Chapter Text
Scott's been down on his luck for longer than he cares to think about.
At one point he might have idolised a certain type of person- The type who take what they want without fear of consequence, with no regard for polite society. Essentially, criminals, but now that he's living the dream he's realised it's not all that glamorous, especially when you end up a broke twenty-something year old drifter with little more to your name than a stolen flatbed truck and a warrant in every state you've been through. And especially when the robbery doesn't even pay off.
That interfering peice of shit customer had a nasty right hook. Left him with quite the shiner. It's humiliating- He can't even successfully rob a gas station these days. The clerk was hot on the panic button and that ballsy do-gooder had the nerve to bring a fist to a gun fight. Who does that? Scott certainly wouldn't, but then he wouldn't try to stop a stranger from committing any kind of crime. It wouldn't benefit him, and he's got a decent enough self preservation instinct to know to stay the hell out of it.
He should have shot the guy, he thinks as he parks the truck. It's been a shitty day, and he wants nothing more than to sit in a dimly lit dive bar and quietly stare into a glass of something strong enough to make him stop caring about his streak of bad luck.
The place isn't all that busy, some weird remote building on the side of the highway that looks more like a barn than anything else, but advertises itself as some sort of country club. It's appropriately dark and smells like cheap booze, which works for him because he's keenly aware that he's got about forty dollars in his back pocket and nowhere else to be. He reckons he'll be sleeping in the bed of the truck tonight, but that's fine. At least it's still warm out this time of year, not like it would be back home in Canada.
Scott orders some shitty whiskey and tries not to think about home. It's been a few years. A few long, unsavoury years. He'd try to distract himself by looking at his phone or something but he'd had to chuck his in a lake after the cops down in Arizona got ahold of his number to track him. He's resorted to a burner phone, a useless one-function brick of a thing, with nobody in his contacts list worth talking to.
He doesn't think anybodies worth talking to. Not really. He cranes his neck to glance around the bar, just checking out the various patrons. There's a few stoic faces sat around in dark booths, mostly old people out for a quiet drink on a weekday, and a couple of middle aged women dressed in unfittingly reavealing outfits determined to dance to the bland country music that plays over the speakers as if they're at a nightclub or something. Scott's found himself in a weird place, he's decided.
Already bored, he turns back towards the bar to glare into his glass of whiskey, but as he shifts on his stool, he sees her.
"Fix us up a margarita, would'ya? And how many of those little umbrellas can you give me without gettin' in trouble?"
It's said in a southern accent thicker than the mud of the prairie he grew up in. The first thing he notices is the immaculately curled, honey blonde hair, lit up all gold and shiny like some kind of halo in the warm spotlights that line the ceiling behind the bar. The second thing he notices is that ass.
He wonders if that ass would even fit in the passengers seat of his truck. She's a big girl, clearly confident in herself if the loud pink crop top and booty shorts combo is anything to go by. Under the dim bar lights she's almost immaculate, all smooth unblemished skin and neatly painted hot pink nails with toes to match in what have to be at least three inch heels. She's not particularly tall even in those crazy shoes- He'd guess around five-three without them.
And then she catches him looking, and turns to face him, and then he sees the whole picture of her, and-
And she's got a black eye too.
Same side as his, like a mirror image. It's one of those special moments, the kind that feel like they really mean something even if you're not the type to put much stock into things like fate and destiny. She's got this shocked sort of look on her face, and he thinks his expression must be similar, and they're just staring each other dead in the eye at this strange bar in the middle of nowhere like if either of them break the silence then this moment will dissapear forever, like it's not even real.
Her mouth is just slightly open, exposing an admittedly cute gap between her incisors, and then he notices a third thing-
"You've got lipstick in your teeth."
Scott could slap himself. Hell of a line, that is. Only he could look an angel in the face and pick out the one flaw on her person. She frowns at him, daintily plucked eyebrows downturned as she smacks her lips together, bright bubblegum pink, and doesn't do a thing to fix what he pointed out.
"Good." she says, as if daring him to comment on it further. She looks him up and down, scrutinising in her baby blue gaze, and he's suddenly self concious of the way he's sat on his stool. What must he look like to her? Apparently not hideous, because she takes the dive and drops herself rather undelicately on the stool beside him "Pay for my drink?"
Well isn't that bold. He grins, genuine and thoroughly amused "Little sexist, don't you think?"
She snorts, and there's never been a snort quite so charming "Ain't sexist if it's benefitin' me. Cough up, cowboy."
Something stirs in his gut at being called cowboy and, oh, oh she's funny. The bartender sets down her margarita that's obscured by what's got to be at least ten brightly coloured cocktail umbrellas, and he reaches into his back pocket, taking out what little cash he has left. He tries not to think too hard about the thirty four dollars to his name and chucks a ten on the bar. He doesn't get change.
"Alright. You got your drink, and your... Umbrellas." he smirks down at the rainbow display "So why don't you tell me- How'd a girl like you end up with a shiner like that?"
She plucks an umbrella out of the glass- A pink one, of course- And tucks it neatly behind her ear, smirking back at him as she says "A girl like me, huh? I don't think you got a clue who you're talkin' to."
"Oh, don't I?" he asks, curious.
"No, you don't." she tells him, smug, and how anyone could look so well put together with a black eye like that he'll never know "You're lookin' at a ten time pageant queen, prettiest girl in every county east a' New Orleans."
Pageant queen. He looks her over again and, yeah, he sees it "So what are you doing so far west?"
"Tryin'a claim the same for the whole a' the south." she tells him, pursing her lips "That's how I ended up with this," she covers her black eye with one hand "Some bitch went n' stole my crown. I threw a fist, she threw a fist, oh man did it get ugly. You should'a seen her though- That skank didn't know what hit her, all 'Help, help, security!', but I got her good before anyone else got involved. Her face ain't gonna be camera ready anytime soon."
Scott knows his mouth is hanging open. This chick is fucking crazy "Didn't realise beauty pageants got so violent."
"You ain't never seen the television shows?" she grins at him "Course you haven't, or you'd have recognised me. I'm a pretty big deal in the pageant world."
"Nah, not really my thing." he stops and thinks about it "But hey, I mean, if they air the cat fights-"
"Oh, they air the cat fights." she enthuses, conspiratory as she leans one elbow on the bar, squishing her cheek into her palm "It's half the appeal. But enough about that- What's with the shiner, handsome?"
He nearly chokes on his whiskey. He wasn't expecting it- Scott doesn't get called handsome, because he's fucking not "Oh, that's..." he trails off. It's a much less interesting story. Also much more illegal, and while this girl seems fairly worldly he's not keen on outing his unsavoury career choices. Women don't tend to like that "It's not worth talking about."
"No, no," she points a finger at him "I showed you mine, you show me yours. Spit it out."
He considers it. Maybe it's because the phrasing is a bit of a turn on, or maybe it's because he's finally met someone worth talking to, someone interesting, but he conceeds "Tried to rob a gas station. Got punched in the eye. Not much else to it."
He's expecting her to turn away, conversation over as suddenly as it began, but instead for whatever reason she absolutely lights up, looking him over like she's only just now seeing him clearly "Ooh, so you're some kinda outlaw, huh?"
Well. That's one way of putting it. He snorts "I guess. Not gonna run away from me? I could be dangerous, you know."
He's kind of trying to scare her off now, but it only does the opposite "Naw, sounds excitin' to me." she says, eyes glittering "So tell me, mister outlaw, what's the biggest job you've ever done? Have you got anything in the works? You got, like, a whole team n' stuff?"
It's a lot of questions all at once, about things he doesn't like to share "Nothing planned, solo player." he says stiffly. She doesn't let up.
"Well, if you was ever lookin' for a partner in crime," she starts in a sing-song voice, twirling her hair, and it sets him off.
"I don't think you're cut out for it, pageant princess." he sneers, no longer in the mood for this. He kind of regrets buying her drink "You don't know what you're talking about."
She balks, offended "Excuse me?" she says, in that awfully southern drawn-out way "I don't think you know what you're talkin' about. You ain't all that mean. Like, whoopee, tough guy, you tried to rob a gas station. Don't think I ain't pickin' up on the tried."
It's insulting, and true, and not where he wanted this conversation to go at all. Scott has a system for picking up chicks, a routine- Buy them a drink, tell them they're the prettiest girl in the room, bang them in the back of his truck, maybe a motel if he's feeling fancy, and when they go to the bathroom to clean up dissapear into the night. That's clearly not what's happening here, so he gives up on any form of politeness and snaps "Oh, and you think you could do any better?"
She gives him a once-over, defensive as she asserts "Yeah, I could. Now, are you gonna show me a good time or am I gonna have to find my thrills elsewhere?"
Huh. Maybe that is what's happening here- He can't tell whether that was an innuendo or if she actually wants him to take her out on a robbery. Curious, he downs the last of his whiskey, and half heartedly agrees "Nah, guess you can stick around. What did you have in mind?"