@oilriigged
If there's one thing to know about Memphis, it is that he hates being alone. He hates being in his house without a friend or a hookup-- or Savannah-- walking around making noise. When he was young, he'd had his stay-at-home mother and his father keeping the noise going and once he moved on and went to rodeos, there was rarely a night he was alone in a hotel room without some buckle bunny. Being alone means being with himself and despite his charm and charisma, the one person that can't exactly love him is himself.
Thankfully, he's not alone today, and although Carson's sister would be better company for some reasons, for other reasons, Memphis is glad to see this motherfucker, even if it's early in the morning. Memphis throws a pillow from the couch at him, aiming for the face at full speed. "You want coffee?" he asks with a smirk. "I'll put a lil' whiskey in it..." he tempts, rubbing at his own eye. Memphis jolts his hand back from his eye. "Shit, guess that asshole got me good," he groans, his eye evident of the fight that broke out in the bar the night before. Memphis just joined in for some adrenaline. If there's one thing he misses about the competition is the wild surge that runs through his veins. "Worth it," he shrugs.
