“Just spotted Tom in here,” Jack yells across the road, through cupped hands.  “Fancy a quick pint?”  (‘Cause Tom’s never short on the readies, which is more’n you can say for Mick.)

“Nah – got a girl to see,” says Mick with a wink.  Jack lifts his chin in farewell and pushes open the tavern door, to be greeted by a warm fug of chatter and laughter.

Several heads are turned or raised when he enters.  Partly because it’s cold out and he hasn’t closed the door yet, and partly because Jack tends to have that effect.  He likes to think it’s because he has a frightening, yet fascinating aura of danger about him.  Some people have claimed it’s simply down to his blue eyes, broad shoulders, and various other purported attributes.  Jack is dismissive of this theory.  For starters, it would only apply to women.  Mostly.  And besides; he’d much rather be fearsome than comely.

Tom’s isn’t among the turned heads.  He’s deep in conversation, his back t’wards the door; talking to someone who’s far more deserving than Jack of that tainting epithet, pretty.  Someone with shiny black hair and a sly, amused expression on his face.  Bloody Tom Cox, Jack’d always known there was something dodgy about that boy.  This only goes to prove it.

Tom’s companion glances at Jack.  Embarrassed, Jack averts his gaze; only to catch the eye of another bloke, staring at him twice as hard.  This second bloke’s lounging on the settle by the fire, and he’s all be-ribboned and be-dangled, black-eyed and louche as any creature Jack’s ever laid eyes on.  The expression on his face is probably illegal in some parts of the world.

Jack swallows.  The door bangs shut behind him.  Can’t just stand here like an eejit.

Does Jack go and talk to Tom and his new, pretty friend?
Or go and face down the bloke who’s staring at him like that?

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