since his Kathryn. He hadn't even wanted another. It wouldn't have been hard to find the company of a woman to ease those chilly nights alone, but Ruger simply had no interest in filling that vacancy in his life. He rarely took the time to appreciate the good looks of a woman, and even in times that he did, it was done with the same interest as a person browsing fine art. He could understand the beauty, could marvel at it even...but it was untouchable. Yet as he watched Polly examine the empty contents of her glass, he did feel a stir of attraction. It was fleeting, like a light breeze rippling the mirror surface of a lake on a calm day...but it was there. Perhaps it was the intensity of her gaze. Perhaps it was the way she presented herself. Perhaps it was the sheer mystery of her. Whatever the reason, it was a first for Ruger, and he was more than a little suprised. He hid it well, though, resting a lazy grin on his lips as he watched her. "Yeah, Paw always said that stuff will put hair on your chest. Best watch out, woman." He told her light-heartedly, a bit of humor lightening his rugged features.
That grin faltered just a little at her next statement, however, and he gave a solomn nod. "Ain't a whole lotta people who can't relate to that feelin', I reckon." He agreed, watching the ice as it began to melt in the bottom of his glass. "Lucky thing we ain't swappin' sob stories...forgot my kerchif in the truck." Ruger was fabulous at avoiding heavy topics, and that talent didn't fail him in that moment as he steered the conversation to a humorous note. He didn't want to recall his losses, did't want to think of the reasons behind his frequent travels. And he certainly didn't want to talk about them.
He watched the amusement as it danced accross her features, her laugh just as pretty as the sound of ringing bells. He would have been powerless to stop his own answering grin from surfacing on his lips, not that he wanted to. "Well now, I think we are gettin' on pretty friendly like, woman. Two peas in pod, me and you." He nudged her shoulder in a playful manner, before returning to his own slice of space at the bar. He'd be a stone cold liar if he was to say that he hadn't felt a little shock of electricity upon making contact with her...and the feeling was so foreign, he didn't recognize it for the simolicity of what it was.
He cocked a brow at her profession, somehow not quite believing he was getting the full scoop on her endeavors. Which was just fine in his eyes...he sure as hell wasn't about to be honest about his own, either. Hell, even his battle brothers didn't know that part of him, and he intended to keep it that way. "Well now, Tumbleweed, guess you didn't strike me as the corporate ladder type. Not that you couldn't, 'course, but I just can't see the likes of you buried behind a desk is all." He could see her in law, perhaps...and he was quite sure she would have done well in the military as well. When you'd served your time, you came to just sense that in people, even civilians. He reckoned the US government has missed out when they'd missed out on her. "Me, I'm a veteran. Still tryin' to find my place in the world after the sandbox." Not exactly true, but not untrue, either. Sure, he had flashbacks of his time spent in the desert, but everything paled in comparison to the devestation of his loss.
The sound of the door opening drew Ruger's blue gaze away from Polly, his wary gaze now slipping over the newcomers with the calculated assessment that only a trained killer could identify with. While his senses were not nearly as good as Polly's, experience and training had earned him a solid understanding of his prey. He watched the group as they moved through the bar, his expression one similar to that of a wolf who has caught an appealing scent. A soft vibration hummed on his left wrist, and Ruger moved to silence the device. He had crafted the technology himself, a small infrared sensor that could detect the undead...all built into a watch worn around his wrist. It had been an easy concept really, but the real issue had been getting his hands on the necessary parts.
His predatory gaze shifted back to the group, feeling the tension beginning to set into the cords of muscle beneath his flesh. Ruger had never been one for sneak attacks, his rage often fueling him into direct and immediate confrontation with those he hunted. It was a brash way of handling his job, but he was no more able to control it than he was the rise and set of the sun each day. Killing was just as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes.
Polly's words drew his attention away from the group, and though his gaze rested on her, every instinct was settled on the leeches behind them. Her words drew a snort of laughter from him...so ironic, the stake the heart bit! "I reckon you're just about right on both counts. Leeches of money. Can't say I'm fond of leeches of any kind." He tried to infuse humor into his voice, but it came out rather dry despite his efforts. His gaze flicked to the mirror above the bar, lingering on the images of the vampires. "Well now, ain't nobody really made it a point to go grabbin on myass...but ain't a body alive today that ever crossed me wrong, Tumbleweed. And if there was ever a fella that got it in his mind to go grabbin' on you, I got a hunch he ain't about to go tryin' that again." He shot her a glance, complete with a little grin. One hand pressed to the weapon shoved into the waistline of his jeans, as if to reassure himself it was still present and accounted for. "Sugar, I think duty might be callin' me mighty quick here. Don't you go bein' offended if I gotta scoot. Part of my work's bein' on the ready 24-7. Just a warnin' to ya. I sure don't want this meet and greet to be comin' to a premature end." He told her, his eyes still locked in that predatory way on the mirror.
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Our side of the barbed wire
Money grows in rows
If it don't you're goin' broke
So we
We hang out by the bonfire
Just the good ol' boys having a dang good time
We crank it up down here
We get loud down her
Throwin' down in the dirty, dirty south down here
Be an all nighter with the hippies and the hicks
Jocks and bikers, they all came to kick it in the
sticks
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