She looked down at her own legs, somewhat bemused. Hidden beneath her pants were her own unshaven legs - she'd get around to it, eventually, maybe, soonish? Now that the unpleasantness of losing her bounty was wearing off (there would always be another), she found the guy quite amicable. Anyone who could react to her 'go fuck yourself' without getting uppity was someone worth keeping around. "Leg hair separates the boys from the men," she offered up. Not that she was into any sort of supermodels, but the pulsating beat of Brazil had far more to offer than the porcelain of Russia.
His offer was tempting. He'd toss her a few bounties, she could use the symbiotic relationship if she did happen upon another bounty who was nestled a midst drug king-pins, or gun runners that far out gunned her. Losing a bounty to him would be worth a lot less than if she lost it to another hunter.
"Alright," she drawled out, handing over one of her homemade cards. "It's my cell, if I don't answer in three rings, I'm either on the hunt, or dead. Now, you got a card in case another lowlife surrounds himself with his own private army? Only fair to offer something back, right? Unless you really do want the Jameson. Don't blame 'ya. If it were me, I'd rather have the Jameson too."