He always finds himself here, sitting in this delicious den of iniquity. His beer poised on his lips, crumpled last dollar bills in his right hand. Heart heavy, the only way he knows it to be. Attempting to swallow the bitter taste of righteousness and forgetting why he made this decision in the first place.
To his left and right, women taunt him, fluttering their eyelashes and flashing fake half-smiles. Take advantage of the sucker with the broken spirit. He grins with tight lips up at the woman decked in army garb. She struts up and down her catwalk, trying to catch his eyes and procure more dividends from his pocket. He obliges, forking over dollar bills like they mean nothing to him. And at this point, they don't, neither does the beer in his grip or the scantily clad ladies offering situations that are probably illegal in most states.
Nothing means anything as he sits and sits and wallows in his own masochism. Nothing except her. And no, he isn't talking about his latest conquest. Although he wishes he was. Lana with her sultry eyes and streamlined black tresses of hair, lips a perfectly plump marshmallow framing that seductive come hither smile. She is worthy to be talked of, no question, but Cappie has always preferred blonds with innocent eyes. One in particular to be exact.
And that one in particular to be exact is the reason he sits in this hellhole, downing Sandusky Lager and passing out dollar bills to women dressed as librarians and flight attendants. And he was doing it peacefully and [kind of] without remorse until ten minutes ago when Spitter, and holy shit, Dale showed up…Lana in tow.
And now he is sitting at the bar, being eyed by its gruff looking tender, listening as Rusty drabbles on and on, spinning romantic poetry about Cappie and Lana. About how they're meant to be. About their fairytale romance. And Cap, he is sitting, patiently, quietly, thinking of a different fairytale. He thinks of a story about golden hair and evergreen eyes and a damsel in distress. Not about a flaky, yet devastatingly hot, cater waitress that makes him feel emasculated and unworthy of being the knight in shining armor.
"Rusty, I don't want a second chance."
"But you came to Gentleman's Choice. You only do that when your heart's broken!" He's so damn fervent and insistent and grating that Cappie wants to scream about the fairytale ending he's been planning since he laid eyes on her at the KT Rush party freshman year. But then he'd know why Cap was here in the first place.
The bar man is getting impatient and Lana is still waiting and Spitter is reaching a brand new level of obnoxious. And he is ready to get out of this hellhole and the solidarity that it used to offer. So he lets Spitter pick his fight, albeit not with him, but the scary "straight out of the biker rodeo" bar tender, Mr. Viper.
Just as normal, Rusty finds a way to avoid disaster, freeing him from whatever mess he usually finds himself in, and the foursome are able to make their way back to KT. Lana is silent the entire car ride, more than likely expecting what is coming, so Cap isn't surprised when she takes the news well. He wants someone else. Not the flaky, yet devastatingly hot, cater waitress that makes him feel emasculated. He wants golden hair, evergreen eyes, and a fairytale ending where he saves the damsel in distress. He wants to prove his role as knight in shining armor, but first he must deal with Spitter, or Rowdy Rusty as Lana had deemed him so. Although that nickname is gonna have to go out the front door along with her, he muses.
Dale, Rusty, and Cap lounge on the couch, throwing back sparkling apple cider, giggling as it tickles its way into their nostrils. Rusty gives a thirty second grace period before launching his latest "Cappie Romance Theory".
"So why were you at Gentleman's Choice? If it wasn't about Lana, it had to have been about another girl. You only go there when you're thinking of a girl. The last time you went was because of…"
Spitter trails off, meeting Cappie's ungodly blue orbs, before flicking his gaze over to Dale who says "I don't like where this is going." Dale shakes his head, recalling Cap's love for the Cartwright minx.
"Don't read too much into this." He hopes he has put enough weight on his words that the subject of the fairer Cartwright and Cap's frequent vacations to the strip club have been put to rest. "Seriously. Let's do another shot." And the old Cappie reappears, shooting cider into three shot glasses. He toasts the two boys on his left and tosses back the pseudo-champagne. It really does make your noses tingle.