jack_f_twist | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Seems to him, sometimes, the stables're just as busy as the bar itself. There's forever people milling around: newcomers or stablehands or folks who've just gotten lost on their first day or week, not to mention all the horses that have arrived since he was here last.

And, sure. Ain't like Jack's exactly ever been a contracted employee, so to speak, but nobody's ever given him a hard time about bein there, neither, which is good, because even with the people coming in and out and the work that's never got an end to it and his own loose ends that keep flapping around just out of eyesight, he kinda prefers it here. It's quiet, for the most part, and it's all familiar smells and sounds, which ain't always the case inside the bar or out, considerin.

Not that he particularly sounds like he's enjoying himself at the moment, tugging on a stubborn piece of leather that's supposed to be a useful part of the unnamed mare's halter, and swearing to high heaven while the creature in question lips at the hay in her trough and flicks an ear now and again in response to the frenzy of curses being pelted in the direction of the hapless thing.

Probably a good thing Ms. Kate ain't around just now. It ain't the sorta language appropriate for a lady.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His chuckle is low and rusty from years of smoke and whiskey and -- Ennis would say -- too much talk. "Dunno if I'd say that 'stead a just that she can be a bitch from time to time, but she can be real nice, too. If you catch her in the right mood."

The tip of his tongue pushes at the corner of his lips, considering her, the way she handles the mare, the familiarity of small fingers winding in the coarse mane. "Bet she'd like you."

He don't drop that look, neither, when Grace looks back up at him; why bother? Ain't like she doesn't know she's a good-lookin woman, and a pretty woman who knows her way around a good horse has always been one of Jack's favorite things to watch.

Just look at Lureen. Hell, she was a horsewoman. Still is, when she gets outside where she oughta be, 'stead a stuck in her daddy's office.

"Could mebbe take her out, if you wanted."

"Sounds like a well-rounded personality to me."

Years of booze, Marlboro Lights and brash behavior have made Grace's own laugh smoky and deep, her voice almost husky. She likes his chuckle, letting it wash over her, and returns his look with one that's full of awareness.

"I want." A slow smile. "If you're part of the deal."

Getting to know Jack better seems like a good use of the afternoon.

He can take that however he wants.

"What's her name?"

He ducks his head, just slightly, to hide the little tuck of a self-conscious smile behind the brim of his hat, clears his throat. Christ, but he's rusty, if you can call a man 'rusty' when he ain't never been much good at something to begin with. And a woman like Grace...

Well, they ain't exactly lining up to spend time with him back home.

"Got no plans," he offers, with a lift of one shoulder. Licks his lips, tries for a little better. "So I guess I am."

He can take the gelding out, or any one of the other horses, and he's turning to grab the mare's tack for her when her other question comes drifting along with the soft sounds the mare makes.

"No name." The bridle jingles as he lifts it from its hook. "Never got around to pickin one out for her."

"Good." It's warm and hangs in the air like honey.

A woman like Grace doesn't care if he's good at it or not. Hell, just look at Henry. The man couldn't be more of a mess, but he'd lost his cat, his best friend, and that had pulled at Grace's heartstrings. He might as well have been Don Juan.

Even the fact that he played ball for Texas hadn't hurt Butch much.

The point is, Grace likes 'em all.

She grins at the mare. "A horse needs a name, even if it's temporary. I'll call you Boomer."

Grace lifts her hands and gets her fingers tangled in her hair, pulling it into a messy braid that is guaranteed to unravel the second she gets the wind in it.

"Want me to do that?" Gesturing to the mare's saddle and bridle.

His grin flashes sudden and white, half amused and half impressed. "Ain't a bad one. Let's see if she likes it."

He shoulda named her, probably, but it ain't been that long for him since he got her to begin with, and Sallie hadn't had anything on the registration papers she'd copied out so carefully and handed over to him. The saddle, he settles on top of the door, nods to.

"'f you don't mind, means I can get mine all suited up and ready to go."

That comes with a tip of his head toward the gelding he'd loaned to Michael for the drive, also unnamed, but seemingly alright with his lot. He glances at the saddle, back up at Grace with a lazy slope of a smile and a wink.

"Figure it's better 'f you do it, anyhow, seein' as you seem to know your way around a horse."

"Don't mind," Grace answers, her head tilting back slightly so she can get a better look at him. "I do. Boomer here's in good hands."

She laughs after she says the name, wickedly amused, and reaches for the saddle blanket first, the material snagging on the rough skin of her trigger finger. She uses it to shoo him out like a matador facing a bull, laughing all that much harder.

"Boomer's one of the two white ponies that pull the Sooner Schooner," she calls back over her shoulder as she works. "Oklahoma U, my alma mater." Then, "She yours or the bar's?"

Or a rodeo clown grabbing the attention of a bull, which makes Jack laugh, too, as he hightails it out of there, saddle blanket flapping at his haunches as he goes. "Alright, you go on, then. She ain't an Oklahoma pony, and I sure wouldn't try hitchin a schooner up to her, but seems you'n she're kinda two of a kind."

Ain't that the truth. The mare's a good-looking creature, too, a solid dusty sorrel but for a white blaze that goes crooked over the soft skin of her nose, and a mane and tail the same dusty red, but hell if she don't got some liveliness to go with those good looks.

He's got a feeling Grace'll be able to handle her just fine.

The gelding's a dark bay, fine-looking in his own way, but lacking the spunk the mare's got in spades, and Jack shrugs as he hefts the saddle blanket onto its back.

"The mare's mine. Gelding belonged to a buddy a mine, don't come around here no more." Lifting the saddle allows a grunt, noncommittal. "Both mine now, I guess. Bought 'em offa Sallie Reynolds, here in the bar. You know her?"

Edited 2012-09-03 02:33 (UTC)

Some women might take offense at being compared favorably to a horse -- take Paige, Grace's uptight sister, for example. She'd pinch her lips and walk away. Grace, though. She thinks it's better than half the shit she hears at Louie's from the lonely heart's club, looking to score.

It lights her up inside, puts an added dose of bright affection in the words she croons to 'Boomer,' makes her moves fluid as she tacks up, almost like it's a dance.

"Heard of her," Grace answers, catching her lip with her teeth when her knee comes up to nudge the mare's belly, forcing her to exhale so Grace can tighten the girth. "One of the barmen, right? Older lady?"

She pauses a moment to slip the bit in the mare's mouth, persuading her with more softy whispered promises of fresh grass and a good gallop. "By choice? Your friend who doesn't come back."

There ain't never enough time.

"He's dead."

It's short. Followed by the jingle of stirrups as he pushes the saddle into place, sucking at his teeth before spitting into the straw that thatches the floor.

"Ain't in my world, but guess the him that used to come by is. Sure's hell don't get it, but either way, he's gone."

See you 'round, I guess.

It ain't been that long. Not so long since he saw Ennis, since he got shoved back into the wall and his hat went tumbling off his head, since they bombed down the road to some crappy motel room and spent the night re-learning everything they'd lost up on the mountain. Not long enough for Ennis to be gone, but ain't like Jack's ever found life's all that fair.

Life is random, chaotic, cruel: not fair. Grace stands by that, which is why she can't believe in anything but a vengeful god.

She stops getting the mare ready, staring at the stirrup she'd just lowered into place. The other's still crossed over the pommel, making it look like a weird sort of side-saddle.

"Shit."

She figures that's more welcome than I'm sorry, even though she is.

"None of it makes sense," she grunts at last.

Life. Love. This place.

He grunts in answer, shoulders tight in a shrug as he tugs the cinch tight with a little more force than might actually be necessary.

"It sure don't to me. 'Course, I kinda figure anybody says it makes sense to them is a liar."

How could it? Any of it? The fuckin world, the bar, luck, good or bad. The chance that comes with stepping out of his damn door in the morning.

"Anyhow, ain't like you can say anybody's gone for good from this fuckin place, considerin. It's like a one a those goddamn rotating doors."

These stirrups are already adjusted for his long legs, and he goes for the bridle.

"You been back home, or you stayin here?"

Johnny says faith brings people hope.

But, Hell. Sometimes hope is the cruelest joke of all, isn't it?

Grace finishes in silence, looping the reins so the mare won't step on them for the few seconds she'll be gone.

"Little bit of both," she answers, eyes locked on the mare in a brief, unfocused stare. Shaking herself, she slips out and over to where Jack is messing with the bridle and taps him on the shoulder.

She moves light enough he don't hear her until her boots sound from right behind him, just before her finger taps against his shoulder, making him turn, a lopsided smile already pulling itself up one corner of his mouth before making its way slowly across to the other side. Blue eyes crease a little at the corners, and Jack, he don't always look all that young, sun-weathered and all lazy, good-for-nothing smiles, but those eyes of his are still clear enough.

She's awful close, standing there. He's got the sudden urge to lean closer, see if her hair smells like hay and leather the way the rest of the air does in here.

"Got me beat," he says, tipping his head towards the bridle he's working on, but his hands are sure, even with his attention caught elsewhere.

Hay and leather, smoke and sin.

"I was motivated."

Grace's eyes, weathered around the edges from years of laughter and squinting in the sun, give Jack a good, long look. Appreciation flickers in the depths of her gaze, but there's something else, too. Something larger, deeper, more concerned.

When he finishes with the bridle she steps in, flicking a look up at him through her lashes and smiling like a self-aware, practiced flirt, only there's no real come-on in the way she reaches out and wraps him up in a hug. Arms twining around his neck, she brings her body in close. It's all-encompassing like Grace herself, and she buries her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent like it's the best of colognes, the kind that makes her knees go weak from one whiff.

Grace's hugs might well be the least selfish thing about her. Sure, she likes the contact, but this... this is about wanting, needing, to make someone else feel a little better in this crazy-ass universe.

Edited 2012-09-29 23:53 (UTC)

He tenses, for a second, hand pausing mid-air before awkwardly flattening itself between her shoulderblades, pulling her closer. He can smell cigarette smoke, tack oil, leather and cotton and dust, and it's damn sweet, pulls an ache out of his chest from the corner he'd shoved it to.

There ain't no reason for her to do it, when they've only met twice, and he's just a fuck-up of a rodeo cowboy who likes her smile and her style and her company, but she does. Wraps him up, all small and warm against him, curves and softness against his chest and stomach and legs. He drops his head to press his face into her hair, breathes in, smells dust and cigarette smoke and cotton. Something earthy and sweet as river water.

Her smiles've got nothing on her hug, her arms around his neck, body close and sweet like they're dancing. It reaches like a hand behind his ribs, tugs. Like a cool palm against a forehead hot with fever. He's got the vague notion she could sweep him away without his noticing it was happening, or caring if it did, and that ought to worry him -- does, somewhere -- but it's far away, because when the hell was the last time anybody reached out touch him, just because they wanted to?

A quiet little hum, practically a purr, and Grace nuzzles in, trying to soothe a little of that tension from Jack's neck. She can feel it. She understands it. Sometimes a good hug feels almost more intimate than sex.

This one does.

It's good though, like they don't need a whole lot of words to talk in that moment. Grace doesn't worry about should or shouldn't, too soon or inappropriate, and breathes in before kissing him under his ear.

"C'mon, Cowboy," she whispers, teeth catching his earlobe, just playful for now. "I want to see you ride."

Grace pulls back with a whole lot of wicked in her grin and sparkling eyes.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only