Jules knows Violet is a (ex_haint987) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-05-11 14:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | syrena, violet harmon |
Who: Jules and Hunter
What: Bitches clawing at each other with painted fingernails - only not literally
Where: Ranch outside of LV
When: Todayish
Warnings/Rating: B for Bicker
Jules’ daddy was a rodeo man. Despite the fact that the man met his end at the sharp end of a bull no one wanted to draw, Jules’ momma had always told her son stories about meeting him on the circuit. Rodeo men, Jules knew, were more trouble than they were worth, least that’s what his momma always said. But Jules, he had a real strong hankering for a man in tight jeans. Maybe it was all them buckles of his daddy’s that he had tucked away in a chest in his room, and maybe it was the fact that he liked how they looked real well on a thick leather belt over tulle. Whatever the reasons, Jules liked what he liked, and there wasn’t any changing it. He wasn’t real inclined to try, either.
The Ranch was outside the city limits, but some things were worth the early morning bus ride full of tourists thinking they could ride a horse like they’d seen in this movie or that movie. His name was Jack, and Jules had met him the night before at a bar on the outskirts. He’d been pretty enough that Jules wanted to see what he looked like with the lights on. And so Jules had taken that invitation to the Ranch, and he’d set himself on the bus, faded jeans and plaid over a wifebeater. His hair was tugged back, blond and held low at his nape, and his boots had seen plenty of soft Southern grass in their time. Riding, that wasn’t something Jules was real good at, but he’d done his fair share back home, volunteering at the local farm and mucking out quarterhorse stalls as part of the Church’s community service..
The bus ride, for Jules, ended in a stall. Jack wasn’t near as handsome come daylight, but he still kissed real well, and Jules didn’t mind the hook and tack pressing into his shoulder blades. But somewhere far off the boss called, and Jack had to go play ranchhand to a handful of tourists bound for the trail, and Jules was left alone, wood and straw, plaid shirt lost somewhere beneath his boots, and his fingers trailing over the bridle hanging at his shoulder.
Hunter's introduction with horses had to do with the fact that they were more willing to put up with him than people were, and he was also more willing to put up with a horse than a person. Horses had sense. People didn't. The tourists that came up here were looking to sit on an animal and ride on it like they did a bumper car. They wanted to know where the gas pedal and the brake was, and they didn't understand that just because they could run a rabbit right over on the highway, that didn't mean a horse wouldn't shy from one out in the brush. As the new guy in town, Hunter got saddled (pun intended) with most of the unpleasant tasks around. They tried to stick him with tourists until they found out that probably wasn't the best idea, given his blunt speech and sour temper. Some of the hands tried to give him cleaning duty, but he was too good with the animals to waste on that, so before long they had him working new horses for trail training.
The horses that just arrived were usually graduates of other programs. They were used to running around tracks, stealing sugar from adoring wealthy owners, or turning around barrels. Too old to be of any use at those jobs, they were then sold to outfits like this one, who needed a horse to walk the same trail back and forth without a fuss. The horses weren't any happier about the situation than an Olympiad would be leading summer camp. Trail training took a whole lot of patience and an understanding, and while he didn't have a lot of patience or understanding for people, Hunter had it for animals in spades.
All the same, Hunter could get grumpy after fighting with a would-be prince for several hours as the bastard tried to nip at him, refused to move, or continually attempted to get on with his own business while Hunter tried his best to convince him life would be easier if he did what the rider wanted. It was a lot like running after tennis balls while some idiot hit them in all directions. He was tired, bruised, and doing his best to keep his temper as he walked back into the cool of the stables with the disgruntled horse in tow. The sight of Jules made the day that much worse, as Hunter had a good long memory. He stopped, reins in hand, and let his gaze drop from Jules' distinctive complexion to the shirt barely visible on the floor of the stall. "You're in the way."
Jules’ memory wasn’t so good. He’d spent years making his way West, stopping for any bed that looked pretty along the way. Sometimes he’d stay days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months. He fell in love as easy as he changed his underwear, and that meant not everyone left a mark. He didn’t recognize Hunter right off as the casualty of one of those love affairs, but he knew the newcomer liked him less than that horse he was leading liked the world, and that was saying something. He pushed away from the wall, didn’t bother with the plaid, and stepped himself forward and out of the stall. His freckled shoulders were near as pale as the wifebeater he wore, and the big old belt buckle holding his jeans proclaimed first place at the Flint Hill Rodeo. Needless to say, Jules couldn’t sit a bull if he tried.
“That wasn’t what Jack said,” Jules replied, taking the horse side of the man at the gate and leaning on the stall beside, arms on the wood and a frost gaze slow as syrup in winter. Ah, there, a spark of something like recognition, though he still couldn’t quite mash the puzzle pieces together to get them right. “I seen you before,” he said, and something in his head said it was earlier than his move West. Course, that just made remembering harder, because it was so far gone in the past. Jules reached out a hand, palm up and flat for the horse to sniff. He wasn’t fool enough to just go touching the thing without an introduction.
Hunter didn't fall in love easily. You were fortunate if he gave you anything about himself, and that included personal history and his opinion about anything other than animals or the weather. Trust came hard, and seeing Jules was a lot like seeing a knife that had gutted you once a long time ago. It made him want to bare his teeth and growl, and not in a good way. Jules' name-drop set Jack firmly into the classification of people Hunter did not like, even if he hadn't minded him up until two seconds ago, and it was obvious in the set of his face. The horse, exactly the kind to realize when things went tense and no one was paying attention to him, tried to head off to where the feed was stored, and Hunter immediately stayed him with pressure on the reins, turning away from Jules in a most deliberate way and putting his attention on the horse. He got him settled in the stall and stepped in after him to strip off the day's tack.
Hunter made a faint grunting noise of distaste at Jules' mention of any past acquaintance. He was not insulted, just irritated, but the sound could have very well come from the horse, and not the man. He didn't care of Jules got himself bit, and paid no attention, pulling on belts and straps and working the riding saddle free. He hauled it off and moved out of the stall, shoving past Jules to do so. He walked past him to store it, all leg and torn up, working plaid. There were hints about his appearance, though, hints of a very pointed kind. Chipping blue fingernail polish. A thin belt instead of wide, and an unimpressive buckle on close jeans. Tapered clothing that emphasized hips instead of shoulders, and then of course the length of brown hair in his eyes that was not fashion but distinctly boyish.
Hunter came back for the sweat-soaked pad on the horse's back and deprived him of the last of the tack before bringing back curry comb and brushes. He would take the opportunity to shove Jules again if he got close enough.
Jules wasn’t slow, and he picked up on that anger early on during that temper tantrum that didn’t ever quite work itself into a lather. He moved aside, arms along the edge of the stall beside the horse being unburdened, and he watched like it was all a spectator sport for his liking. Jules could be real quiet when it was called for, and this was one of those sometimes. He watched, blue eyes moving, tracking the man in the plaid, but he didn’t go on chattering to fill the uncomfortable silence. He didn’t even feel uncomfortable, truth be told. He was trying to remember, but whatever had made this man dislike him like a burr beneath a saddle wasn’t something that had left scars behind, and that’s what got Jules thinking on the right train.
“That fella down South,” he said, trying to recall something more than tattoos about the man that came to mind when he looked at that boyish hair falling over the cowboy’s temple. Cowboy. That did it, and Jules just grinned, remembering. “He wasn’t worth sticking around for, honey,” was Jules’ eventual offering. He didn’t remember much there, skin against sheets and broad shoulders, but nothing more than that. He’d been real young, too, had Jules. Too young to be in anyone’s bed, and thrilled to steal someone from the pretty Cowboy. Small world, his momma would say. A burned bridge, too, but there was nothing for that now.
“You hold a good grudge,” Jules added, watching the brushes come out. “And you’re a ways out from Tennessee.”
Hunter was looking for more things to dislike about Jules, and all that silence didn't help. Silence didn't make Hunter uncomfortable; on the contrary. His preferred company expressed things better with sounds and behavior, not words, and he noticed people talked when they weren't in the mood to listen. Hunter thought about it, but since Jules was not deliberately getting in his way or filling the place with unnecessary (and in some cases, dangerous, in a stable like this) chatter, he couldn't justify starting a fight with him. So he ignored him, for a nice while, anyway.
For all his ego, this horse liked being groomed, and he stayed put for it as Hunter put a comb on each palm and started working the sweat and dust out of his coat with long sweeps of his arms. He missed the grin, which was probably a good thing, but at the comment, Hunter stopped what he was doing and turned his head to look at Jules across the horse's back. That look should've burned, if he had his way. It was a mixture of resentment and something like prickling defense, though why Hunter felt like he should defend the guy, he didn't know. He just added it to the anger, giving it an acidic touch along with the streak of old pain.
Hunter looked back down on the horse, but he didn't touch it again until he got himself back steady. The horse shifted nervously all the same, sensing the tension. "So are you."
“Figured there wasn’t very far to go East,” Jules said, giving the honestly simplistic answer for his journey. “Least not without hitting water, and I never been real good with water.” Now, all that was said calm as you please, despite the fact that Hunter was fixing him with the kind of glare that was fit to burn holes in things. Jules didn’t understand why all that ire was pointed his way. He’d been around plenty of jealous folks in his day, both male and female, but this didn’t merit it, not in his recollection at least. “You done glaring?” he asked after a second later, pushing away from the edge of the stall and walking to the open gate, to where Hunter was standing. “‘Cause, way I see it, it’s not me you should be mad at.” Simple, but Jules’ mind didn’t wind around relationships the way others’ might. He hadn’t been committed to the angry man with the brushes all those years ago, and he hadn’t been the one who’d done him wrong. “Name’s Jules. I don’t think we ever exchanged names proper,” he offered; he knew they hadn’t.
Hunter was probably putting an unnecessary amount of effort into the strokes of the comb, but the horse was loving it, leaning into the strokes, so it didn’t hurt anything. He took his eyes away from Jules, intently. Looking at him stung. There was no way he’d ever look as pale and pretty as all that, and even Hunter recognized the undeniable appeal of that thick Southern drawl. He’d been stupid not to try to talk him out of Tennessee, but anywhere at all had seemed wonderful, at the time. Hunter worked the comb over the horse’s withers, staring down at what he was doing. “No, we didn’t.” There was a split second when it seemed like he wouldn’t say any more, but then he said, abruptly. “Why shouldn’t I be mad at you?” It was not an entirely honest question. It didn’t sound like it had a right answer.
“‘Cause I wasn’t the one dating you,” Jules said, plain as day and without any ribbons on to make it better. He was leaning in the open stall now, the edge of the gate between his shoulder blades and his ankles crossed with the kind of ease that came of knowing yourself and not really caring what other folks thought of you. He tugged at the white wifebeater, pulling the fabric from his belly and letting a non-existent breeze blow against his skin. He still wasn’t accustomed to this Las Vegas heat, all dry and not anything like the warmth that coated everything back home with a layer of sheen. “You been out here long?” he asked, trying to be polite, even if he was pretty sure he might get a brush to his head for his troubles. Maybe he would have understood, if he’d ever loved anyone in any real way, but Jules never had, and Hunter’s ire didn’t resonate as anything that make a whole lot of sense to him.
The horse pulled its head back and made a faint squealing noise, not because Hunter had hurt him (he wouldn’t have) but because the comb had stopped and Hunter had made a kind of abrupt movement with one arm, like a blow at nothing in midair. Hunter hastily moved around the horse and came up hard against Jules, flat chest to flat chest, a whuff of sweat and the grass and dirt smell of the horse behind him. He reached around and freed the gate a second later. He shoved Jules back with his weight until both were out of reach of the horse, and then he let Jules find his own balance before he turned to brace the gate and put some good-tasting things in the bin as something of an apology. For the horse.
Jules let all that shoving be, and he didn’t fight it, because he wasn’t real interested in throwing down in the droppings of the stable with this man, not over some lover that was so far in his memory that Jules barely remember what the man’s skin tasted like. He didn’t move away, and he stood up to that press of chest, all long limbs and too much willow for a man, but still nothing made to break. And when Hunter turned away, Jules came up behind him and his voice came from real near Hunter’s ear. “All that anger ain’t mine, honey. Find someone to take it out on,” he suggested, moving back real quick, anticipating an elbow to the gut for his troubles if he didn’t.
Smart move. Hunter whirled around and he was more than ready than just an elbow. He had his hands in ready fists and every hair on the back of his neck was on end. Hunter wasn’t just ready to fight, he was ready to defend himself, and he was going to do it with every last tooth and fingernail. He had one foot back and had himself braced for serious violence, and not just bar brawl violence. He missed Jules by a hair and almost lunged at him before he stopped himself--and not out of concern for the other man. His eyes narrowed, and he had one tooth visible in a decidedly stray dog snarl. “I would, only he’s gone.”
“That’s all well and good, but I’m not him, and that was near a half decade back,” Jules said, a step back and no attempt to throw a punch in return. Jules was real good at taking a hit; it was something he’d learned when he’d started in school, skirts and duckboots and different than everyone else. But he wasn’t a fighter, and he had no interest in getting into a brawl if he could help it. He would have gone back and changed things for this nameless man, he realized, if he could have done. Hell, he didn’t even remember the name of the man that had caused all this ruckus, so it sure would have been no skin off his back to have missed out on whatever they’d had between them. But he didn’t think the Cowboy would like pity, and so he didn’t say it. “You tell Jack I had to run,” he said, a peace offering of retreat.
The step back was good. Hunter was angry, and Jules had been a threat, and that step back made him much less of a threat. It reminded Hunter that now wasn’t then a lot more than the words did. Some of the angry curl went out of his fingers, and he blinked. Sanity came back to the brown eyes, under the shadow of his hair. An old dog the color of dying yellow daisies stepped out into the frame of the stable door, watching the pair of them. Hunter took in a breath. “Who’s in your head?” he asked.
The question was unexpected, and Jules just stared at the other man for a long moment. “None of your business,” was his response, because like hell was he going to go around telling folks about Violet and getting himself killed in some desert hole on account of it. He was surprised by the question, or he would have just said he didn’t have anyone in his head at all. But then he had no idea that he’d already talked to Hunter on the journals, talked to him about Hannah being dead, no less. “Or you go around announcing who you got to anyone who asks?” Maybe Hunter did, but Jules had plenty of good reasons for not doing that at all.
Hunter was better now that the topic was not what he had loved and lost. He did not seem so ready to hurt and be hurt, neither of which were good for anybody or anything around him. He looked over his shoulder to make sure the bastard prince was set up in his stall with everything put down proper, and then he worked through his pockets for his cigarettes. “Nobody asks. But I seen your name on there. Jules. You said you knew the girl.” He walked out of the stable toward the dog.
Lying wasn’t Jules’ strong point. Maybe it was growing up with all them nuns and priests, but it was clear as sin when he fibbed. He didn’t meet Hunter’s eyes, and he coughed without needing to, buying time. “I met her on and off at church.” Church, because as unconventional as Jules was, he had grown up Catholic as they came. He pulled his rosary from beneath his wifebeater, the one Loren had refused to take, and he let the cross dangle between them. “You’re the one went and found her?” he asked, figuring life was a cruel mistress sometimes, and didn’t it just figure it had to be this man found the dead girl.
Hunter cleared the stable door and lit up the second he was a few feet away and not like to burn any horses in their cradles. The dog trotted after him, throwing vaguely suspicious glances at Jules but keeping to Hunter’s heel, which seemed wise since he plopped down in the dust next to her about thirty seconds later. He didn’t care who was watching, or that the pretty white ghost from his past was drifting up to him; he put an arm around the dog’s neck and hugged her into one elbow briefly before taking a drag off the cigarette and pulling his knees up under his arms. He barely glanced at the rosary. “She’s out that way.” Hunter vaguely indicated a direction away from the city.
Jules didn’t turn to look. He had a general idea of where she was, how she was, and every other damn thing except the face of the person who did it, his voice, what he’d said. It was like a blurry film without audio. Drugs, Violet offered in his mind, and he almost shushed her. Plain as day, she was a little gone after everything, touched and not right, but maybe she’d been like that before. It was hard for him to tell, what with her being dead and all. No, he looked down at the Cowboy and his dog, and he crouched in front of him a second later and held out a hand for a cigarette. “Best leave the dead in their graves, honey.”
The dog sat up on her haunches when Jules crouched close, ears up and at attention, but she didn’t move forward. Her wet black nose bobbed up and down in the air in Jules’ direction, but she didn’t get up from where she sat. Hunter, cigarette in one hand, squinted up at Jules as he got close, and after a moment, handed over his cigarettes. The cheap lighter was stuffed in the half-full pack. “Yeah, I did. The other guy wanted to dig her up, though.” He was guilty, very guilty, and it was obvious in the weight of his voice, the shift of his eyes, and his willingness to talk about it to this guy, who he could barely look in the face.
“Loren,” Jules said without thinking, but what the hell, not like he didn’t have a good cover. “I work with him at Caesars. Ran into him after ya’ll got back. He was real messed up,” he said of the very angry security guard. “Think I still got bruises on my shoulders.” He sounded strangely fond as he talked about Hannah’s man (that’s how he thought about him). He tugged the lighter out of the pack, and he lit himself a cigarette and listened to the paper crackle in the hot, dry desert air. It was almost too hot for smoking, but Jules was expecting this conversation. He was expecting a blow job, but that didn’t quite work out neither.
Hunter looked up again. “Yeah, him.” He’d been willing to go with it since that was the guy that had freaked out on the journals. It had been a risk, but he hadn’t known what else to do, and he still had nightmares about the cops finding something of his there, and coming to find him. He didn’t do anything, dammit. He flicked at his cigarette, and looked up once more at Jules’ face, blank. “Why you got bruises?” It said something that Hunter didn’t think sex had to do with it, maybe from Loren’s appearance, or perhaps that he couldn’t associate the dead girl with sex at all.
“He didn’t react real well to me mentioning her,” Jules said of Loren, an easy shrug. “Just shoved me against a wall, honey, nothing to worry over. Man was broke up, wasn’t thinking, thought I did it.” It wasn’t a lie; Loren really didn’t handle the conversation they’d had real well, and it was only the knowledge that Violet had seen Tate, which meant Loren was in one piece somewhere, that had kept Jules from hunting him down just yet. “You’re scared,” Jules said unnecessarily, wondering why.
Hunter wasn't worried. He shrugged as Jules explained, as if this all made sense. "Oh." He put the cigarette back in the corner of his mouth and left it there, long fingertips trailing in the dust in front of his boots. He felt a little better having told someone else about the girl being there, and his gaze was directed in the middle distance, watching the haze melt the air. Hunter's response to that last comment should have been utterly predictable. "Not scared of anything."
Jules scoffed. “Honey, big strong men are my favorite flavor, and they all say they aren’t scared of nothing. Doesn’t mean it’s true.” ‘Cause Jules knew that real well. The boy in front of him was scared something tangible. Boy, not man, and that made him tip his head all kind of curious. “How old are you?” he asked. He was pretty sure, based on that man all those years back, that he was younger than Cowboy, but he wasn’t sure how much older. He sucked on his cigarette, all indented cheeks and way too much grace for anything male. “I’m gonna settle on Cowboy for a name, if you don’t give me another one.”
Hunter hissed out smoke (nothing graceful about it). He wasn’t going to ‘fess up to being scared of anything, and besides, he felt his fear of getting stuck in jail and never let out was an entirely natural one. It wasn’t something ridiculous, like fear of being up high or closed in. He didn’t like the idea of being called ‘cowboy’ like it was some kind of term of affection, and scowled. “Hunter’s my name. What the hell difference does it make how old I am?” He was watching Jules’ face for any kind of recognition of his name, something he might have said, or perhaps disdained amusement, or worse, arrogant pity. He would be happy to have an excuse to hit him.
“Hunter, Cowboy, not so far off,” Jules said, as unconcerned as folks back home during a sunshower. His own name was something he’d mashed together for himself, something claimed, something he was proud of, and he didn’t go mocking the other man’s name. He figured he best not go ruffling those feathers, because Hunter seemed like something just waiting for an excuse to get face-punch pissed. He pushed himself to standing, a tall, blonde barrier to the sun, and he looked down at the man in his shadow. “I was just wondering,” he said of Hunter’s age. You don’t take real kind to small talk,” he said observantly.
Hunter wasn’t the best at hiding his emotions, and never really learned to try. He ran when he got upset, somewhere deep in the trees, or way out in the grass, where there wasn’t anyone to hide from. He rose up too, not at all graceful like Jules’ swaying poise, but rather a little bow-legged, a little awkward, and quite brown and filthy enough to be aware of it and angry about it. “I don’t wanna make small talk with you,” he said, aggressively, picking a direction at random and moving with it. The dog got up off her haunches to follow at his heel, still watching Jules with interested eyes.
Jules tucked his fingers beneath his own belt loop, and he rocked on his boots, rock, rock, and he just watched Hunter lumber to his feet. Jules wasn’t actually passing any judgement, since he liked rough things and men that were men, but he didn’t know what Hunter was thinking, and so he kept his quiet and just glanced in the direction that Hunter headed. A grin at the dog, and a little click, click from the corner of his mouth earned him a tail wag, and Jules looked back on up at Hunter’s retreating back. “Nice talking to you, Cowboy,” he said, tone just a little entertained, all South and more confidence than anyone like him had any business owning.