w. goodnight

The next sip of whiskey came with the bitter aftertaste of future regrets. As her shoulders loosened their tense posture and her foot stopped keeping time with the beat of her heart, Irene could relax and appreciate that — - for some ungodly reason - — the man beside her seemed unfettered.

Still, she didn’t smile — - not really - — and she would fall on her sword before giving any indication of having any interest in their conversation.

“Concordia University.” In her defense, she ~apparently~ hadn’t moved to a town that was rich in higher education opportunities. “It was very important to go to a Christian school.”

Her gaze passed over him again, trying to size him up. “I don’t imagine you went to college, did you? No, wait — - of course you did. You couldn’t have played ball if you hadn’t.”

'I don’t imagine you went to college.'

Wylie smirked. This woman really despised him didn't she? She'd drawn up all these conclusions so quickly & yet, Wylie was in no rush to correct her view or get out ahead of any of the insults on her laundry list. Her initial statement, however, was amended quickly & Wylie nodded. "I went to Texas for a year on a baseball scholarship. West Point came a'knockin' though & promised I'd be a starter, so I took the Army's offer." He rattled off the information. "It was strongly suggested that I didn't go to the majors without going to college, but being roped into having to serve a minimum of eight years after graduation was fine," He chuckled at that. He wouldn't have changed the course he'd taken, the military suited him better than he would've thought, but anyone bitter about their child stopping to sleep on the ramifications of such a commitment was mildly entertaining to him. "So, you studied English. Then what? Some Green Peace type shit?" He asked, wetting his whistle with more bourbon until he could take it no longer & put his hand on her knee to stop her from bouncing her leg so furiously. It'd been driving him crazy the entire conversation. "Sorry," He apologized preemptively. "You were saying?" He took his hand back.

yes, lincoln slater had just turned 22 at the time and had bought himself his first car from the used lot as a birthday present rather than sharing the one old minivan with the rest of the family. deacon had the brilliant idea of stealing his driver's license to buy some beers for him and his friends. the pie-faced, acne-ridden teen was no match for the impenetrable fortress that was roger, couldn't fool him even with the smidgen of resemblance he shared with his brother. and so it was how one lincoln slater was perhaps the first legal-aged 'customer' at five and dime to have his id hoisted up on the proverbial spikes like a severed head, another trophy for roger to claim. the secondhand refurbished mitsubishi galant stayed in the parking lot on his birthday week and deacon isn't sure his brother had forgiven him for it to this day.

"god, this is so... what's that word? schaudendingadong, whatever." the grin is unabashedly plastered across his face, and he tugs at the basket he'd had wylie hold while he took to the task of dumping bottles they'd be sharing with the other ranch workers for the night. "you're paying, right? you said you were."

“Salt Flats.”

The word was dry, unenthusiastic and tucked behind another sip of well whiskey. The game she had conjured suddenly wasn’t nearly as fun when the spotlight was turned on her and she was forced to face herself in the mirror.

“I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong.” He didn’t, not really. All of his assumptions were nearly correct, but Irene’s countenance had hardened and she was left drawing circles around the rim of her glass with one manicured nail. “You were older than me. But I recognize the name. How could I not?” Without the hint of a smile, she dressed him down with her gaze. Her eyes passed over his frame, not once, but twice. “Who else would be named Wylie Goodnight?”

It was only then that she cracked a smile. “You are right, though…” Her voice lowered significantly, words caught in the bottom of a glass that was brought up to her lips once again, “I am better than the rest of these bumpkins.”

His brow rose at her assertion that he was right. He took a sip to celebrate. "Without a doubt," Wylie assured her. Whether or not he was being condescending was hard to discern. "As one of those bumpkins, I can attest." He confirmed with a genuine smile that shown no teeth. "So then, where'd you go off to school to?" He imagined that, like himself, she'd left to some university as soon as it was prudent to do so. "I'd guess, but I'm already two for three."

So, darlin’, how about you put this under the bar?

Whatever he’d given her was stout enough for her to lean into his voice. “Don’t call me darlin’,” she matched his tone. Truth be told, she could’ve sneered if it hadn’t been for the grin she chose to adopt instead. “Why don’t you put it there yourself, if you’re so concerned?”

Even before the words met the air, he had somehow called her bluff. As soon as Wylie called the bartender over, Irene’s occupied hand dropped to sit the glass in her lap. She moved forward, keeping her knees firmly under the bar in front of her while he ordered his drink. It was only when the bartender’s back was turned that she managed to down whatever was left in her own glass, surprised at the heady kickback that came before she discarded the receptacle far away from her person and flicked it even further with the tips of her fingers.

Another rye whiskey was in front of her before she could gather her bearings. The back of Irene’s hand met her mouth, leaving behind the outline of lipstick that was summarily rubbed away once she grounded herself. What had they been talking about?

“I think we were talking about how you’re clearly taking advantage of women who come to bars alone.” One sharp breath through her nose preceded a long exhale through barely-parted lips. “Which, I assume – - given your whole schtick here - – you do more often than not. Is that what happens when you peak in high school? I wouldn’t know, so I find it fascinating.”

He didn't have the time to. She was already cutting him down to size again before the liquor could settle in either of their glasses. A small snort of laughter escaped Wylie at the dig. "You sure that's what we were talkin' about?" Wylie asked, shooting her a look before hiding his smirk in his whiskey. He was able to take all of one small gulp before his shoulders were bouncing with laughter. "You're funny," He said, tilting his glass ever so slightly in her direction. "You also seem to know a lot more about me than I do about you. For someone who holds the past in such low regard, you sure do bring up high school a lot," Wylie observed, lifting his brows. "So did you go to Salt Flats or Claude?" Wylie asked, humoring the discussion as he propped an elbow up on the bar. "Nose in a book somewhere?" He guessed. She'd said she taught English hadn't she? "Too damn smart for all these country bumpkins? Rather be dead than stay another minute in this town? Was that the deal?"

Of course he wouldn’t. She was an underclassman, and a nobody at that. Irene had maybe seen all of five games in the entirety of her high school tenure. But he didn’t need to know that, did he? She imagined, given his status and his age, that she could pretend to be anyone and he would go along with it.

She could’ve kept her charade up if he hadn’t been bold enough to reach across the bar. Even Irene was visibly taken aback, eyes wide and shoulders tense. “Wait – -” He couldn’t just do that, could he?

Apparently so.

If she had half an inclination to be a narc, she would’ve flagged the bartender over or left her seat in favor of a safer booth. Instead, she relaxed as he went through each step of making a Manhattan, even going as far as to find the nearest cherry to plop in the glass. By the time he was done, she sat with one empty drink and a dumbfounded stare. “I– -” It was rare, if ever, that she was caught off-guard by a stranger. Years of teaching children had prepared her for the worst, but this was a first. All she could think to do was sip the drink in front of her and grit her teeth at the execution.

“Well… That’s certainly a Manhattan.” Or the ghost of one, at any rate. It took no time at all for her to set aside the empty glass in favor of whatever Wylie had concocted. “I wouldn’t be lauding your skills on Food Network, but it’s something.” It was something, that was for sure. All she could think to do was dip three slender digits into the glass, fish out the cherry and pop it in her mouth. “I know when I’ve been beaten.”

She also knew when to back off if she wanted to keep mediocre cocktails coming her way, but that was neither here nor there.

“I hope that made you feel better about yourself.” Circles traced across the lacquered surface of the bar in front of her as her foot kicked forward again, and again, and again. “Is this the part where you expect to win some sort of prize?”

He didn't gloat in his victory, he had more class than that. He'd just wanted it settled that he'd get her the goddamned drink & that he wasn't so stupid as to not know what in the hell went into making a Manhattan. He watched as her fingers slid into the glass. He blinked twice, then picked up his drink & downed the last of it. Three bourbons down & a fourth would need to be coerced out of the bartender sooner rather than later.

"Not really," Wylie admitted, his attention snapping back to her. "Oh, no," He shook his head in a slow, condescending way. "No prizes. The satisfaction of knowing I delivered on a promise is just enough," He assured her. "Unfortunately, however, I'm now dry & there's no way in hell I'm gonna be able to reach the bourbon from here. So, darlin', how about you put this under the bar," Wylie advised in a low conspiratorial voice as he pushed her hand & the glass towards her person.

"Ma'am?" Wylie said, raising his voice to be heard of Waylon's distant crooning. "Could I trouble you for another bourbon?" He asked, holding up his empty glass. "& rye for the lady," He said, tilting his head toward Irene. Reluctantly, the bartender obliged but only because the man in the hat had taken his timeout with grace.

"Now what were we talking about?" He asked, turning back to the blonde, raising a brow at her perpetually kicking foot. "How surprised you are that a man so handsome could be so good at so many things?"

“Wylie’s an unfortunate name.” But he knew that, didn’t he? Even as she dragged one finger across her drink, she knew that he knew his name was unusual. How many times had he been made the ass end of an ill-placed joke? Probably as many times as she had. “Irene is, too, I suppose.” It was the name for a grandmother or overbearing aunt – - Irene wasn’t the moniker for a little girl in the seventies. Then again, what did she know?

Wylie Goodnight.

“Ah,” the syllable accompanied a slow, purposeful nod. “Wylie Goodnight. Pitcher.” She could place him then, though not as he stood today. She remembered, foggily, the few baseball games she had been able to attend – - the too-expensive lights, the decaying scoreboard, the smell of grass and chatter of her peers; and, of course, the players.

Wylie Goodnight. Pitcher. And a menace, as far as she was concerned.

“I’ll take your social, but I’m sure your credit isn’t as good as mine.” Bold words for a woman sitting with a credit score of 612. Irene took another sip. Bourbon bypassed her vocal chords just as dimples pressed into shallow cheeks.

He was speculating; a guess about why she came to a bar to which she was clearly not a regular. “We aren’t celebrating.” It was a matter-of-fact statement as her ice swirled in her glass, pushed in a semicircle from the lazy twist of her wrist. “I just don’t have anything to drink at home. And where else could I go to insult someone like you?” At least she was honest. She had been insulting, and she was well aware of the fact, but she flashed a too-genuine smile in an effort to see if it would make him stay. “I figured you weren’t getting me that Manhattan, Mr. Goodnight. I doubt you know what it even is.”

Wylie's jaw slid to one side, his teeth grinding on the way there. He nodded as his eyes rolled closed. "You could do a lot worse than Irene," He assured her. Of course, one could do better than Irene, but that went without saying. Or he was just too polite to say it. Manners or not, he couldn't hide his surprise when she cinched up her memory & threw his old high school position out. Now he was a step behind.

"You're from 'round here?" Wylie asked on the tail end of a small chuckle. "That's two strikes for me. SupposeI better stop guessing." He'd have put money on her being from one coast or the other. & he'd have been a bit poorer for it.

"Probably not," Wylie's retort came without missing a beat. "I really took this seat to see if you'd co-sign a truck for me," Wiley's mouth stayed slightly agape at the joke before his glass found his lips once more. He tilted it back, looking over the rim at this paragon of good credit & taste.

"That's alright," Wylie said, holding the glass away from his mouth. "This is the best place to do it. I just gotta thank my lucky stars we aren't outside or somewhere with better lighting," He said, pulling a deep frown. "Oh, c'mon now," Wylie waved her off. "We're gonna get ya the Manhattan, but I can only manage one of ya at a time," He said, passing his index finger idly between Irene & the brunette behind the bar who stood on the far end, still keeping her back to them. The latter bit he had to laugh at though, pushing his hat further down on his head as he did so.

"You doubt it huh?" Wylie clicked his tongue, looked at the back of the barkeep's head & then stood on the rungs of his stool so he could grab the nearest glass & the bottle of rye. His eyes were wide as he kept look out for himself & poured an eyeballed couple of ounces into the glass. He put the bottle down, checked on the brunette, & had to really stretch to get to the bitters & vermouth. He dashed them into the glass, put the two bottles back haphazardly in the general location of where they'd been sitting & then clapped the glass down in front of Irene, taking his seat once more.

"Shit!" He stood up again to pluck a maraschino cherry out of the Solo cup they sat in. He popped it into the glass. "Maraschino's the best we can do," Wylie explained, plopping back onto his seat. From there he could reach a plastic fork in another Solo cup & he snagged one, sticking it in the drink & giving it a quick stir. "It'll have to do," He apologized for his lack of shaker. Thinking better of it, he grabbed another cherry & tossed it in his mouth & chewed happily.

If she was ten years younger, she would’ve found it commendable. As things stood, however, she just nodded once and pressed her lips together in a tight smile. What kind of forty year old man interrupted a woman having a drink by herself, anyway? Didn’t he have his own problems to drown at the bottom of a lowball glass? Maybe he was one of the few people in the world who were satisfied with her station, though Irene couldn’t imagine a situation in which someone would run at four thirty in the morning if they weren’t running from something.

“Wylie, huh?” Like the Coyote. Had she been a lesser person, she might have reached and grasped the low-hanging fruit. Instead, she arched a brow and considered the name.

“Do you have a last name?” There was no reason to give him any sort of satisfaction by admitting that she vaguely recognized him beyond running at the same time. However, Irene was pulled by her curiosity as she took another drink. The suggestion that she nurse what she had was waved off with a smooth flick of her hand, “I know what I’m doing, but thank you.”

"I do," Wylie said, making a meal of the two syllables. "It's Goodnight," He said. There'd be no reprieve from this woman, he could feel it in his goddamned bones. He held up his hands in a mock surrender. Maybe she was actually a teacher. "I'd never suggest the opposite," He promised her. "Will you be needing my middle initial & social next?" He asked, blinking dolefully, a slight lift to his chin.

"Now," Wylie started, twisting his glass in a slow circle. "That we've established our morning routine, I can't help but notice that you ain't much of a regular here. Are we celebrating?" He asked, shooting her an imploring look from under his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. "Case could be made, of course, that you're just thirsty. In which case, I'm glad I could oblige by at least pretending like I'm gonna get you that Manhattan." He smiled broadly then, looking away from her slowly to see that the back of the bartender's head was still to them.

Irene, on the other hand, only slowly nodded. Yes, running. Yes, City Hall. Of course she knew what he was talking about. Nod, nod, nod. Yes, yes, yes. She diligently gave the impression of an adult who was catering to a particularly chatty child.

“I do run in front of city hall.” Had he not ushered the bartender away, she might have let him carry on for another ten minutes. It was only after she realized she would have to talk to him that she suddenly arose from her dementia and tried to place him. “Oh, you’re— -“ Slim fingers cut through the air in front of her, drawing upon words that didn’t exist. “You have the dog.” Yes, that was it. The man with the dog. That’s all he was, as far as he needed to know.

Anything for a free drink and the chance to entertain herself.

Irene leaned back and took a moment to size him up. He was different outside of his appearance in the wee hours of the morning, though she supposed he could say the same for her. Dark eyes narrowed as if to definitively place him before both her elbows found the wood grain of the bar.

“I am a teacher. English. Is that so surprising?” She didn’t care for the answer. That much was more than clear, even before she flicked her eyes between the stranger and the bartender. “It’s Irene. And I’ll take a Manhattan.”

"A little," He fired back. Maybe she looked like a banker. Real estate broker even more so. "It's good to finally have a name to go with the face," He said. "It's nice to meet you, Irene. I'm Wylie." He gave her a nod, then tilted his head ever-so-slightly at her drink of choice. Giving up the straight liquor for a cocktail so long as it wasn't her dime. Seemed fair enough. "She probably won't come back over here for an hour," Wylie sipped from his glass. "I'd nurse that if I was you," He said, nodding toward the bourbon in front of her. He spoke in the same matter-of-fact manner you'd expect from someone far from needing a fresh drink.

Every morning.

Without fail, he was running. There was a dog at his heels, and sometimes he kept pace with the beat of the music that blared through Irene’s headphones. But, really, she just knew him as a marker for the amount of time she had spent combing the streets of Salt Flats.

If she saw him, it was four thirty.

And it was time to head home.

There was nothing particularly interesting about him, as far as she was concerned, but she recognized his features as soon as she walked into the bar. Even without his hilariously short jogging shorts and the dog that never strayed from his side, he was still recognizable. Relaxed though he might have been, Irene could recognize the greying hair and sharply-set jawline.

Even so, she bypassed the near-stranger and took her place at the bar. Bourbon on the rocks. That’s all she needed to end a particularly terrible day of trying her best to teach teenagers how to appreciate the finer points of Mary Shelley or Jane Austen. Just two drinks and she would be off – - back to her home, back to her books, back to the stray cat that seemed to subsist solely on table scraps that Irene didn’t have the heart to throw in the trash.

Two fingers of bourbon, and then she’d be on her way.

Perhaps it was the atmosphere that kept her from being vigilant, but Irene didn’t notice when someone sidled up to her and took a seat at the bar. He was little more than a nuisance until he spoke directly to her.

Mr. Four Thirty. Of course.

Could he buy her a drink?

“I won’t turn down a drink.” She could have cringed at the disinterest in her voice. Instead, she cradled her jaw in her hands and turned her full attention tot he man who had been brave enough to interrupt her reprieve.

He recognized her. Very cute.

“I’m sorry,” she drawled. Crevices pressed between two manicured brows, “Do I know you?” Of course she did. She had known him for months, though they had never spoken. Still yet, her fingers drummed against the slope of her jaw and she kicked her foot forward impatiently. “Are you a parent of one of my students?”