What's that one country pop song.
Honey, I'm Good.
Corny, corny ass song.
But I can feel Rancher!Graves' shit-eating grin in my bones.
Graves and his partner- a pretty little thing when two of you were side by side. He wasn't much older than you, yet he had always seemed so given how old fashioned he was- something about the etiquette he followed; how he would open the door of his truck for you to help you in and out, or how he pulled your chair out for you at the dinner table.
The visits to the saloon are less and less frequent now that he's got someone to come home to at the end of the day, but a quick drink to catch up with the other folk every now and then never hurt anyone. News usually traveled fast through town, but for some odd reason, you being Phil's partner didn't.
Or, maybe it did, and everyone expected worse from him. Hushed tone and whispers about how poor little you had been ensnared by Phil's charm. He was reliable for jobs, sure, but the way he was able to smooth talk his way through anything and everything had some people reeling at the idea of him actually being tied down to someone; he was assigned to be the forever-bachelor.
And as much as you hated to admit it, your mind lingered in doubt sometimes. Laying in bed with him, watching in the moonlight as he fell asleep and wondering if he really meant it earier when he said he thought of you and handed you that pretty bouquet of flowers that definitely had to be imported from another state.
Did he really mean to stare at you that lovingly when you brought out a glass of sweet tea for him when he was out hauling around the hay bales?
What about when he held you on the couch when you two were watching that shitty horror movie after dinner, and he jerked you closer and squeezed you after one of the most predictable jumpscares flashed over the screen?
Phil was a great guy. Secure, friendly, plenty capable and ready to help. Cheeky. Unassuming too, if you tried really hard to forget about his rodeo career. He knew better than to brag. And to you, and only you, he was clingy. He tried to make sure you knew that he was dedicated. Lingering touches, long looks, greedy kisses and tight hugs.
If anyone asked you, he was the sweetest thing. Never afraid to love you and show that he really meant it. If you asked anyone else, Phil was like a dog; one that would come when called for a job, willing to play fetch with anyone if they asked nice enough.
So when some other pretty little thing came up and seated herself on the stool next to his to introduce herself to him with that look on her face, no one batted an eye. Well, no one did until he finally finished the glass of whiskey he had been nursing through their mostly one-sided conversation.
"Nah, I'm good."
And heads whipped to look at him. Rejection? Rejection from Phil?
Of course. Phil was serious about you.
"Already got my honey waitin' f' me at home."
Babes that wanted to be tagged:
@mockerycrow @kivino
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[ID: A stick figure lays in bed with tired eyes. The time on the clock reads 2:39 am. In a thought bubble above its head reads the chorus to Kokomo by the Beach Boys: "Aruba, Jamaica, ooh, I wanna take you to Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego Baby, why don't we go?"]
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Somebody needs to draw the Master catwalking to “Pretty Girls Walk Like This” by Big Boss Vette, and that someone is probably gonna be me.
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