Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Rolling the Dice

"If that makes your manhood shrink, you might want to check out a different fat girl," I told him.

He didn't say anything, just picked up his drink, hopped off the stool, and headed toward the pool tables.

Beside me the bartender laughed and I looked at him.

"That was funny," He said.

"Yeah," I grinned. I faced him and repeated the action.

"Lifter?" He asked.

"Power, not builder," I told him. I took a long sip off the drink as he nodded.

"Where do you lift?" He asked me. I noticed he was pretty well built himself.

"Post gym," I told him.

"Same here, on West Fort Hood," he told me.

"Active?" I asked.

"Charlie Troop, 2-38," He grinned.

"Rangers," I said, and he nodded. "Fucking figures," I shook my head.

"Problem?" He asked, his voice getting cold.

"There's a snake eater group on Hood and I got stuck in Worst Cav," I snarled. "You're out there stomping in the grass for snakes to fight over, I'm stuck trying to rescue a unit from the garbage can before some abusive butterbar pushes a private too far and there's a murder."

He spritzed me a new drink, dropped a twist of lime into the glass, and slid it to me. "Snake eater, huh? Not too many people got the balls to say that shit, especially to our face." His half-smile took some of the threat out of it, but his body language said he had already taken offense to me words.

"I can show you one thing, if you want, that gives me every right to say that," I told him, warming up to the challenge.

"And what's that?" He asked.

I opened my wallet, opening up the plastic photo leaves. "You sure you want to know, Ranger?"

"Hey, can I get some service or what?" A guy yelled.

The bartender made a face and moved away. Another guy slid onto the stool next to me, giving me a smile. I smiled back warmly, feeling excited about what I was about to do to the Ranger.

He came back, putting his hands on the bar, his face somewhat cloudy and just the beginning of anger showing.

"So you've got something to show me that you think gives you the right to call me a snake eater?" He snapped.

"I warned you," I told him, and showed him the picture.

He stared for a minute, then went pale, looking at me, then the picture.

"Yup, that's real. Taken in 89, at Fort Lewis. Few less miles on me. His son was my crew leader for five years. I was there with his son in Desert Storm till the end," I told him, then flipped it one over, showing him another picture. "That's him pinning a Purple Heart on me in Walter Reed," I told them, letting him get a good look at the picture before closing my wallet. "Still got anything to say, snake eater?"

This was the test. Either he'd double down with his attitude, go cold, or take it with humor.

I had been hoping for humor, but his next words threw it out the window.

"You think that picture gives you the right to call me a snake eater?" He asked, trying to salvage his pride. I could see that the picture had actually made things worse, that he was looking at a female who threatened his self-esteem.

If he reacted that badly to just a pair of pictures, I already knew how he'd react to my scars.

"Never mind," I told him, shaking my head. "I had hoped you weren't gonna be like this, hoped for something else, but you had other ideas."