milliways_bar | Milliversary EP: Kate Barlow

Entry tags:

Milliversary EP: Kate Barlow | main bar

"What're you — "

With a magical chime, Kate's typical attire is replaced by a party dress, fancy lace choker, and matching turquoise-studded black cowboy boots.

"Very funny, ma'am."

All right, she kinda likes the boots. But she's not going without her guns. It takes a brief argument over a few napkins and Kate agreeing to keep the party attire, but her gun belt eventually settles itself back on her hips.

"Thank you kindly. An' take care of this for me, would y'please?"

She tosses an old newspaper down, folded to a heading just briefly visible before Miss Bar disposes of it.
YOUNGER RANCH
YORKTOWN, TX.
Fine bred horses, stock, pigs, goats.

Happy Milliversary! :)

"Thank you, ma'am. 'Nother bottle of bourbon, an' keep 'em comin'."

A large plate of cookies materializes with her order. Well, hell. Now she'll have to find somebody to share them with.

[ooc: Today is Kate's 4th Milliversary! Open indefinitely, and as the cowgirl is a little drunk (and only set to get more so) shenanigans are welcome. ^__^ Note: All threads timed before the one with Tommy Gavin.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Mm."

It's all he's getting.

The thing about Kate is she didn't start drinking this morning. She started drinking five mornings ago. Just a steady stream, enough to keep her head from coming off from a hangover. Tonight it's going down a little faster than it's been, and the speed won't last for long. She's a small woman, after all.

"You've been friends for a long time, I hear."

...What, that's it?

"Yeah, pretty long. One of my closest friends in the firehouse. And in general."

He takes another sip of his drink, still eying her.

"Okay, c'mon, what'd he say about me?"

She arches an eyebrow.

"Is it makin' you nervous not knowin'?"

She crosses her legs, poring all of her attention into it. She's not used to wearing skirts this short. Or necklines this low. The corsetted waist of her dress shows off her, ah, assets far more than anything else she wears, and it distracts her for a minute.

Why is Tommy so goddamn tall, anyway?

"Well, he told me 'bout how y'are on the job."

"No, not nervous. Just-- y'know, curious."

When she crosses her legs, he notices her...boots. They're nice...boots.

He had no idea she was hiding all this under those cowgirl chic work clothes.

And jeez, he could probably wrap his arms twice around her slim little waist--

"Oh. On the job? Okay. Well, whatever he said, he could probably say about anybody else on our crew, 'cause we do have a pretty damn good group of guys. We all look out for one another, we all trust each other. Still, the longer you work with someone, the better you work with someone. Lou and I have worked together the longest out of all our guys, and if I had to pick just one person to back me up in any situation, it'd be him. And I ain't just sayin' it either."

"That doesn't surprise me."

They're sweet. She'd even venture to say cute, but she's not quite drunk enough to say so out loud.

She tips another finger of bourbon back.

"He also said y'don't stand for lacy — lazy — behavior. S'the rest of the 'guys' much younger'n you?"

Here comes the slurring.

"Yeah, we got a couple guys who've barely gotten outta their twenties. And the 10 or 15 years that separates me from them makes a lot of difference, but y'know what, I could care less what they do when they're off duty, but once we're in the shit, they better pull their weight, 'cause you can't do a half-assed job when lives are on the line. Everybody makes mistakes, but you can't slack off. Not on my watch."

He takes another swallow of soda and crunches on some half-melted ice. Gesturing at her glass and the way she's knocking 'em back, he murmurs, "You okay there, honey?"

She hums in thought, chewing on the inside of her lip. He gestures to her glass, so she looks at her glass.

"Ayup. Jus' clearin' my head."

She shoots him a smirk.

"It's not exactly ladylike behavior, I s'pose. But, then, you're the one wearin' the hat tonight."

That's her excuse, and she's sticking to it.

Besides, she's not that bad, is she? A little warm, and sure, the room lags a half-step behind when she moves her head. But she's still talking clear, and she can still walk.

Probably.

"Mr. Shea did mention somethin' else."

Clearing her head. He's certainly not going to judge her, not with the stories that she carries around with her. And ladylike behavior? Screw that.

He raises his glass to her excuse with a smirk.

If she does decide to try to walk and ends up failing at the attempt, well, he is a fireman.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"He said it's hard for the other boys t'get a sportin' chance, 'cuz you're so popular with the ladyfolk."

She eyes him innocently over the lip of her glass.

He barks out a surprised laugh.

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me. He actually said that. Jeezus Christ..."

The context in which Lou might have divulged this eludes him -- really, Lou, really?? -- but he's pretty sure he must have been drunk.

"Okay, lemme explain. That's not exactly true. --Well, I mean, yeah, it's true, but not as true as you might think it is. An exaggeration, is what I mean to say. But, y'know, to be honest with you, it's more like an experience thing. Whenever the guys in the house need a little advice or tips in the women department, they usually come to me, 'cause I've been there, done that. And sure, I may chase a few women around every so now and then, but it ain't like they flock to me or whatever. Believe me, my luck with women is as changeable as the weather, so, y'know, take whatever Lou said with a grain of salt."

Taking what Tommy says with a grain of salt wouldn't hurt, either.

Oh, but what Tommy says is so interesting. She's so much less reserved than normal, so holding the glass to her lips is a godsend in keeping her smirk from showing too much. About halfway through, one perfectly arched eyebrow is all that can be seen.

"'Been there, done that.'"

Did he really just say that? Golly, this is too much.

"What?"

Shifty eyes.

She's disappointed, Tommy.

At least, that's how she looks. Whether or not that's how she actually feels is not for him to know right now.

"Well, s'no wonder you're such a font of advice, with all that experience under your belt. Under your actual belt."

Gaping.

"Wh-- I--"

More gaping.

"Look, I'm just bein' honest with you."

A beat.

"I'm not sleeping with anybody now, if that's what you wanna know."

Like that statement would help his cause?

"Why would I wanna know that?"

She pillows her chin in her hand, glassy blue eyes fixed on him the way a large cat eyes its prey.

She'd like to say her expression gives nothing away, but there's a minute upward twitch of her lips that just might.

Gape.

Shit, why did I just say that aloud?

"I just-- thought-- that-- um-- things should be clear between us." Random gesturing. "Y'know? Uh-- in case-- y'know--" More random gesturing. "I mean, look, I'm not sleeping with anybody, you're not sleeping with anybody--"

A beat.

"You're not, are you?"

"That's a personal question, don't y'think?"

She reaches over and tugs the brim of his Gentleman's Cap.

He shifts his eyes upward when she adjusts the hat, and he's reminded that he's supposed to be behaving.

"Uh. Yeah. You're right. Forget I asked."

He looks at her again and all he wants to do is taste the bourbon off her lips.

Is his twenty minutes up yet?

She feels a small prick of pity for him.

"You're forgettin' all my beaus are dead."

Granted, there's not much consolation to be found in her consolation, no matter the husky hum of her voice. He's still interested, and normally that would confound her beyond words. But, right now, she's too distracted by the heat blossoming in her chest.

She drains what's left in her glass.

"How 'bout I ask y'a question I do wanna know th'answer to?"

It's a sobering statement. Even for a sober person.

And it's a sad one for sure, but not a worrying one. Because he's not her beau, and he doesn't believe in the curse, and he's kissed her once already, and he's not dead because of it. It won't work on him. She'll see. She'll see it doesn't work every time.

He nods.

"Go 'head."

She leans toward him.

And her black leather boot catches the edge of his stool, nestled between his legs.

"Why did y'kiss me?"

A little startled, his gaze abruptly flicks down to the boot at his crotch. Heartbeat pounding in his ears, his hand itches to slide the hem of her skirt up her shin and over her knee.

He licks his lips and swallows.

"I kissed you," he murmurs, his eyes meeting hers again, "'cause I wanted to."

She watches his tongue dart over his lips, and her gaze lingers there until the glister fades.

"Even after everythin' I said?"

She ropes his focus again, her wide almond eyes carefully pulling him in.

"You wanted to?"

Because there's nothing I can't do.

"Yeah."

His hand settles on her ankle, lightly fingering the stitched leather and the turquoise studs.

"And I still want to."

She chortles softly.

Her eyes dip to his hand, and she has to lower her head a mite to keep her vision from swimming.

"Been there, done that."

The devil's in her smile.

She twists to refill her glass, but her boot doesn't move. It may or may not have anything to do with the fact that she's not sure she can execute two actions at once without falling off her stool.

"I'm not a burnin' buildin', Tommy."

The neck of the bourbon bottle clanks against her glass, but the liquor doesn't spill. She picks the glass up, licks the droplet from the rim, and turns her eyes on him.

"Y'know what I mean?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject