hellbound heart

@boothillstarters​

Friday night was rarely a night off for Katie. Between cheer, student vice presidency, and babysitting, there was always something to do…except tonight. It was a bye-week, a lull between winter formal and prom planning, and it seemed like none of her usual parents needed a date night. Katie never minded some time off, but a Friday night just felt like a waste. Not even a party in sight? So, she decided to canvass the old fashion way: well designed, half-sheet flyers with her babysitting experience and contact information, printed using the yearbook class’s nice printer. They wouldn’t miss 20 pages or so, and even if they did, Mr. Barnes didn’t mind. Mr. Barnes would let Katie get away with murder. A lot of people would let Katie get away with murder. Maybe it was because they knew if she’d done it, she probably had a good reason for it.

“You have plans tonight?” She said expectantly, holding her half-sheet towards her target with a smile on her face. “Would you like some?”

hector hadn’t planned to stay in boot hill for so long. he, really, wasn’t sure how long he’s been in boot hill, but it’s been so much longer than he intended. he hates to stay in one place too long, always wanting to push the limits and explore, move around and barely let consequences catch up with him. he was starting to get the itch again, the one he gets every time he’s been stagnant, but something told him going any further than the county line... whatever it was that was out to get him on the highway when he made his way to boot hill on foot, it was still out there. it was waiting. so, three (or four?) weeks and on the last legs of good graces at the copper cactus motel, hector’s been trying to stay away from the motel room unless he needs a place to crash or hide out for a bit. he’s good at looking for nooks and crannies, bursting into locals only places and disrupting the peace, it’s when he feels at peace.

slinking about, hector’s on the hunt for something to do, just to fill up the time that boot hill gives him without any way to regularly cause trouble, when a pixie of a girl suddenly appears. jesus, he knew boot hill was a weird place, but sometimes it seemed like people just popped out of the ground, the space empty one second and occupied the next. his brows crease at her opening line, not bothering to read the flyer extended to him. “you’re coming on pretty strong, little girl.”

MAKE YOUR MUSE.

it’s habit to call out a half-hearted hello when the bell over the door of tiny al’s rings, but it’s late at night, so he figures it doesn’t matter that much. he’s in the middle of trying to figure out where the fuck he put the carton of marb-red-seventy-twos, because he was just holding it, and now he’s holding a carton of camel blues, and those don’t to be refilled. wait. do they? he’s pulled away from the momentary dilemma by a loud hey, which is weird, because usually people get their six-pack and snacks before coming up to the counter, but maybe this guy just wants cigarettes. he turns, and, uh, oh. it’s almost startling how pretty this absolute stranger is and cian immediately decides to stomp that particular train of thought out of existence. hell, he almost smiles, and then stops himself short when he’s asked if he’s the macclean kid. brows inch upward in equal puzzlement and suspicion, and he puts two hands atop the counter surface, over the stained pad that recites warnings about selling alcohol to underage patrons: “one of many. why’re you askin’?”

the boy—guy, man? hector isn’t sure, he looks to be the same age as himself, maybe a little younger—at the counter is the gatekeeper to that seedy little underbelly to boot hill that he’s sure exists. every town has one, even ones that are small and constantly near death. settling back on the counter, he balances on his elbows instead, leaning over into the cashier’s personal space. hector doesn’t believe in personal space, especially not when he wants something from someone, and he believes this guy has everything that he wants. a very impish smile growing across his lips, his chin tilts up and his eyes glance appreciative over the other. “i was told,” hector leans in even more, voice scaling down into a whisper, as if some little gas station in a little town would be bugged by the dea, “you have the best weed in the town.” he stands up then, elbows still pressed against the counter, speaking at normal volume again “that true, cowboy?”

MITCH + OPEN | Coyote’s Howl Bar

Some days, it was easy to forget he came from anywhere else; some days, it felt like he’d been living in Boot Hill all his life. Other days… well, other days Mitch would be channel flipping and find the all too familiar image of his home town in a movie on the television. Today was one of those days. He paused on the channel, trying to figure out what about Sitka, Alaska seemed so damned familiar, but then there was that one shot, and there was no denying the pang he felt in his chest; that was home, and it sure as hell wasn’t Sitka, Alaska. Mitch quickly powered off the TV with a shake of his head, a physical manifestation of his need to clear his head, before getting up and heading out.

It wasn’t long before he was at Coyote’s, a beer and an empty shot glass sitting in front of him. Leaving his shot glass behind, he took his beer with him as he went to peruse the jukebox in the corner. He couldn’t begin to estimate the number of quarters he’d dumped into the machine since his arrival, over a year ago. “So what are we feeling? The Cars? Boston? J. Geils Band?” he questioned the person nearest him him as he loaded several quarters into the machine, punching in a few different codes, and then waiting for the other’s opinion as his fingers hovered over the buttons. “I have to admit, though, you look like an ‘Aerosmith is the best Boston classic rock’ type, and I hate to break it to you, you’re wrong,” he remarked, his face and tone taking on more serious notes, though he was hardly being too serious (even if Aerosmith wasn’t exactly his jam). (@boothillstarters​)

hector didn’t have a home. not just in the sense that, before coming to boot hill (and currently still, as he’s holed up in the copper cactus motel), he didn’t have a house to live in, but there was never really a place he had considered home. he grew up in tulsa, oklahoma, his parents still lived there as far as he knew, but even as a child, it didn’t feel like home like all those hallmark commercials and indie folk songs describe it. abandoning his family at seventeen, the only place he truly felt like he belonged was las vegas, but he didn’t even live there for long, instead stationing himself in reno. for some reason, it felt safer, a smaller city with just as much debauchery, but any time spent on the vegas strip rubs away the veneer; it’s all bright lights and desert air, all the glitz and seediness is a front that’s played up for tourists and those that live there are just as regular as the ones back in tulsa. no, hector was sure he didn’t belong anywhere, perhaps only hell. 

if there was a place that hector felt at home, it’s in bars, and the coyote’s howl has seen more of him than the motel he’s staying in. it’s convenient most of all, just across the street, but he likes bars because they provide all the things he needs in life: mind-altering substances and entertainment, usually in the form of those mind-altering substances, but conversation sufficed as well. he doesn’t even have to initiate, the man next to him at the jukebox starts talking about rock bands that his dad listened to when he was a kid. taking a large swing of his own beer, amusement plain in the cocking of his brow, he shrugs once he swallows. “i feel like i should be insulted that you think i like aerosmith.” truthfully, hector wasn’t much of a music person in general. he didn’t listen to it much and never chose a favorite classic rock band to have. if there was a genre that hector regularly prescribed to, it was thrash metal, but he doubted the jukebox had any metallica or tank. “besides, everyone knows the pixies are the best band to come out of boston.” not being a music person doesn’t mean he is without his opinions, however.

boot hill has treated hector kindly. the citizens of the cities he used to roam, they saw only a street kid with sticky fingers and a chattering jaw, they saw something in him that projected trouble. in boot hill, they’ve all smiled at him, made him feel welcome, taken care of him when his wallet has been light (metaphorically, as hector doesn’t own a wallet) and his luck has been down. the receptionist at the motel, she’s even let him stay an extra night since he can’t pay his bill at the moment—he’ll find a way, he always does, but for now, he’s been coasting on charm. the aisles of the calhoun general store aren’t exactly bare, but they’re not filled up like he imagines they might’ve been in previous years. he overheard the cashier mumble something about bj’s up the street—a name that caused hector to snort, muffling it with his hoodie sleeve as he was eavesdropping—stealing their customers away but the store looks like something out of a western movie set, doesn’t really project bustling business. so, with the bare selection of items and old-timey appearance, hector thinks there’s no harm in stealing, there’s barely anything in there anyways!

swiping the packet of gummy bears (stealing dictates availability, not necessity) off of the shelf, hector moves quietly and casually, acting as if he’s just perusing the aisles for a snack—which he is, but he has to look like a paying customer. it’s when he has his fingers on a rice krispies treat, clearly intending to stuff it into his pocket, that he realizes there are eyes on him. he looks back at him, brows raising. “what? i’m gonna pay for it. just in there for safe keeping.” he claims, referencing the products bulging from his pockets.

joey & hector, @hedonest​.

having left her car overnight at the diner, joey was surprised to find someone sleeping in it when she came to collect it in the morning. the driver’s side door had never really locked properly and if she didn’t turn the key just so it wouldn’t lock at all. better than having a window knocked out, since she couldn’t afford to pay the bill she already had at chuy’s. 

the interloper looked innocent enough– a slight build and halo of curls framing his sleeping face in the morning arizona sun. joey was never fond of calling on law enforcement, no matter what the trouble, for fear that any attention on the ryan family would surely lead to questions about who was raising all those ryan kids and her mother hadn’t spoken a word in weeks. she was no sight to anyone looking to do a welfare check. 

determined to solve the problem herself, she opened the door and leaned over the guy, doing her best to sound mean and tall. “RISE AND SHINE!” she called, the same words she used to wake up isabelle and gabe on school mornings. “you’re in my car, asshole.” slamming her hand repeatedly against the hood of her car, she felt a bit sheepish making such a scene, but there was no one else who was going to kick out her unwanted guest but joey herself.

sleep where and when you can get it. that’s one of the first things hector learned the moment he left the ibáñez household, adapting quite well to no longer having a warm bed to go home to every night. on the floor, on the couch, under overpasses, against doorsteps, in unlocked cars. the latter, it’s a good trick when there’s nowhere else to go, a bit of shelter and a soft seat to put your head on. in the desert, where he’s spent most of his time since oklahoma, there are tricks to the trick. only sleep in cars at night, when it can be balmy or sometimes even freezing, but clear out before the sun rises; owners of those cars typically have somewhere to go in the morning, naturally, but it gets too hot during the day to sleep in a fishbowl with no a/c running. don’t pick cars that are too nice, they’ve got alarms, but don’t pick cars that are too messy, the owner might notice if their tenth discarded mcdonald’s bag has been moved off of the backseat. and most of all, the most important part of car-sleeping, or just sleeping anywhere, be a light sleeper!

hector’s usually quite good at this, awaking at the merest hint of a presence in the room or the softest sound, but there’s nothing that can rouse him when there’s been too much tequila and a bit of pills in his blood, not even the heat of the arizona sun and the anger of a leggy blonde. the sounds of someone yelling are not foreign to hector, especially not anger directed at him, but it takes a good bit of time for one eye to flutter open. his groan is loud and protesting, muscles aching from the uncomfortable position of his body (another tip: get used to sleeping in uncomfortable positions) as the slapping of the hood made his ears ring like church bells. “jesus,” he mutters, eye shutting closed as tightly as the other, perfectly content to ignore the woman and stay right where he is. groggy and slow, he listens to her outburst and finally responds though his eyes stay shut. “sorry, man.”

honesty day : accepting!

“i can’t say myself again, can i?” he’s joking. sort of. “i don’t think you really know what you’re asking. i’ll fuck pretty much anyone. the guy with the weed. that other guy at the motel is hot, so is the girl, i don’t know their names. the sheriff is hot. the girl with the drugs at that bar, she’s hot. so is that guy at that other bar, the one who wouldn’t stop talking about abba or whatever. that one blonde lady, that bought me the food. i told you, i’ll fuck anyone. i’ll even fuck you if you want.”

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!

honesty day : accepting!