Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Wet-Eared Whiner

[WARNING: crude and suggestive language.]

wednesday afternoon. with the man she loves.

The outlaws are heading for the mountains, and the storm up in those skies rolls and twists like a pit of vipers. It's a real nasty looking one. Them outlaws think they can skirt past it, or are they hoping it'll hide them? Maybe wash away any trace of them, or split the sky in two and rip up everything what ain't nailed down.

Jude eyes the storm some, and a frown starts pulling at his lips, but there ain't nothing he can do about the weather. The tracks ain't so fresh no more; almost a day old, now. Outlaws are picking up the pace. Can't be camping no more, but they still gotta pause some, unless they're meaning to run their horses right into the ground, and they ain't gonna get too far on their feet.

That annoying tapping sound's back. It starts first slow and soft, but soon it's fast and loud and sharp, and the cause follows along a coupla feet behind Jude, peering at the trees and dirt like he's any help. That noise—that goddamn tapping—pokes and prods at the softer parts of Jude's ears, and his jaw starts tightening, clenching up so firm and hard he nearly cracks his molars.

Bandits can be real quiet—wolves too. Fella's gotta shut up and listen if he don't wanna end up a notch on somebody's belt.

Jude stops his horse, turns his head, and glares at the son-of-a-bitch what wants to play hero, and then he scowls and snaps, in a tone what's so low and harsh it's almost a growl, "I done told you once already, Mama's boy. You keep that shit up 'n I'll break your fingers."

The tapping stops. The air's still enough to snap, to break upside some worthless sissy's soft skull.

For a second, Addison's eyebrows are raised real high, arched like he wasn't expecting no backlash, but then his stare narrows, and he glares firm back at Jude. Something flashes in Addison's eyes—a bit of metal and flame what weren't there before—and he sets his jaw and scowls like he ain't just some thin-skinned rich kid what's spent all his life sucking on his daddy's silver spoon.

Go on. Bite back if you ain't no bitch.

Addison breathes out real slow through his nose, and his nostril's flare like a bull about to charge, but he sits up straight in his saddle and mutters, real tight and low, "Sorry. Nervous habit."

Jude sneers. Feller ain't got no spine. Must be why her mama likes him; she ain't never trusted no man around her daughter, but she'll marry the girl off to one what was raised like a woman just fine.

"Then break it," he bites out real low, and then he turns his head and gives Hickory a little kick in the sides, "or I'll break it for you."

Addison don't say nothing to that, just purses his lips and narrows his eyes and squeezes the reins of his horse like he's thinking it's Jude's neck, and they continue on in a silence what might've been divine if it was Ms. Little who Jude was sharing it with. She and him could share a saddle, and she'd sit sideways in it 'cuz it's proper, but that's fine enough—lets him reach her lips better. She's got nice lips, real soft and sweet and warm, and they look awful pretty when she smiles—look nice when they're open, too, and her mouth's all red and dark, and she whispers his name. Would've been nice to know what her other pair felt like—if the space what they opened up to was as dark as her mouth, as red and warm and soft—but ladies ain't supposed to give nothing up until their man's obligation to them gets written down in one of them church books.

Fine enough. Whores ain't expensive, and his hand works fine.

It ain't the same, though, is it? Prettiest hooker in the world ain't got a face like her, ain't got her voice or meaning. She ain't gonna feel like Ms. Little. She ain't gonna whine or gasp like Ms. Little.