Post by Sabra on Nov 10, 2012 20:55:02 GMT -5
Sabra leans over the pool table, screwing up an eye to judge the distance and angle. Usually, she preferred cards, poker or blackjack, something where her means of distracting the competition didn't have to be her breasts spilling out her top or her shirt riding up and giving folks' an eyeful. Alas, the Plymouth was a gas guzzling beast and rent in the city was jacked up, more than her little part time jobs could afford. Her father had impressed upon her at a young age to use what God gave you.
This probably wasn't the context he had meant, but hell, it was better than working the poles--and she had known more than a few girls who earned their living that way.
Sabra figured if it ever got that bad she'd just limp on back to where she came from and beg for forgiveness. There were always options and her trigger finger was as spry as ever. As far as Sabra could tell, Boston was in greater need of those services than any of the southern packs she'd been apart of. Cities. It was damned unnatural, packing people in such tight spaces. Putting werewolves into that equation inevitably turned out a few who were crazier than shit house rats and whose only cure was a dosing of lead.
Might as well call her the doctor, then.
Her eye twitches as some joker whistles, but the crack of her cue on the ball silences them all. The woman watches with smug pleasure as she sinks two, drawing back to allow her opponent plenty of space. "Your turn, darlin'." She drawls, plucking a square of chalk off the table, applying it to her cue with a sharp twist of her wrist.
The game wears on and Sabra nurses at her beer, savoring the bitter flavor as the the bar swells with people. It wasn't her type of crowd, mostly college age kids getting drunk and throwing their money around, but in that carelessness they become the perfect victims to hustle. A little challenge to some fool's pride: betcha can't beat a girl, and the werewolf had them hook, line, and sinker. They walked around like puffed out peacocks and there was little that Sabra enjoyed more than plucking their feathers and watching them deflate under the jeers of their buddies. The cash they begrudgingly handed over was just the icing on the cake.
She liked to think she was giving them a good lesson in life. Several. Never judge a book by its cover, learn to put your money where your mouth was, and don't let your dick control your brain. The latter was one that many of them would probably never master completely.
Hip cocked against the table and her hands resting on her cue, Sabra waits for the next sucker to stroll up.
This probably wasn't the context he had meant, but hell, it was better than working the poles--and she had known more than a few girls who earned their living that way.
Sabra figured if it ever got that bad she'd just limp on back to where she came from and beg for forgiveness. There were always options and her trigger finger was as spry as ever. As far as Sabra could tell, Boston was in greater need of those services than any of the southern packs she'd been apart of. Cities. It was damned unnatural, packing people in such tight spaces. Putting werewolves into that equation inevitably turned out a few who were crazier than shit house rats and whose only cure was a dosing of lead.
Might as well call her the doctor, then.
Her eye twitches as some joker whistles, but the crack of her cue on the ball silences them all. The woman watches with smug pleasure as she sinks two, drawing back to allow her opponent plenty of space. "Your turn, darlin'." She drawls, plucking a square of chalk off the table, applying it to her cue with a sharp twist of her wrist.
The game wears on and Sabra nurses at her beer, savoring the bitter flavor as the the bar swells with people. It wasn't her type of crowd, mostly college age kids getting drunk and throwing their money around, but in that carelessness they become the perfect victims to hustle. A little challenge to some fool's pride: betcha can't beat a girl, and the werewolf had them hook, line, and sinker. They walked around like puffed out peacocks and there was little that Sabra enjoyed more than plucking their feathers and watching them deflate under the jeers of their buddies. The cash they begrudgingly handed over was just the icing on the cake.
She liked to think she was giving them a good lesson in life. Several. Never judge a book by its cover, learn to put your money where your mouth was, and don't let your dick control your brain. The latter was one that many of them would probably never master completely.
Hip cocked against the table and her hands resting on her cue, Sabra waits for the next sucker to stroll up.
