Whiskey Sour

***

He finds her in a bar in Winnepeg with a lit cigarette and a glass of vodka. She looks like hell, her eyes are glassy and hands shaking, but as he watches her for a few minutes, he knows she's not broken. Not yet.

He slides into the booth next to her, runs a hand behind her back, and flicks on the safety of her handgun before giving her a light squeeze. "You might not want to scream, Ms. Parker."

He whispers it into her ear all low and sex and fitting for the environment. He does it to piss her off - an unsure Parker is easier to deal with than one who's sure in herself - and because it's Parker, and that's really the only reason he needs.

She tenses under his hands, back ramrod straight and shoulders so square you could lever the world on them. "Jarod. How the hell did-"

She stops then. Lifts her drink and knocks most of it back. "You know, I actually don't care. Can you go away now? I'm trying to get drunk here."

He laughs, pulling her closer because, hey, she's never more beautiful when she's angry, and leans back in the booth. "I'm always here, Parker. Even when I'm not."

And really, that says everything.

-fin-

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