AN: So in my line of getting some ideas out there that have been driving me mad to get out of my head, I figured that I would go ahead and offer this one for those who are interested.
This is the first story I've done that's primarily a Mandrea story with Caryl as a secondary ship. Usually my stories are the other way around. However, I've had the hankering to play with Mandrea as a primary ship for a while and figured I'd finally give in. This is an AU…no Walkers.
For those who are new to my stories, I do take characters OOC from time to time to suit the world that I've built for them to play in and that might be the case here as well.
As I said before, I mostly wanted to start this story to play with this pair so we'll see where all I end up going. I'm sure that it will possibly (probably) end up being at least somewhat smutty since that tends to happen with me and Mandrea.
If it needs to be said, I do not own the Walking Dead or its characters. I'm just playing with them. The only things that I own are the plot and the OCs that I created.
I hope you enjoy the first chapter! Let me know what you think!
11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111
Merle had one damn thing on his mind when he got to the Coyote Crossing bar…and it was the same damn thing he had on his mind just about every time he walked into any place with a similar appearance and atmosphere.
He had full intentions of getting fucked up enough not to remember anything that had happened during the whole damn day…and he had high hopes of finding some piece around there he hadn't already topped once or twice before while managing to avoid any overly clingy previous conquests.
Coyote Crossing was a newer bar for him…about half an hour's drive away from where the hell he usually went, but he'd really run the pickings dry at the last place and it was time to branch out. He wasn't much for seconds…and he sure as shit wasn't given to liking thirds.
Merle walked into the dirty bar, taking in all the glory that it had to offer in a matter of minutes. Once you'd been in any place like this it was all the same.
The varying levels of drunks holding down their given locations throughout were a given…most of them locals and many of them he'd get to know on one level or another before he branched out, hoping to find another bar within driving distance of where he hung his hat.
The barmaids were important to know and to know well…but you didn't fuck them. Fucking them could ruin your whole experience at the bar because as soon as you loved one and left them, if they were of the clingy variety, then you couldn't go back to the place without dealing with them hanging on you…why didn't you call me? Didn't you miss me? When the hell we gonna see each other again? Not to mention that a pissed off bar-bitch was worse than a thorn stuck in your ass when you were looking to meet someone new…someone different.
It was best, if there was one that just begged to be banged, to safe that little treat for last and move to her when you'd cleared the rest of the place out of its goods…then you could hope that by the time you made the rounds again and ended back up there, not only the clientele had been refreshed, but the barmaids were new as well.
And more importantly than the barmaids, the most important people to know of all of them perhaps, were the proprietors. Merle always made it a point to at least get on speaking terms with whoever owned whatever bar he was in.
They had the goods…and if you were in good with them, they didn't bitch about tabs that didn't always get paid on time and they might even be kind enough to point you in the direction of some new, fresh face that you might have missed as you surveyed the possibilities before.
It was an art form, really, and it was one that Merle had mastered like some people might master painting fine damn pictures or playing instruments…or planning bank heists.
Scoring ass, booze, and the occasional extra substance good for providing entertainment in dirty bars…that was what the hell Merle was good at doing.
Merle scoped the place out quickly enough and made his way to the bar, his first stop at any new location, pounding his hand down to draw the attention of the man behind it…a man who looked about as bored as a body could be.
When Merle announced his presence, though, the young man behind the bar shifted his weight and set his body in a forward motion.
"What'll it be?" He asked.
Merle hummed to himself.
"Whisky…" Merle said. "Cheapest damn rot gut ya got…"
The young man nodded his head and a moment later produced a bottle and a shot glass from under the bar that he filled and slid toward Merle. Merle downed it quickly and waved the young man to pour him another, downing it just as quickly before leaving the glass to be refilled and sit a moment.
Merle looked around the place, noticing that the bored young man behind the bar didn't seem in any hurry to move from where he was…but the place was really only a pulse or two away from being dead, so Merle didn't see where he had too much to scurry off to. Even the two working barmaids in the joint were barely working…one of them watching a dart game while the other chatted up a table she was probably hoping for decent tips from.
"This place always so damn dead or it a special occasion?" Merle asked the man behind the bar.
And apparently the question was amusing because the young man chuckled and Merle echoed it to keep from being left out of the joke.
"Tuesday night…nothin' here on Tuesday except the die hards and the newcomers…and some damn times the newcomers lookin' to be die hards," the young man said.
Merle chuckled and offered a hand to the young man. The young man took it shook it with all the force Merle figured a body of his size could muster…if he was really old enough to be serving liquor, Merle would be surprised. His parents probably owned the joint…give it to him to run…some kind of job for a kid who might not find work elsewhere, Merle figured.
"Merle Dixon," Merle offered.
"Timothy…Tim…Burns," Tim responded.
The pickings were slim when it came to women in the bar, Merle could see that at a glance…and he hoped it was owing to the fact, like Tim had said, that it was Tuesday. Otherwise the Coyote Crossing might not turn out to be the kind of place that Merle had much need to frequent.
There were, as was customary at any of these places, the two or three old road whores, as Merle typically thought of them. They were always gathered together until they were pulled apart…usually by people so damn drunk that staying on their feet had become a full body sport. They were past their prime…or if they weren't…they sure as hell looked it. And they were always a rough and rowdy bunch just as likely to end up in a bar brawl as any of the burly ass men in the joint.
Merle steered clear of those because they were typically regulars…and a fuck and run could bite you in the ass real damn quick with one of them.
Other than that, it looked to him that just about every other piece that was in there…and that was still less than he could count on one hand…was paired up.
He'd either gotten there too damn late and missed his window of opportunity, or it was still too damn early and he just had to wait on one of the assholes to get up and move along to happier trails.
Either damn way, Merle was set to have a few more drinks before he had to slow his ass down to guarantee that he could drive back to where the hell he was staying without getting noticed by any of the nice officers.
Merle downed the shot in front of him and nodded at Tim who was watching him because there was relatively little else to watch in the place and then he sunk into his stool and settled in to shoot the shit with the boy…mostly working to find out what he could about who owned the place and what the hell a good damn night might look like there.
And he found out he was right…he'd called it in the air. Tim's parents owned the place and he worked it with the promise that one day all this…all the damn glory that was the hole in the wall bar that smelled of cigarettes and stale ass liquor…could someday be his.
And he found out that, at least Thursday through Saturday, the Coyote Crossing was a promising place for finding some pussy…Thursday being ladies' night and the kind of night that brought a smile to Merle's face when he found an establishment that offered one.
Ladies' night meant a lot of ladies…and it also meant the good damn chance that a lot of them were showing up looking for something…something he was more than happy to give them.
He might not score tonight…but Thursday it was sounding like he could have the damn pick of the litter…and he was already flying high on just the prospect.
Merle was leaning on his elbow, Tim having abandoned him to go and tend some drunks at the corner of the bar on the other side, and thinking about if it wouldn't be time to call the night a loss soon and pull it in for the night when a peroxide blonde, dressed to at least wound, saddled up to the bar and banged the palm of her hand down, three stools away from Merle.
And he recognized her as one of the women that had been paired up earlier…one who had caught his attention but was working to catch the attention of the man across the booth from her…but a quick glance in her old direction told Merle that her deal had fallen through…and tuning in on her conversation with Tim just sealed it.
"Place has gone to hell Tim when I gotta buy my own drinks," the blonde declared with a laugh.
"Shit went to hell when you started comin' in to drink on Tuesday's, Andrea," Tim declared, sliding a drink across the bar toward the blonde.
Seeing his window open up and not wanting to let the fresh ass box of Trojans he bought go to waste, Merle slipped off his stool and crossed over quickly enough to offer out a piece of folding money, sliding it almost under the blonde's nose.
"Lady's drinkin' on me, buddy," Merle said. He slipped onto the stool next to the blonde…Andrea…without asking permission, having found years ago that the next steps came easier if they didn't have the chance to refuse him the first move toward setting something up.
Andrea cut her eyes at him, sizing him up…trying to decide if she was going to be a bitch or if she was going to play the game. Merle knew that look…it was an exciting ass look to see in the eye of a woman at a bar.
Because there were typically two kinds of women at bars like these. There were the ones who didn't know how to play the game, and those who did. The ones who didn't know how to play the game were easy to spot. They were big eyed and flattered by every move you made. They were amazed to see you winning them over, inch by inch, step by step, and wore the same damn look of wonder that a kid got when you pulled a quarter from behind their ear and they weren't expecting it.
They were easy to win over, but fucking them was typically less exciting than anything your right hand and a bottle of lotion could bring you…because they didn't know what the hell they were doing there any better than they knew what the hell they were doing in a bar.
But the ones who knew how to play the game? They were a breed apart. And you could land with a sweet one…just like honey on your tongue…or you could land with a hellcat and a half. Therein lie the gamble.
But it was a gamble that Merle would take every damn time because whether she was sweet or whether she was hell…if a woman could play the game she could most likely light your ass up in the bedroom.
Apparently Andrea decided her prospects weren't too damn good, because her face dissolved a little and lost some of the hardness that she'd been wearing while deciding if she was going to accept his drink or tell him to go to hell.
"Quite the gentleman?" She said in a tone of voice that left it up to interpretation if it was a statement or a question.
Merle grunted and nodded his head.
"Fine woman such as yaself deserves that…ain't that right?" Merle asked, raising his eyebrow at her.
She smiled softly. She wasn't showing her cards. Sweet or hellcat…she was keeping it under wraps.
"You drinking too…or just watching me?" Andrea asked.
Merle chuckled and waved Tim down, asking for another drink, and then he lit a cigarette and offered her the pack. When she accepted, he lit her cigarette and smirked to himself at the way her lips curled into a smile as she exhaled the smoke of the first drag.
"Name's Andrea," Andrea offered.
Merle snickered and offered a hand to her.
"Got a last damn name or ya like fuckin' Cher?" Merle asked.
Andrea smiled.
She took his hand, shaking it gently and without any real commitment and she retracted it quickly, wrapping it back around the glass she was sipping from.
"Don't do last names," Andrea offered, turning her attention back to her drink.
Merle licked his lips when he noticed her not looking at him. He took the moment to look her up and down. She would do fine…just fine…and he wondered why the hell the asshole that had her hooked earlier would be dumb enough to let her spit bait and not go in after her…and if that wasn't the case and he threw her back…Merle figured the asshole really was a dumb fuck.
She was built nice…nicer than most of the women that he'd picked up in places like this. She had smooth legs that went all the way up…enough tits to get a good damn handful without worrying that the things were going to drag the ground behind her when she ditched her shirt…and enough ass and padding, from what he could tell, to guarantee he wouldn't get the sickening dig of hip bones trying to gut his ass when he had her legs as close to her damn ears as he could possibly get them.
"You got a name or are you just keeping that a secret?" Andrea asked, some sarcasm seeping into her voice.
Merle chuckled.
"Merle…Merle Dixon," he commented. "Might oughta remember that shit…ya gon' need it later…"
And it was a risky move. It was a move that had a fifty fifty chance of paying off. Some women would take the line as their sign to check the hell out of there and go somewhere else…but others would accept it, find it amusing…and those were usually the ones that were more inclined, or had already decided, to ride your dick later on in the span of an evening.
When Andrea smirked but didn't balk at the line, Merle smiled to himself.
The Coyote Crossing might not be such a bust after all.