Re: At the bar: Grant S/Cris M
Nah, there weren't many guys looked like Cris 'round here. He was real awarea that—prolly hyperaware, in the way that anybody used to growing up 'round their own people would be, thrust into a morassa gringos. But, he'd spent years working outta Manhattan, and sex crimes, they happened to everybody. He'd never been good at navigating the politicsa 1PP, however, 'cause he didn't like code-switching. He didn't like letting people talk down to him and he didn't have the right shame 'bout where he came from. Nah. He took up space and he talked how he talked and he let everybody else deal with it—the sole exception being when he was working, and that was something real different. But, here, while the guy on the stool over looked squeaky, farmboy without the dimple, but with all the muscle, Cris, eyes inked and smile crooked, he looked like the kinda capital-T Trouble mamás told their girls to keep away from, now as much as they had then.
The token namea Sheriff didn't change anya that.
He sat wide on the stool, feet meeting in the rungs. He got the narrow-vowelsa home offa the guy, his polite smile growing wider when the guy poked at the air useless, introducing himself. Cris shook his hand easy. "Grant. Call me Cris." He leaned forward against the counter again, flagging down the 'tender, tongue between his lips.—After he'd ordered, changing his mind on the beer and opting for a couple fingersa whiskey, he sat back and turned his attention back to Grant. "Seems busy—though, I gotta admit, I ain't ever really been here. I'm used to cop bars bein' flies and church mice and a couplea old-timers. This is—what's the word? 'Bumpin'.'"