What happens in Vegas...
Daniella says: Oh, the unexplored story lines in this show...Duncan Page telling Bass that he's not that good a lay? Where did that come from? And she knew his real name?Really? So let's see what may have happened...Rated M, because, hey, it's Duncan Page talking about what kind of lay Bass is.
Bass had noticed the thin, dark-haired woman some time ago, but he pretended not to. He forcibly pulled his attention back to the punching bag – the last few moments, gazing at her like a starstruck teenager, had cost him precious moves. If he had been in the ring, he would probably have been dead.
He returned to the punch bag with renewed energy, pausing only for a second, as he caught her dark, intense eyes looking back at him.
"Hey, Gould, who's the chick?" he asked his manager later. It was Gould who preferred to be called 'manager' – Bass was okay with 'pimp'.
"That one? Oh, that's no chick, Jimmy boy. That's Duncan Page."
Bass lifted an eyebrow.
"And she is..." he prompted.
Gould sighed.
"Sometimes I forget you're not from around here. Duncan Page runs one of the wildest and baddest gangs in the New Vegas vicinity. If you want to call her something, I guess 'warlord' would be a good choice."
Bass's interest grew exponentially. A warlord...a war-lady, even...He had once been a warlord himself...
During the first few weeks after letting the Republic slip through his fingers, during the first nights of whoring himself out as a prize fighter in New Vegas, Bass had found a foolproof way of dealing with his predicament: he didn't think about it. Not at all. Not about the past, not about what he had lost, not about Miles and the other Mathesons. Just sometimes, before he would fall asleep, Emma's face would appear to him, and he would feel the same jolt he first felt when she told him he had a son. The amazement still hadn't worn off that. But everything else...he just didn't go there.
Until a lady warlord called Duncan Page brought it all back in a rush: the raids, the nights around the camp fire. His easy camaraderies with his soldiers – in the early days. His rides with Miles. Their first lessons, and first clumsy attempts, at sword fighting. The girls they had shared.
He looked at Duncan Page, sitting at the five-card-stud table as if she owned it, until Gould told him it was time to get back in the ring. And as he was climbing over the ropes, he noticed that the dark-haired woman had left the card table, and had taken a front row seat to watch the fight.
Bass had found a new sense of purpose that night. His opponent didn't stand a chance – Gould was ecstatic. The odds had been good for "Jimmy", but not so good as to predict a KO so soon. As Bass let Gould grab his arm and lead him on a victory round around the ring, he caught the woman's eyes and, imperceptibly, he winked.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked later, approaching her at the card table, where she had regained her usual place.
"I'm busy," she replied, not lifting her eyes from the cards.
"Come on, Page," he continued. "Give the next hand a miss. Maybe your luck will turn," he added, glancing at the cards she was holding.
"There nothing wrong with my luck, pal," she murmured. "Maybe it's the fact that you're busting my balls looking over my shoulder."
Bass snorted.
"Didn't think you'd have any. Balls, that is, not shoulders."
"Shut up," she said, but there was a twinkle in those intense eyes.
Bass moved a couple of steps back.
"Okay, lads, let me sit this one out," Duncan said finally, getting up. "Otherwise this jerk will be here all night."
"Getting scared, Page?" sneered one of the other card players.
"You'd wish, Arno. I'll be back for the rest of your diamonds. So, keep them warm, will you?"
The men at the table laughed good-naturedly. As good-naturedly as it was possible for card sharks doubling in their spare time as cutthroats.
Duncan walked up to the bar.
"So what's your name, irritating prizefighter?"
"Jimmy King," he replied immediately.
"Sure it is," she remarked, but let it at that.
"Can I buy you a drink, then? Since we've done the meet and greet?"
She eyed him critically.
"I don't know. Can you? You don't seem to be swimming in dough."
"Oh I can manage a couple of shots."
Duncan had led him to a makeshift bar.
"So what's it going to be?"
"Anything with a passing resemblance to Jack," she said.
Bass turned to the bartender.
"You heard the lady. Make that two, will you? No ice."
"Where would I get the ice?" he enquired, producing two glasses and filling them up with an indeterminate yellow liquid. As always when drinking in this dump, Bass lifted the glass gingerly, gave it a sniff before taking an experimental sip. It was actually good – better than the hogwash he had been drinking in other New Vegas joints. Duncan didn't have any such compunctions.
"Cheers, Jimmy King," she said, before downing it in one.
A substantial number of drinks later – as Bass's diminishing monetary resources could attest to – he let his hand wander over hers. She didn't miss a beat. They had been talking about trivial matters, his latest fights, her latest raids. It was time to get down to brass tacks.
"Is there something you want to tell me, Jimmy?"
"I was wondering if you really want to go back to that table, Duncan."
"What else would I do in a dump like this?"
He stroked her forearm, and she let him.
"I've got a little place here. It's also a dump, but it's my dump. Let the lads keep their diamonds tonight, Duncan. Come home with me."
"You know what, Jimmy? I just might do that."
They walked back to the room that Gould had been providing to Bass – for a fee.
"You were right, this is a dump," she remarked as soon as they had entered. Bass hurriedly threw on the floor the clothes that were piled up on the couch – the only piece of furniture in the room.
"It was the only one they had, when I arrived. All the other rooms were taken by the early birds."
Without the slightest hint of being embarrassed, Duncan removed her boots and socks, then peeled off her shirt and pants, first removing carefully her holster. As Bass just stared, she unhooked her bra and pulled down her knickers. The she pushed Bass back on the couch, landing on him.
"We are not here to talk," she whispered, her fingers hungrily unbuttoning his trousers. "Are we?"
He almost tore his shirt in his haste to take it off.
"We most certainly are not."
To be continued.
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