There is a missing scene - will be fixed by tomorrow. This is unedited. Life has not been kind recently, I apologize for the slow update.
3
"I'm a changed man, Winston."
The hood has to smile at that, teeth stained red from blood. His gums are dripping with the warm liquid, as is his nose and busted lip. He knows exactly what he looks like. What he feels like. The bar flies take brisk glances at him, caution in their eyes. All of a sudden their foamy pints become interesting, their shoulders tense. Something dwells deep inside him - something twisted and cruel and angry. It yearns to give them a reason to fear him.
"That was inspiring." He chugs his third beer, tastes nothing but stale barely and rust. Icy eyes slice through his old rival, dissecting him. "But I ain't got a badge and I really don't give a fuck. I need information."
"What you need is a shower and to calm down," Shepard retorts slowly, glaring. "Got any idea what you look like right now? Slaughter a family or two on your stroll over here? Christ - you're gettin' blood all over the fuckin' place, scarin' my customers."
It is a difficult thing to do - surprising a man like Dallas. He seen too much for that. Yet it still doesn't sound right when he repeats, "Your customers?"
"Lost your damn mind but I'm glad your ears still work." He cusses under his breath, starts scrubbing the cigarette ash and blood off the counter. "Yeah, my customers. Bought this joint not too long after I got out. Ain't much but it's...quiet. Make an honest livin' here."
The hood stares at him. Scarred knuckles mold around a wet cloth, squeezing the dirty water into a bucket. Heedful eyes glance towards the patrons every now and then like clockwork. Besides the mellow country tune coming from the jukebox the place is silent.
"Honest gets boring real fast."
The accusation is blatant.
He says nothing, but the hood can tell he is clenching his teeth. They both are wired the same way - gamble with their lives and fight until their fists go numb not only because they like to but need to. Men like them don't do honest because they can't handle quiet.
"King of Tulsa, right?" Dallas chuckles tauntingly. "Some still call you that. If only they saw you now...cleanin' up vomit for a livin'."
Shepard slams his curled fist onto the counter, jaw spasming. The hood watches as his entire demeanor morphs into the man he remembers — leader of the infamous gang that terrorized the city. Not only a stealthy criminal but a damn smart one, a rare combination that makes him not only valuable, but extremely dangerous.
"I do honest work." His stern eyes hold his own. "Yet that will never make me an honest man. Understand?"
He almost laughs, wishes he could pull out his own fucking soul and drop it right there -festering with sin and rotting with rage - just so the man can witness with his own eyes how much he truly understands.
The retired kingpin carelessly pushes a bottle of Jack to him. "What is this information that you need, Winston?"
"Your boys in Tulsa...they still listen to you?"
Shepard hits him with a coy smirk. "They're loyal."
"Have them ask about a Johnny Cade. Anything about a fight...or rumors. Anything." His mind replays images of his battered body. A fight...it was a slaughter, a downright mutilation. Fury floods through his veins all over again. He tries to drown it with the Jack before it resurfaces.
"The quiet kid...the one who used to follow you around like a lost dog?"
His tone is as bitter as the whiskey they drink. "He's the kid that I'd be more than fuckin' happy to kill for. And then some."
The redeemed convict evaluates the hood with steady eyes. A strange, light smile on his face. "I'll get your information. For a fair price."
He expected nothing less but mocks, "Thought you were a changed man?"
"Changed, not charitable."
"Lucky me." He chugs from the bottle again. A part of him is grateful, truthfully. Something to keep his mind busy.
"Don't go thanking me yet, Winston. You do remember my little sister Angela, don't you?"
The hood glares at him. He heard many stories about the petite Shepard girl with her innocent doe eyes and sweet smile - yet has the teeth and claws of a hellcat and is not afraid to use them. One time he had the luxury of seeing both sides of her. Has the scar to prove it.
He sighs, face suddenly looks much older. "Look - I know where she is. All you need to do is bring her back here. She ain't exactly...compliant...but you're not entirely useless. You'll figure it out."
He thinks about Johnny.
Bloody. Bruised. Begging.
"Fine," he agrees.
"By midnight."
The hood glares, a nasty flame in his eyes. "Two fuckin' hours?"
"Three years." Knuckles pale around the neck of the bottle, squeezing, as if he could strangle the life out of it. "Curly...he was trying to impress me, be like me - I don't fuckin' know. It was stupid. He's only a kid, thinks he's tough. And three years...it don't sound like much until you're spendin' every minute trapped inside a fuckin' cage. But you already know that. He doesn't...Angela? She's smart - doesn't need to be told that her brother ain't ever gonna be the same again. Angry...such a simple word for somethin' so goddamn ugly. And like most...angry people...she thinks hurtin' herself and anyone who gives a shit about her is the solution."
"Where is she?"
His jaw ticks. "Wayne Murphy."
The Murphy gang was the only rival in Tulsa that could keep up with Shepard. Drugs and violence are their speciality.
"This just keeps gettin' better."
"We have a deal." Shepard says with a taut smile. "And in one hour I will make a phone call and then it becomes a debt. You understand?"
The hood rarely seen the business side of him. Never dealt with that, never cared to.
"Yeah, I understand."
"They're dangerous, Winston." He adds, watching him leave.
"It wouldn't be any fun if they weren't."
MISSING (accidentally deleted) SCENE ; WILL BE FIXED BY TOMORROW
involves Wayne Murphy, the abuse Angela endured, and violence by the hands of our beloved Dallas
(very graphic : expect heavy drug use, gang activity, violence, sexual abuse, and attempted rape)
"I had it under control."
The anger has a strong chokehold on her words, eyes scorching with it, yet her features are frigid.
"That right," he mumbles, nose dripping blood onto his shirt once again and fuck if that little shit broke it -
"Yeah, that is right," she bites, piercing him with wild eyes that are rimmed red from tears. "And you, my prick of a brother, and anyone else who thinks otherwise can take a very long walk off a short cliff."
The hood has an innate urge to fight and a corrosive rage that could consume her own. He knows loss - knows how it can shred you apart, mess with the wires in your head until don't recognize yourself. Makes you believe you don't want to. But it is...inevitable. He wants to yell. Maybe because he has not slept in two days, or maybe because the ugliness of the world is eating him alive.
"You're wasting your time. And gas." She adds, arms crossed stubbornly. "I'm not going back to Tim. Ever."
He grinds his teeth, bloodied knuckles squeezing the wheel. He can barely feel them. "Want me to turn around, sweetheart? Take you back to Wayne? You want to be his fuckin' ragdoll, the toy he passes around to his buddies?"
She flinches, her facade finally cracking. He clenches his teeth, bites his tongue, and watches as she begins to fall apart.
"He loves me," she whispers, mostly to herself. "He said he loved me."
Before they reach the bar, he pulls the car over. Angela is catatonic, lost in thought, staring absently at the deadness of the street. A part of him wants to say fuck it - drop her off and drive away - he did his part, Tim can forge through the ruins to try and piece her back together.
Yet for some reason he finds himself there with her, drowning in the silence.
"That ain't love." His fingers gently graze the bruises on her jaw. The others, in the shape of handprints on her thighs, he glances at them. No need to point them out. "That...it ain't love, Angela."
Her body tenses. Defeated. "I know."
There was a time when he thought he knew love. It looked a lot like her - battered and used and empty. He wants to tell her it gets better. But he is not sure that it does.
He tries to help. "Your brother cares, alright? He ain't perfect but...he does care - "
She cuts him off. With the speed and stealth of a tiger she straddles him - tiny, abused thighs tight around his waist, grinding down on him.
It takes him by surprise. Truly. Completely. He refuses to touch her, would never, arms up in an awkward surrender. She is just a kid, for fuck sake.
"Angela..." he says, quietly and as calm as he can manage at the moment. "Get off me. Now."
She ignores him, hastily tugs her skirt up, and ambushes his jeans, trying to undo them. "I'm real good, okay? I promise. I can make it quick. I swear, I'll be good."
He feels trapped. Disgusted. Confused. There is this sickness dwelling at the bottom of his stomach.
His mind is racing.
"I can make you feel good." Dry lips trail down his bare stomach, tongue licking at his skin. "Tell me...do you wanna feel good?"
He catches her wrists, squeezes a little too tight. Feels like an animal at the zoo...locked inside a pen against their will. He seethes, "Get the fuck off me. Now."
She does, races back into her seat, still showing too much skin. Silent tears roll down her cheeks.
He forgets how to speak, his blood is pumping too fast with adrenaline. "Why?"
"You helped me." She clarifies, voice hollow. "I owe you."
"And you thought...that I would want sex from you?"
With an angry laugh, she asks, "Is that not what men want? How else am I suppose to repay you? I have no money. Nothing."
Her logic hurts worse than any injury he ever got in his life. It makes him want to go back to the Murphy house and burn them alive, each and every one of them.
"You don't owe me anythin'." He tells her. "You don't owe anyone shit. And even if you felt that you did...you can say thanks. And if they aren't happy with that then they can fuck off. You understand? You don't owe anyone a damn thing."
They drive in silence again. His body...it feels wrong. He feels sick, so fucking sick, and he wishes he could climb out of his skin.
It is past midnight by time they get there. If Tim has a problem with it then fuck him.
Angela reaches for the handle, but hesitates. "Dallas?"
"Yeah?"
With a broken smile and tear stained cheeks she says, "Thank you."
He nods, can't find any words. He is exhausted, feels like his brain and bones are about to crumble. He held onto that last shred of sanity for so long, maybe too long, and he thinks he might lose it.
And about a mile out of town...he does.
Expect the next chapter to be very rough. Dallas...he falls apart in expected and unexpected ways. Please comment if you want me to continue - not quite sure if anyone cares for this or not. Also, I have an Ao3 account (beerem) that you can check out if you are interested in reading a story about Johnny struggling with his sexuality. Hope you all are well! (: