Author's Note: Hey Richonners!
Thanks in advance for clicking on this story. I'm appreciative of anyone who chooses to read. That said, there's a couple things I want to mention. This is an Alternate Universe Romance/Drama set in the early 2000s. In a way, there will be 4 POVs (kind of a story within a story). It is a slow burn for Richonne, as they are both kind of…flawed to put it lightly (dark and brooding Rick? Free-spirited but feisty Michonne?). For updates, I hope to update weekly. Likely on Saturdays.
Done rambling…onto the first chapter… :D
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
1 – Cowboy Romance
"Will you pick something already?"
"I need to see what else is on."
"You've been through every station at least twice."
"Only 'cuz nothing good is playing."
"We're out in the middle of nowhere," said Michonne Duval with gritted teeth. "Nothing good will ever play."
"Fifty it is," Terry said. He opened his CD Case and flipped through the many plastic sleeves.
"Nope. Not again. Not this time. NPR it is." Her finger smashed against a button, changing the station.
"Chonne!" the 19-year-old groaned. "You can't be serious."
"Am I smiling?"
Terry rolled his eyes, arms crossed, and turned his head to the passenger window. He sulked for a good few seconds, but couldn't bite his tongue for long.
"Mom might as well be here."
"Oh, you are so dramatic," she said. She stole a glance his way, switching from the country road. "You know damn well I'm nothing like mom."
"Coulda fooled me…"
"How about we act like adults the last 50 miles of our trip?" she asked. "Sound good?"
"Depends. Are you sticking around this time?"
Though her younger brother's words came out in a mumble, his reply packed a punch. She felt it in her gut. Her muscles contracted and she almost touched the brakes.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Figure it out." He slumped into the leather-clad seat, knees far apart.
She didn't need to. She knew exactly what he meant. When she asked she only hoped he'd recant…
With a sigh, she refocused her gaze on the road ahead. Their Beatle trekked on as steadily as ever along the flat and sunny Georgia landscape.
"Look," she said seconds later. "How many times do I have to say sorry?"
He didn't answer. She bit the inside of her cheek, tempted to lash out in a biting remark.
Time wore on, and they traveled many more miles. Nothing but the droning, sleep-inducing voice on NPR filled the car. A sign popped up on the road and told them 24 more miles…
"Can't believe Bunny's gone," Terry said aloud suddenly. Rarely one to stew for long, his deep voice was lower and duller than usual.
"Before her 75th…"
"I thought she'd live to be 100…" he slowly grinned, dimpled cheeks prominent. "You know those crazy old ladies who park their boat car sideways and who steal forks from iHOP? I thought that'd be Bunny."
The sister and brother shared their first laugh in hours.
"Are you kidding?" Michonne asked. "That was already Bunny."
"Remember that time she entered that hot wings contest and won? 182 hot wings in 60 minutes."
"Yeah, or when she convinced you she was Santa Claus in disguise?"
"Hey, I was six."
"You believed her 'til you were eleven."
Terry blushed and fell silent, unable to think up a rebuttal.
Another sign came up miles into their rekindled conversation. The sign was for a gas station called Fuel N' Go. Beneath that were the advertised prices per gallon. Michonne turned the car onto the gravelly lot.
"Be right back," she said, popping the door open.
"Get me some skittles," Terry said. He tossed in a hopeful smile last second. "Please?"
"Yeah, yeah," Michonne said.
She slammed shut the door and slid her sunglasses down onto her eyes from where they sat perched atop her head.
The asphalt practically sizzled beneath her sandals as she walked to the convenience store. Thankfully, a cool rush of air conditioning cascaded over her the instant she pulled the glass doors open. It didn't take her long to grab a couple snacks and put $20 on pump number three.
Outside again, she opened the tank and inserted the nozzle.
With thoughts on the last few miles ahead, she baked under the sun's superpowered rays.
"What are you doing all the way over there?"
Michonne looked left and right, confused. Then she realized the gruff voice came from behind. From pump two. She looked over her shoulder.
Pump two was occupied by a beat-up 1950's-era Ford truck. Beside the rusty red clunker stood an old man in thick bifocals, suspenders and a yellow bow-tie.
At first, she wondered if perhaps he spoke to someone else. Though another glance around revealed no other person was anywhere to be found.
Thrown for a loop, she didn't answer. The pump clicked in a signal the tank reached max capacity.
"Well? You're not gonna come by and say hi?" the elderly man said, holding out his arms. "After all this time?"
"I'm sorry, sir…I don't…" she drifted off. "I'm just filling up. Have a nice day."
She didn't hang around for more words from the pale, freckled old man. As soon as she returned the pump to its holder, she got behind the wheel and started the car again.
"Who was that old geezer?" Terry asked teasingly. "I thought for a second he was hitting on you—didn't know if I'd have to handle it."
Michonne shot him her most skeptical of side-eyes. She said, "yeah…'handling' some 80-year-old grandpa. Real heroic, Superman. And I don't know who he was. He's clearly confused."
"He's standing by his truck staring."
"Let's go," she said, shifting gears into drive. "15 more miles and we're there."
"Finally!" Terry tore open the skittles and poured a quarter of the bag into his mouth. "About damn time."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
It was always hard for Michonne to believe Bunny was happy in a town as small as Blue Ridge.
Her grandmother's personality—her mere presence—was larger than life.
What was she doing in some rinky dink no-name town?
What about said rinky dink no-name town could have possibly made her happy?
She pulled up to the curb of Bunny's Bed & Breakfast, a humble and mid-sized colonial home painted her grandmother's favorite color, lemon yellow. The loud shade matched her spirit. The path leading up to the B&B's entrance was adorned with flower bouquets, garlands and candles. Even photo frames sat propped up against the front steps.
"We're here." Michonne sat still as a statute, staring at the house.
"Yeah…" Terry breathed. "Shit just got real."
They were nearly tackled walking through the door. A brigade of close friends mourning Bunny's death bombarded them as soon as they stepped into the foyer. Most elderly, the gang formed a strategic circle around the siblings, hugging and prodding them and chatting their ears off.
Michonne politely played along. Terry not so much.
"Bunny always said you were a spinning image of her!" Ms. Niedermeyer sobbed. She clung to Michonne like a sloth to a tree branch. "Last time I saw you you couldn't've been more than fifteen—now you're a woman! I can't believe it's been over ten years. Your hair…it's so…so interesting, and your clothes…"
A few feet away, Terry stood awkwardly as another woman named Janice Hofstetter gushed over him.
"I've got a granddaughter looking," said the 66-year-old chain smoker. She circled Terry, sizing him up. "How tall are you? You're so handsome. Now, my granddaughter, she's a bit heavyset, but she's a total sweetheart…"
Eventually, the crew dispersed, walking canes and mint candies in tow.
Michonne breathed a sigh of relief. Terry threw himself into a chair lining the wall.
"Tell me why that felt like they were 500-year-old vampires sucking my youth away," he groaned.
"Oh, c'mon…Mr. Crow wasn't so bad."
"Yeah, if you don't mind the stench of Benegay," he said to his sister's laugh. "It was pretty funny listening to Mrs. Niedermeyer describe your hair, though…"
"Shut up," she said. "She's probably never seen locs in her life…"
"Hell, she's probably never seen another black person but Bunny before."
"You Terry and Michonne?"
Michonne turned around to face the B&B's front desk. The door behind it was now ajar. A green-eyed brunette stepped out the back office.
"I always hide in there when the old folks come 'round," she said bluntly. "Stayed put 'til I knew they were gone."
"I shoulda thought of that," Terry grumbled under his breath.
"Please ignore him. And, yeah, we're Michonne and Terry Duval. Who are you?"
"I'm Maggie Greene, head receptionist—well, only receptionist, but Bunny gave me that title anyway," she said with a short laugh. She walked out from behind the oak counter to shake her hand. "I've heard all 'bout you two. Soon as anybody bragged 'bout their grandkids she'd start. She loved bringing up that her 'grandbaby' was in law school."
Michonne smiled, slightly embarrassed. "That sounds like her. I actually don't start 'til the fall."
"Well, congrats anyway! And welcome. You're probably already tired of this place—some say it smells too much like shit with all the farms and ranches—but we're happy to have you either way," said Maggie. "How long you staying for? Funeral's Sunday."
"Sunday," Michonne and Terry said in unison.
Maggie laughed. "I don't blame you one bit. But you're here a whole week early?"
"We're here early for the arrangements. Our ma is a workaholic and couldn't come," Terry piped up.
"Got it! Need me to show you 'round the place?"
"We're familiar," said Michonne. "Growing up, we spent a week here every summer."
"That's right—Bunny did mention your summer visits."
"What about you? You must be new—what happened to Holly?"
"She quit. Found herself a boyfriend and got knocked up," said Maggie. "I've worked here a year. But that was more than enough time to get to know Bunny. She almost feels like my gran gran—then again, that's how the whole town felt 'bout her."
Michonne said nothing, but Maggie's comment warmed her heart.
"Anyway, I'll stay outcha way. I'm off in another hour. We've only got 2 guests checked in right now. Nothing should come up, but in case it does, here's my number. I live on the Greene Farm—ask anybody and they'll point you my way," she explained. She scribbled her info, tore off the sheet from the notepad and handed it to Michonne.
"Thanks. We're both pretty exhausted from the drive. I think we'll head upstairs to our rooms," said Michonne.
"You should know everything in town that's not a bar closes in twenty minutes, so if you plan on going anywhere, you better hurry. But there's plenty of food in the kitchen if you're hungry. Bunny kept it fully stocked," said Maggie.
"Looks like we're cooking a dinner for ourselves," said Michonne with a smirk to her little brother.
He stood and gaped back, unenthused. "But…your cooking sucks."
Michonne laughed, shoved him, and started for the door to grab their stuff out the car. On her way, she said, "will you just shut up and help me with the luggage?"
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
That night, after a generously long and hot shower, Michonne emerged from the bathroom ready to turn in. She'd opted to stay in Bunny's old room, the large master bedroom full with decades-old furnishings and heavy floral patterns.
She plopped down on the armchair by the window.
Her limbs ached with exhaustion, but her mind surged with activity. Too many thoughts crammed into her head all at once.
The days ahead would be busy, full of funeral arrangements and spring cleaning. She was more than inexperienced with such things, but it looked like she'd have to learn along the way…
She glanced out the second-story window and noted how dark out it was. Few lights lit up the black landscape. The town itself was dead, and all before 9 P.M.
Was that the life Bunny lived for 40 years?
Again, it puzzled her. Bunny was such an infectiously vivacious woman who dripped with wanderlust. It made zero sense.
When she stood up from the armchair, her achy limbs elicited a moan out of her. She walked to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer to find a pen. It was time for her nightly journal entry. Pen and journal in hand, she returned to the armchair.
May 27th, 2005
So today was interesting. Drove the four hundred miles to Bunny's. We made it, but not before Terry guilt-tripped me for the thousandth time. I have to figure out a way to make things up to him. And prove to mom she's wrong about everything. I can handle Bunny's affairs.
Blue Ridge itself is…different. This town is so small I feel like it's suffocating. I can't imagine spending life here. But the people I've met are nice. Bunny's friends and the receptionist were welcoming. Though there was this old man at the ga
She drug the pen on the paper several times but no ink came out. Sighing, she tossed it into the waste basket and got up to search for another. Most drawers she opened had things like medication, sewing kits, socks—lots and lots of socks—and photo albums.
Michonne smiled when she came across the photo album drawer. It figured Bunny would keep quite the collection. That sort of thing was right up her alley.
For the next few minutes, she flipped through photo albums and relived classic family moments. She placed each album back as she'd found it and noticed one last book pushed into the drawer's rightmost corner. It was leather-bound, cognac in shade, with a yellow ribbon poking out between the pages edges.
Bunny kept a journal, too. She had no clue. However trivial it seemed, it was another shared hobby. Mom always said she was more like Bunny than anyone…
She quickly flicked the pages of the journal, each one covered with Bunny's loopy scrawl top-to-bottom.
Curiosity flooded her insides.
What thoughts and experiences would Bunny write about in her long 75 years? Would it be right of her to read them?
Almost tempted to turn to page one and find out, she decided perhaps another time. Next to where the journal had been placed was just what she was looking for. A pen.
In the armchair again, Michonne returned to her journal entry.
Not long after that, she drifted off to sleep for night one of six in Blue Ridge…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
The first morning in the rural town was both an early and busy one. Terry drug his feet to the car and yawned with his head against the glass until they stopped at a local diner for breakfast. Bellies full, the first official stop was the funeral home.
"This place smells weird," Terry said upon entry. He looked around the low-lit hall. "Like…like…"
"…death?" Michonne offered.
Terry shuddered.
It was a quarter 'til noon by the time they poured onto the sunny summer sidewalk again. Terry's mind was on food as he brought up his grumbling stomach. Michonne deferred to the comprehensive to-do list which had been prepared by mom.
"So ma of you," he sniggered.
Her neck snapped in a head turn his way, eyes slits. "How many times do I have to tell you to cut that shit out?"
"What? Is that so bad?" he said, relaxing into the passenger seat. "I mean, you are going to law school."
"I made that decision on my own. Not to follow mom." She pulled the car into the scarce traffic. In her peripheral vision, she noticed her brother roll his eyes.
They stopped for a quick lunch at a fast food joint. Terry amazed Michonne with his bottomless pit stomach and scarfed down two burgers and a large fry. As he drug his last French fry through a glob of ketchup and popped it into his mouth, he had the audacity to look up at her and mumble a clueless, "what?"
She shook her head. "Are you done?"
"I dunno—don't they got a dessert menu? I could go for one of those apple fritters…"
"Keep it up. One day that 19-year-old metabolism is going to wear off," she said.
He shrugged and said, "I'll let future Terry worry about it."
Next up, they needed cleaning supplies for clearing out the B&B, so they stopped at the biggest store in town. The only one big enough to warrant a parking lot and giant, fifteen-foot, flashy sign. Michonne drove down the row nearest the store doors in search of a good parking. Four spaces from the entrance, a bronze station wagon reversed out its spot.
"Yes!" Michonne flicked on her blinker to signal it was hers.
"Nice, VIP parking," Terry said, nodding. "Good 'cuz I wasn't trying to carry all our bags in this heat."
Michonne's Beatle inched forward as the space was freed and the station wagon started for the exit. She pressed her foot to the gas and gripped the wheel to turn into the parking, but slammed on the brakes when another swooped in and snatched it out from under her. A black truck with big tires that moved so fast the engine roared.
"Brakes, brakes—what the hell?!" Terry's hand tightened on the overhead handle.
They lurched forward against their seatbelts as the yellow bug came to a sloppy halt.
Stunned and speechless, Michonne gaped out the windshield then to her brother.
The truck door opened and cowboy boots hit asphalt. The pair moved from behind the truck until at last their owner walked into view. The man, whoever he was, wore a blue-and-white checkered shirt and he had wavy, ear-length hair. He headed for the store's glass doors without so much as a glance her way.
Michonne's eyes narrowed. She shoved the driver door open and darted out in a fast stride.
"Mich…" Terry groaned. He reluctantly unclicked his seatbelt to follow.
"Hey!" she called across the parking lot, swiftly closing the gap. "Hey you—in the cowboy boots!"
The man kept walking until she broke out into a dash and cut off his path in a karmic fashion.
Her hands came to her hips. Her chest heaved. She said, "what was that? You just stole my parking spot!"
The man's left eyebrow rose. He said, "yeah…?"
"Yeah," she said. She glared into his blue eyes. "Are you going to move?"
His lips twisted into something of a grin as he replied, "no."
"What do you mean 'no'?"
"I mean, you'll get it after I leave if you want it that much."
"What is your problem? You know you stole it—you saw my car waiting!"
"You can wait 'til I move."
His voice was gravelly, agonizing to her in the heated moment in the way nails on a chalkboard would be.
"Okay, don't move…I hope you don't come outside to a flat tire," she said innocuously.
"Mich," said Terry, grabbing her arm.
The man in the blue plaid shirt chuckled as if she'd told him a funny joke. His previously dulled eyes sparked as they roved her in a once-over, taking in her crocheted crop top, flowing maxi skirt, and top-knotted locs.
"You're not from 'round here, are you?" he asked.
"What the hell does that have to do with anything? Move your fuck—"
"—we're going!" announced Terry loudly. He yanked on her arm and pulled her backward.
She struggled for the first few steps, but then gave in as her temper dissipated. The man watched her for a second longer before he finished his walk into the store.
"Can we move our car from the middle of the parking lot?" Terry sounded exasperated.
"Oh, so you think I shouldn't have confronted him?"
"Didn't say that, but you did see all the stares we got, right? Was causing a scene worth it?" he asked, seatbelt fastened again.
Michonne sighed and let out a wavered breath. She replied, "okay, so I let my temper get out of hand…"
"Not the first time," Terry snorted. "Won't be the last—you almost went full Bunny on him."
"Like the time she caught that lady stealing her package," Michonne said with a grin.
He mirrored hers with one of his own. "That poor lady didn't know what the hell hit her."
"Since when have you become a voice of reason?"
"Dunno," Terry said. He shrugged as his older sister circled the lot again for another parking, this one further away. "Somebody's gotta stop you from keying that guy's car."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
That afternoon, Terry helped Michonne clean out the attic. It was the first room they sorted through. The narrow, slant-ceilinged room was overstocked with thirty years' worth of possessions. There were piles of boxes stacked, each full of items like old TV Guides or painting supplies. In the back near the port-hole window were two giant wardrobes overflowed with various fashions through the decades.
"Bunny wore some…interesting stuff," said Michonne as she withdrew a fuchsia and aquamarine contrasted blazer with shoulder pads.
"You're one to talk, Miss Boho."
"And you're any better? You can fit a family of five in those pants."
Terry glanced downward then up to his sister. Looking indignant, he said, "haters are my motivators, sis. Keep it up."
Michonne rolled her eyes and returned to rummaging through the racks.
Another hour passed, and with the attic cleared, the siblings parted ways. Terry went to his room to listen to some music while she decided to check on things in the B&B. She went downstairs and found Maggie at the receptionist desk with a pencil behind her ear and a thick book in her hands. The green-eyed brunette jumped as she came in, scrambling to hide the book under some B&B paperwork.
"What's that?" Michonne smirked.
"I was just doing some accounting for the—fuck it, I don't have the patience to lie," said Maggie, rolling her eyes. She withdrew the book and forked it over. "Don't laugh. I know it's silly."
"Whole Lotta Bull: A Cowboy romance novel," Michonne read the cover aloud. Her eyebrows quirked as she looked up at the receptionist. "Really?"
Maggie's entire face blushed rose pink. "I know, I know! It's embarrassing, but they're addictive!"
"I would've never pegged you to read this junk," said Michonne, snickering.
"It's been a lonely winter and I spend a lot of time at this desk."
Too amused to let it go, the two women next combed through the book for cheesy excerpts.
"Luke was a cowboy after all, powerful and bull-headed, manhood molded from a god's," Maggie read to more laughs. "Every time he turned me in his arms and gazed heatedly into my eyes, I just knew that I was his—"
The desk phone rang and interrupted the poignant tale.
"Damn, I wanted to hear more about Luke and his magical penis," said Michonne sarcastically.
"Shhh," Maggie said. She fought away another laugh as she answered the phone as professional as possible. "Bunny's Bed and Breakfast, this is Maggie, how may I help you today?"
While Maggie listened to the caller's reply, Michonne picked up the forgotten book and flipped through some more chapters. Occasionally, she stopped along the way when a particularly tacky or salacious paragraph jumped out at her.
"Michonne, the call's for you," said Maggie with a hand over the speaker.
"For me?"
Maggie nodded. "It's a Morgan Jones—says he's an estate attorney."
She set down the book and instead took the phone, a slight frown on her face. The cord twisted as she involuntarily paced from the desk's end to end.
"Hello, is this Miss Michonne Duval speaking?" the estate attorney asked in a calm tone.
"This is she. What is this regarding?"
"Miss Duval, I am not sure if you have had much of a chance to review the mailed copy of Bernadine's will, so I am checking up in case you have any questions," he said.
"No…I haven't. I didn't know I was mailed a copy. I believe you're actually looking for Tameeka Duval, my mother—"
"—no, ma'am, the will is quite clear who Bernadine has left her possessions to, and that is with you, Miss Duval," he cut across. "Ms. Baxter left you her vehicles, a 2001 Toyota Camry and 1999 Mercedes Benes. Oh, and her Bed and Breakfast property—615 East Apple Lane."
The news left Michonne flabbergasted to the point where forming a basic sentence posed a challenge.
"Hello? Miss Duval?" Mr. Jones asked when she said nothing.
She swallowed and tightened her grip on the phone. Maggie stared curiously.
"I'm here," she said. "I'm sorry, it's just…a surprise. I assumed my mother—"
"—I am afraid she left you her possessions. She left her daughter a set amount from her savings. Same with a Terry Duval."
"Oh. I guess I'm sort of speechless right now," she confessed. She rested her hand on top of her head as she continued to pace. "I think I need some time to review the will myself."
"Sure, I can also email you a copy if you'd like. If you have any questions, please feel free to give me a call," said Mr. Jones.
Michonne exchanged contact details with him, too stunned for much else. The phone clicked upon hanging up and she dropped it like a hot potato back onto the receiver. Maggie couldn't wait a second longer before probing for info.
"What was that 'bout?" asked the brunette.
"That was about Bunny's will," said Michonne, mouth dry and eyes glazed. "Apparently…um, Bunny left the B&B to me…"
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Michonne's utter shock was not lost on Maggie Greene, and so when Michonne fell down a rabbit hole of disbelief that late afternoon, the brunette made a proposal. She insisted on taking Michonne out for a couple drinks after the B&B closed for the night.
"The place'll be fine—we only have two guests checked in," said Maggie. "And we'll only be gone a couple hours. Tops."
Michonne agreed because she needed a drink. Or three.
"Coming?" Maggie had asked Terry, smirking. "You're a big boy now—you can come into the bar even if you're not drinking."
The 19-year-old's nose scrunched with disinterest. He put his headphones over his ears as he said, "you guys go without me. I don't exactly fit in here. I don't think country bars are my thing."
"Suit yourself."
Maggie volunteered to drive. Michonne crawled into the topless white jeep, too many thoughts in her head to organize them.
"Don't know why it's surprising," said Maggie, miles later. The evening wind rushed through her hair, tousling its short brown strands. "Bunny always talked 'bout you. And the others—but mostly you. Mentioned all 'bout how you were off traveling the world."
"Yeah, but…to leave me her things? Her Bed and Breakfast?" Michonne muttered. "Why would she?"
Maggie drummed her fingers on the wheel and half shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe she figured you'd know best what to do with it."
"Where are we going again?"
"Bull's Pen. Only bar worth going to on a Monday night," she said. "We won't get ourselves into nothing too crazy—promise. You needa drink or two, that's all."
The jeep turned onto 1st street, both sides of the road lined bumper to bumper with cars. Michonne stared at the long row of cars with a sardonic smirk.
"Surprise, surprise. It looks like all the parking's taken. What's up with this town and parking?"
"Yeah," agreed Maggie. She spun the wheel so that the jeep turned into the alleyway. "Lucky I know the bar owner and I can park behind the place."
Michonne's eyes widened as her body shot up, her posture straightening in the passenger seat. Her gaze followed the black pickup truck parked between a dented van and a mustang convertible.
"What is it?"
"That black truck—I recognize it anywhere," said Michonne. "It belongs to this asshole from earlier today…"
"That Chevy right there?" Maggie laughed. "That's Rick Grimes' truck. You had a run in with 'im today?"
"What do you think?"
"I think that sounds like Rick Grimes."
"Oh, that makes me feel better—he's an asshole to everyone."
"Well…" Maggie paused as if contemplating the statement. "Yeah. He's not the most popular guy 'round town. Most avoid 'im. Some think he's crazy."
"Crazy?"
"Yup, off his rocker," she said, parking. She followed up with a lipstick check in the rearview mirror. "He used to be a sheriff deputy, but that didn't go over too well—nobody knows the full story."
Michonne's curiosity reached an all-time high, for the first time in hours her thoughts off Bunny's will.
The ladies climbed out the jeep and walked around to the bar's entrance. As soon as Maggie pushed open the door, a cloud of cigarette smoke smacked them in the face and country music filled their ears. Maggie beelined for the opening at the bar counter, hooking her arm with Michonne's to bring her along.
"Well, well, well," said a brawny bald man next to the beer taps. He tossed a dish rag over his shoulder, black eyes twinkling. "Maggie Greene, long time no drink. Whatcha been up to these days?"
"Working hard, Shane. Something you wouldn't know 'bout," said Maggie. Her lips twitched slightly, like she fought off the temptation to smile at him. "How 'bout you fix me and my friend a couple a drinks?"
"Am I allowed to say no? Tonight's ladies' night," the bar owner said. He gestured outward to the rest of the jam-packed bar, where various tipsy women sipped on jack and coke's and long island iced teas.
"What's your poison, Michonne?"
"It's been a long day—double vodka."
"Make that two."
Shane nodded and moved around behind the counter for some glasses. Maggie turned her head to survey the room, taking in the small dancefloor and the area with pool tables. She let out a deep huff.
"What is it?" Michonne asked.
"I forgot it was ladies' night," she said. "The cat claws are out in full effect tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"Ladies night is every single gal's chance to try and snag herself a man," she explained. "Some can get kinda desperate. Like those two over there."
Michonne followed Maggie's eyes to the giggly blonde and thin brunette lingering around a pool table.
"Those two are annoying as hell. The blonde? She ain't even divorced yet."
"Two double vodkas," said Shane, sliding the two glasses toward them. He bent his elbows on the countertop and watched them drink. "Mags, you realize how rude you are, right? You haven't introduced your friend here. She's new in town."
"How do you know?" Michonne asked.
"'Cuz everybody knows everybody," Shane answered, chuckling. "This entire bar is full of people I went to school with. What brings you here?"
"This is Michonne, Bunny's granddaughter," said Maggie.
"Ah, shoulda known. I see it now," said Shane. He stood up straight, though his grin remained. "How long you in town for?"
"Not long enough," Maggie said curtly.
Michonne looked between Shane and Maggie, perplexed by the exchange. She said, "I'm here for a week. I'll be leaving after Bunny's funeral."
"A week's plenty long," he chuckled a second time.
"How 'bout a game of pool, Michonne?" Maggie tossed back the vodka and slammed the glass down.
"What was that about?" Michonne asked as they changed course for the pool tables.
"Shane is trouble."
"I thought he's your friend?"
"He is. But I'm calling a spade a spade. It's that damn charm. Don't mess with 'im. Trust me."
Michonne peeked over her shoulder again, to the bar counter where the beefy man moved on to making other patrons their drinks. She wanted to ask for more details, but decided to drop it as they came up on the pool table in the far corner.
The two joined Glenn Rhee, who welcomed them eagerly to his table. The game started without a hitch, though they only had three players. It was an unspoken agreement that Glenn played against them both. The baseball cap-clad man concentrated on the corner pocket and lined his pool stick with the cue ball. He drew the long stick back for his shot, but scratched on the table's felt as Shane elbowed him from behind.
"Oops, my bad, buddy," he laughed. "Were you 'bout to take a shot?"
Michonne found Maggie's eyes on her, in a sort of 'see-what-I'm-talking-about?' look.
"Were y'all looking for another player?" He looked between Glenn and the two women.
"Don't you got a bar counter to tend to?" Maggie asked.
"Daryl's handling it." The brawny bald man reached for one of the pool sticks angled against the wall. "Which means I can play with you."
"Okay…" Glenn trailed off. His eyes were on Michonne and Maggie. "I mean…if it's okay with them?"
Maggie huffed.
Michonne shrugged and said, "we do need a fourth."
"You heard the pretty lady—Glenn restack," said Shane with a wink.
The four restarted the game from scratch. Glenn partnered with Maggie while Michonne's partner was Shane. It became increasingly obvious Michonne was the worst player of the four, which meant Shane picked up the slack. He didn't seem to mind, however, as he tossed back another mouthful of whiskey and rounded the table for his next shot.
Michonne hovered by Maggie's side and the loud country rock tune obscured their exchange.
"Are you okay? You seem pissed," Michonne said.
"I'm fine…just wondering how one or two drinks turned into a couple hours of pool and shots."
"I don't have anywhere to be early tomorrow morning."
"Me neither but that's beside the point."
"I should probably get going," Glenn said, interrupting their words. He glanced at the Budlight-themed clock which hung on the wall in the shape of a beer bottle. "Sorry, guys…see you around."
He gave Maggie one last smile before he set down his pool stick.
"Quitter!" Shane called after him with a raspy laugh. He shook his head then turned to Michonne and Maggie, hand in his jean pocket to dig out a box of cigarettes. He offered them a smoke, to which both declined. His cigarette wasn't the only thing which lit up as his eyes landed on someone passing through. A small puff of smoke left his lips as he said, "hey, Rick! C'mere, will ya?"
Michonne tensed, her slight tipsiness seeping away. Irritation replaced it.
Maggie arched a brow and mumbled, "ready to go yet?"
"How 'bout a game?" Shane asked as the wavy-haired man approached.
He wore the same blue-and-white checkered shirt from earlier, looking as brooding and sulky as ever. Unlike the others in the cramped, cigarette hazed room, he did not socialize and he did not have a drink in hand.
"I'm heading out," said Rick. He stopped short of the pool table. His gaze fell only on Shane, as if Michonne and Maggie were invisible.
"It's only 11 P.M., buddy." Shane gestured to the trusty Budlight clock. "Stay for a game."
Rick said nothing, his face blank and unreadable.
"C'mon, we've got two beautiful ladies wanting to play," Shane said. "You're not gonna disappoint 'em, are ya?"
"One game." Rick sighed.
"One game," Shane repeated. "Mags, Rick's all yours."
Michonne breathed a sigh of relief and moved to the opposite end as Rick picked up Glenn's old pool stick.
Once again it was more than a little obvious Michonne was the weak link of the four playing. Every time she flubbed a shot or scratched, she thought she saw Rick shake his head out the corner of her eye. Her stomach muscles tightened as she fought against her earlier aggravation with the man. She was fairly certain she'd explode on him if it weren't for Shane's continual jokes and infectious energy distracting her.
"It's okay if you're bad, darling," teased Shane after her latest shot. He grinned down at her, thick arms flexed as he leaned against the wall. "I like you anyway."
He ordered them another round of drinks after that, but when Rick turned his down, Shane indulged both. Maggie gave up watching the clock and counting their drinks. Her primary focus became the game itself as her competitive edge emerged. To no one's surprise, she and Rick won by a landslide. Maggie clapped her hands and celebrated with yet another drink.
"I gotta go," Rick drawled. He tossed his pool stick on the table without care and stalked off.
"What is his problem?" Michonne asked out of frustration.
"Don't worry 'bout Ricky…that's him," slurred Shane. "How 'bout a dance?"
Michonne's eyes moved to the clock and she shook her head. She said, "it's probably time to call it. Maggie?"
"What'd ya say…?" Maggie asked. She stood a few feet away with a cigarette and a lighter in her hands, trying and failing to light up.
"Okay, it's official, time to go," said Michonne.
"Night, Michonne." When he said her name, a slow grin broke out onto his lips.
"Night, Shane."
She walked up to Maggie, took the cigarette and lighter out her hands, and proceeded to usher the brunette toward the exit.
"We'll have to call a cab," said Michonne once outside.
"A cab?" Maggie snorted and then swayed before she regained stance. "Blue Ridge doesn't have cabs this time a night. But we can call my daddy—he'll come get us."
"We can see if there's a phone in the bar."
"I've got one in my glove compartment. Daddy gave it to me for…for emergencies," Maggie hiccupped. "C'mon, I'll call 'im and he'll be right over."
Michonne trailed behind Maggie as they rounded the bar's corner, where from within its walls they could still hear the distinct blast of lively music and shouted conversation. The alley seemed darker than earlier, and with a glance upward at the inky sky, Michonne realized the moon was nowhere in sight.
"Got it!" Maggie called as she rummaged in the jeep's glove compartment. She hopped out the vehicle and her fingers punched the Nokia's buttons. "Hello? Hey, Patricia. Can you put daddy on the phone?"
Michonne listened to the phone conversation and wrapped her arms around herself as a particularly cool gust of wind blew their way. Suddenly, the crocheted crop top she donned seemed like a bad idea. She turned her back to the alleyway entrance to face Maggie and motion for her to speed up the call.
"Okay, okay, calm down…Patty's fetching 'im," Maggie said. "Daddy? It's me. I need a pickup. I'm at the Bull's Pen." There was a pause where he answered her. "I know…I know, but I wanted to take a friend out—"
"—hang up the phone."
The sheer fear which exploded in Maggie's eyes was one Michonne could see even in the dark. She froze, her hand limp as the phone tumbled out her grasp and broke onto the asphalt below. Michonne listened to the deep voice spoken not far behind her. Her breath stopped altogether as a chilled shiver jolted down her spine.
"Get up against that wall there—both of ya."
Michonne moved to do as told, but noticed Maggie caught in a total state of shocked paralysis.
"Maggie," she whispered desperately.
"Now!" the man barked.
Michonne flinched with her hands held up and grabbed her friend's wrist to bring her along.
"Good," the man said when they pressed against the wall. "Now gimme your wallets."
Michonne handed over her wristlet and nudged Maggie to do the same. Even in her sweeping fear, a part of her yearned to turn around and sneak a look at him. She thought she'd seen the point of a blade as she stepped to the wall, but beyond that, all she could use to identify him was his baritone voice. She closed her eyes as she stood with her face an inch to the brick and memorized the sound.
The man impatiently unzipped their wristlets and overturned them. The contents spilled onto the ground and he kicked them around with his sneaker.
"That's it? You bitches don't have shit," he said.
Maggie let out a strangled cry. Michonne could feel her shake by her side. Eyes still closed, as she listened to the man suck in an angered breath, she prepped herself to punch, kick, scratch, scream, and do whatever necessary to fend him off.
The man knelt to scoop up what little cash they had on them. He also snatched their I.D.'s and the jeep's keys. Upright again, he took a step closer. He said to their backs, "now ya ain't gonna try and call the cops on me, are ya? I ain't gonna have to hurt ya, am I?"
Michonne opened her mouth to answer in appeasement, but she found herself interrupted before she could manage any words at all.
"Drop the knife!"
Blind to what happened next, she listened as footsteps strode fast down the alleyway. The mugger spun around to square off with the fast-approaching figure. He swung his knife in a sweeping motion. The man dodged the swipe and then punched him in the nose. As the mugger stumbled a step, the man advanced, grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. He drove him face first into the brick with a crushing noise that left Michonne certain he'd broken his nose.
The mugger dissolved into a heap on the puddled ground, blood pouring down his jaw.
Michonne and Maggie both jumped away from the wall in alarm with eyes equally wide and chests heaving. Michonne's gaze went to the mugger on the floor first before it rose to the stranger who'd disarmed him. The air caught in her lungs as she realized it was Rick Grimes.
"You alright?" he asked them. When the mugger moved his arm, he kicked him for good measure.
Michonne nodded, dumbfounded. Maggie's face fell into her hands.
"You got a ride home?" he asked next.
She shook her head again, this time side-to-side.
"Alright, we'll call the sheriff and I'll give you a lift," he said matter-of-factly. He turned to go. "C'mon."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Please take a sec to review. Otherwise, hope everyone is enjoying 2018 so far ;)