Post by Lindsey on Jul 8, 2007 18:57:59 GMT -5
As a rule, he knew he should avoid places like this. Places with casinos. Indians owned casinos. Indians like the ones who jumped him a few blocks back. There was a hit on him, he could say that quite confidently now.
Indians, natives, first peoples, aboriginals. He knew the term Indian was outdated. He was his father's son and being politically correct would always be a struggle. Not that he meant to offend anyone. But in this case, perhaps he did. Bastards.
He really just needed a drink, and this was about the best place he knew of around. Compared to the other clubs at least. It had been far too long. Maybe he'd meet a woman while he was out, a happy little thought there. All distractions he could really appreciate.
He had a knack for attracting the opposite sex, standing way over six feet and build not straying to far from that of an ox. Threatening, no doubt but alluring non the less. Not like he cared remotely about the short skirt floosies that prowled bars.
His dark blue gaze fell on his arms, and the deep cut that had coagulated but was still painful nonetheless. The guy had pulled a knife out, just like the one had last week. The one that was missing now, how convenient for him. The feds were breathing down his neck, he knew it. Don't skip town they'd said.
Great. Just what he needed three weeks out of jail. A hand brushed through his brown hair as he exhaled loudly.
Letting his hands drop, he turned them over and examined them carefully. They were were rough from the years of work they endured, now not far from being like sandpaper. On his right wrist was a simple tattoo shaped like barb wire. That sure was a story. Maybe one day he's be able to tell all of this the way he could that. He was an amazing story teller after all, bright eyed, perfect voice fluctuation and all. Like hell, maybe he'd write a goddamn book!
So he ordered another drink, half watching those around him, half in his own little world. A single table among many, inconspicuous to the t. Parker Brettier would love it if it would only stay that way.
Indians, natives, first peoples, aboriginals. He knew the term Indian was outdated. He was his father's son and being politically correct would always be a struggle. Not that he meant to offend anyone. But in this case, perhaps he did. Bastards.
He really just needed a drink, and this was about the best place he knew of around. Compared to the other clubs at least. It had been far too long. Maybe he'd meet a woman while he was out, a happy little thought there. All distractions he could really appreciate.
He had a knack for attracting the opposite sex, standing way over six feet and build not straying to far from that of an ox. Threatening, no doubt but alluring non the less. Not like he cared remotely about the short skirt floosies that prowled bars.
His dark blue gaze fell on his arms, and the deep cut that had coagulated but was still painful nonetheless. The guy had pulled a knife out, just like the one had last week. The one that was missing now, how convenient for him. The feds were breathing down his neck, he knew it. Don't skip town they'd said.
Great. Just what he needed three weeks out of jail. A hand brushed through his brown hair as he exhaled loudly.
Letting his hands drop, he turned them over and examined them carefully. They were were rough from the years of work they endured, now not far from being like sandpaper. On his right wrist was a simple tattoo shaped like barb wire. That sure was a story. Maybe one day he's be able to tell all of this the way he could that. He was an amazing story teller after all, bright eyed, perfect voice fluctuation and all. Like hell, maybe he'd write a goddamn book!
So he ordered another drink, half watching those around him, half in his own little world. A single table among many, inconspicuous to the t. Parker Brettier would love it if it would only stay that way.