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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 glanced at the bartender as he moved to fill Polly's request, and moved his own to be refilled as well. He placed a few more bills on the bar, enough to cover both of their beverages. This would be his third and final. Three was a good number for the southern gent. In peaceable times, it was just enough to take the edge off...enough to grant him even a slim possibility of sleep. At the other end, if circumstances proved to need his assistance, three was oddly enough to hone his skills, make him more focused. More relentless. He was a good hunter, a good fighter...but there were times when even he did not come out of battle unscathed. The booze was a welcome boost to his adrenaline, just as effective as a physical painkiller as it was an emotional one.
His blue gaze flicked briefly to his refilled glass, then back to the mirror. The trio's laughter irked him, made him want to strike despite the odds not being in his favor with such a blatant and unresctricted offensive. He reached out, grasping his glass so tightly that his knuckles very nearly turned white, so great was his effort at resistance. He slung back half of the double shot, barely feeling the heat as it trickled down his throat as his eyes caught the trejectory of what appeared to be the lead leech's gaze. The male's eyes were all but devouring the available skin on Polly's frame, and Ruger was willing to wager to content of his bank account that the bastard had to be thinking of all the different ways in which he would like to taste her. His hand, still fisted around the glass in which he'd been served, clamped harder. The crystal protested his aggression by splintering near the rim with a soft clink. Ruger barely noticed, knowing that if he forced himself to witness such obvious lust...bloodlust and otherwise...he would very quickly become something akin to a bull in a china shop. And by that, he couldn't bide.
To say he was tense would have been an understatement. His muscles had taken on the solidity of a rock beneath the fabric of his clothes, prepared for a single ill movement from any one of the leeches. Almost like a cobra, trained on it's prey as it wavered on the edge of control, ready and willing to strike at a moment's notice. Ruger had taken great care to prime his body for combat. He would never be the bulky type, but he was lean, each muscle carved to perfection through hours of training. In the end, when all else failed, it would be his body that would be his greatest weapon after all. To be in anything but optimal shape would be like bringing an unloaded gun to a draw.
The smooth tones of Polly's voice drew him back out of himself, and he shifted his gaze back to her. He tried to focus on that little smirk that rested on her lips, the light of amusement in her pretty eyes. If he could, he would have teathered himself to those things, if only to keep himself from doing something rash. "Ya got one up on me, I reckon. I ain't know for playin' well with others, period. Cept for ol' Blue. Best damn dog this side of the Mississippi and then some." He let a faint smirk dress his lips, reaching up to rub at his goatee briefly before continuing. "But mama didn't raise no flea bag. Ain't a woman I ever disrespected." Well, except for the couple of leech-bitches he'd taken down...but they had forced his hand. And even then, he'd found it difficult to land those killing blows.
The tension in the air seemed to hum around them, thick with Ruger's desire to eliminate the threats clashing with that to remain in good standing with the particular belle in which he was currently conversing with. He was quite torn, after all. After witnessing the interest the lead leech had sent her way, he couldn't very well be brash in his offensive. Couldn't risk her. Her movement drew his gaze, and he quirked a brow at the fan the she flicked open. Her words caused him to look inquiringly back at her, and then back to the device she was fanning herself with. It was an oddly beautiful trinket, but somehow misplaced considering the chill of the current season. Her words drew his attention back to her, his intense gaze studying her quite intently.
He did not answer at first, bringing his glass to his lips as he looked briefly to the lethal looking points on the end of the fan. Her words were diluted, but not so much that Ruger could not taste the undertone of her meaning. Perhaps killers developed a sixth sense of sorts...he had always thought so anyway. And now, following her words, his was positively tingling. If she was what she was so offhandedly revealing, it certianly explained what had drawn him to her.
He downed the rest of his whiskey, replacing the splinted glass on the bar before finally looking back at her. "Might be this tiger's done found himself a tigeress up on this here mountain." The low, husky tones of his voice were calculated, penetrating. "Might be, this ol' cat never could rightly turn down a good ho-down." He eyed her for a long moment, a slow and almost sensuous grin spreding on his lips. Yet his gaze...well, it spoke of nothing but death. "So if you're rockin', suger...well, then I'm rollin'. As they say."
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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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