Re: Sonrisa: Hunter R & Cris M
Cris didn't interrupt that strangely methodical, but kinda haggard consumption. He wasn't disgusted by it, 'cause he knew, in no particular order, guys—cops, kids, bangers, soldiers, whoever—and he knew rea hunger. He knew too the lookuva kid battered, surly temperament and all. And on toppa all that, feeding somebody sometimes got you a lil bit of a bonda some kind, huh? Since the naturea the act was to sit together and, often, share. There was something communal 'bout it, and the social creatures humans were, it forged an admittedly flimsy connection, but something was better than nothing.—Nah, the only thing Cris did, 'sides eat his own food, was turn once, at the waist, to follow the kid's gaze out the window to the blot on the night outside, by the door.
Otherwise, he didn't do mucha nothing. Besides eat, like I said. He wasn't that orderly 'bout it or that steady-streamed. He'd gone back to his fries, the shake, leaving the burger half-done.—Now, the Sheriff was good at reading people—real, real good—and he was good at non-verbal communication. He usually knew when he was getting looked at a certain way, huh? 'Cause, well, he'd been guapo since birth, huh? Add a lil bitta charm to that, which, thankfully, he had naturally, and you could use that real good in this linea work. People were inclined to trust somebody more, to talk to them, to be sweet on 'em and let 'em get away with stuff. That kinda thing. And, after all, parta this job, cruel as it was, was leveraging whatever hooks you got into people. (Not that Cris was doing it now. He wasn't.) Still, it meant he didn't recoil under the attention or nothing, not from guys or girls or anybody. There were times—like with Sam, when he'd gone back with her to score, when he used it—gave attention back—but, that wasn't how Cris was normally. Not 'less he really did like you.—All that said, while he was awarea Hunter's gaze on him, he didn't think it was nothing other than the suspicions of a kid who'd just gotten caught breaking into some place, wondering why they still weren't being rounded up.
The answer for that, course, came quick enough. And when Hunter said he'd come, Cris smiled at him, pleased, said 'good' under his breath, licked salt offa his finger, and lifted his ass to pull his wallet outta his back pocket. He peeled out a handfulla bills, and doled them onto formica—all in all, it was a just under 'bout $150, all he had on him, cash-wise, and he pushed it across the table to the kid.
"I dunno how much you need to pay off this jokea yours, but you need more, you tell me and we can figure it out. You don't go tryin' to take it from anybody." He took a card from the billfold—his card—and added it to the bill, and tapped it once. "Got it?" His wallet stowed away once more, Cris focused on that spoon again. Though, after a minutea sucking chocolate from it again, he pointed it at Hunter, black eyes moving over the kid suddenly, sizing him up. If he hadta guess, he'd put him near his own height, 'bout six foot. "How tall are you?"