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He bites you, you bite back.
He hits you, you hit back.
He slashes your tires, you fuck him into your mattress.
Dallas Winston came crashing into your life like vehicular manslaughter and left a crime scene wherever he went.
You couldn't tell where he left bruises and where he left hickeys, all of it blurring together into one splattering of dark purple and dirty red.
You returned the favor in fingerprints around his neck and staining his lips with the blood from his nose.
He liked to be choked.
He liked getting that pretty face of his busted up.
You liked getting marked.
You liked looking like a rabid animal tried to eat you alive.
You and him were fucked.
Y'all made it everyone else's problem.
Tim Shepard and Dallas Winston.
The twin terrors of Tulsa.
Sometimes you'd find each other during the hours when Buck's bar was supposed to be closed up, one of you just finishing up his last drink and the other just starting with his first.
Sometimes it'd be in the middle of a party a long way from both of your turfs, and then you'd stick around each other because you couldn't stand anyone else there.
Sometimes he'd find his way into one of your local haunts, and either you'd take a bite out of his order before it reached his table or he'd dump your drink on you for shits and giggles.
Whatever it ended up being, you wanted nothing more than to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face.
He'd usually want about the same.
After that, you'd rumble.
It was never quite the same every time, but it was enough to nearly feel like routine.
One of you would throw the first punch, and the other would retaliate, and then it'd become a messy entanglement of arms and legs from there.
One of you would get the upper hand eventually, and then the loser would have to suck it up and take it up the ass.
You will never admit to any of the dirty tactics you've used to win because neither will he.
Didn't matter if either of you cheated anyway.
A fair fight was a fair fight as long as both of you were using the same weapon.
There are some nights where you fall asleep with your dick in your hand because you'd been thinking about him.
You don't know why you would.
He was paler than a corpse and you'd bet good money he was a bottled blond, and every inch of him cut like a blade.
He was a fucking eyesore.
Not when you had him bent over, though. Or not when you had him writhing on his back underneath you because you were choking him within an inch of his life.
Or when you could shut his smart mouth with rough, bruising kisses that often drew blood. Or when he was laughing like a little shit and you'd fuck his whore mouth so bad he couldn't laugh no more for a week
Those were moments you kept to yourself and replayed in your head like an abused vinyl for hours on end.
Fuck Dallas Winston.
There were also some nights where you sat in the shower with no less than three fingers inside yourself because you'd been thinking of him.
You don't know why you would.
He shared the same scars, and bitter smile, and spiteful blue eyes as you, and every inch of him cut you like a blade.
He was a pain in your ass.
Like when he sat back like a cocky bastard as he watched you take a ride. Or like when he bit the insides of your thighs with his animal teeth because you'd kept trying to smother him between them.
Or when he took your scathing insults about his dick in stride, using them as fuel to keep fucking your brains out. Or when you tried to get back at him for all the times he cut up your wheels and you ended up walking like a goddamn invalid for nearly three days.
Those were moments you kept to yourself and replayed in your head like an abused vinyl for hours on end.
Fuck , Dallas Winston.
He got you.
You got him.
One of you got into a fight, the other would step in.
When asked.
Didn't wanna get treated like a fucking charity case.
He knew that.
You knew that.
You had each other.
No one else understood your fucked up brains.
He never stayed at home because his dad practically got off to beating the living shit out of him whenever he saw him.
You were responsible for yourself and your siblings your whole childhood because God forbid your deadbeats stopped shooting themselves up with God knows what for five seconds to feed you.
The streets raised your asses, and the streets made for unforgiving parents
It was a father that belted you for so much as breathing too loud and a mother that made your ears bleed for even existing.
You and him were fucked.
He told you he's had a hand trying to crush his throat so many times he started liking it.
You told him you've been opened up to bleed so much your brain started telling you it felt good.
The streets never taught you healthy ways to cope.
Never taught you that whatever it was the two of you had wasn't one of them.
Dallas Winston was looking to die.
You could see it in the way he never looked before crossing, never wore his seatbelt and never backed down from a fight.
The boys at the police station knew him by first name.
They wanted him dead for the trouble he makes.
Fuck them.
If anyone was going to leave him bleeding his fucking guts out in the middle of the street it sure as hell wasn't going to be those dirty pigs, it was gonna be you.
You weren't the most life loving hippie either.
The only reason you weren't dead already was because you had two troublemakers at home who'd starve to death without you, and you weren't looking for another goddamn stain on your already filthy record.
Your brother Curly was a violent dumb shit, and your sister Angela was playing cunt roulette every other fucking night with a new boy.
God bless 'em, they grew to be fucked up like you.
That's what folks like you got for having the audacity to stay alive on the East end, you either died young or grew to be just another one of the many terrible people this side of Oklahoma.
Dallas Winston embraced his incoming premature demise.
You and him knew y'all were just corpses waiting to happen.
If only it'd happen sooner.
For now you found some semblance of comfort in the sweaty, smoky afterglow of an empty fuck.
Buck Merril's got a revolver.
Keeps it under the bar, hidden amongst all the glasses.
Dallas Winston thinks it's the funniest thing in the world to pull it out when Buck's long gone to bed, give the chamber a spin and pretend to blow his brains out.
You wonder how Buck hasn't thrown him out from under his roof as you laugh along with him, taking your turn to fake kill yourself.
Y'all take turns, between real shots and fake shots.
As you slug down your fourth hit of whisky and watch him lift the gun to his temple, you see his tipsy fingers slip and there's the distinct click of the trigger.
You hear it and adrenaline explodes through your veins.
For a second, your mind gets stuck on what the hell you'd do with yourself if Dallas Winston was out of the picture.
It seemed unreal.
Unimaginable.
You weren't ready to think about that yet, even though you already knew he was destined to live fast and die young.
The trigger was already pulled before either of you even realized what was going on.
Bang.
You resist the urge to shut your eyes.
You stare deep into your shot glass.
You're processing what just happened.
Then he fucking laughs.
The chamber wasn't fully loaded.
You suddenly remember how much you fucking hate Dallas Winston.
You pull his cackling stupid ass out from behind the bar and slammed him down against the pool table, already trying tear off his clothes like a goddamn animal.
He comments about how pissed Buck'll be if y'all get any spunk on the felt.
You tell him you don't give a shit.
He asks if you'd miss him if that chamber had turned out to be loaded.
You shove your fingers down his all too greedy throat.
It's all a blur from there, but you recall not answering a single one of his questions.
Buck Merril yells at you the next time he sees you and threatens to ban you from the bar.
Boo fuckin' hoo.
It was worth it to stop thinking for the night.
You didn't wanna think about a life without Dallas Winston.
Who else would let you destroy them as much as you destroy each other?
You don't actually care about him.
You just care about what you can get out of him.
He's the same exact way.
He's the one that said everything you've been doing together didn't mean nothin' from the start and you were completely fine with that.
You wouldn't miss him if he died.
He definitely wouldn't miss you.
Dallas Winston was not a creature who fell victim to sentiment.
You thought yourself to be the same.
You thought.
Because you are.
Definitely.
How could you feel anything other than contempt, respect and horny for a man with a criminal record that rivaled yours?
He was pretty the same way a switchblade was pretty, and he was just about as lovable.
You weren't about to go stab yourself in the heart.
You weren't very bright but you also weren't a fucking moron.
Only morons fell for Dallas Winston.
That, or masochists.
He was a bastard, the lowest scum you could find.
One night you woke up at three in the morning to his dick moving between your thighs.
To return the favor, the next night you woke him with your dick slamming into his throat.
He bit your manhood.
Fucking animal.
Fair was fair, god dammit.
Whenever y'all finished having your way with each other, he'd always have a smoke.
Sometimes you join in, other times you were too out of breath to even think straight.
He'd always have something to say while he played the role of chimney.
Even when he was still catching his breath, fingerprints freshly bruising the pretty pale column of his throat.
You'd tell him to shut up usually.
The night after the gun fake-out you listened to what he had to say.
A lot of it was bullshit, but some of it made you wonder how much of an accident his fingers slipping on the trigger really was.
You met his eyes as he took a drag.
His eyes were cold.
Yours were dark.
There were a lot of shades of blue out there.
Ice and ocean.
You kissed him, or maybe he kissed you.
For once, neither of you drew blood.