The Fabray’s practically own this dingy, mid-western shithole. Maybe that’s why the Mayor’s prissy little daughter can do whatever the hell she wants; and has, since the angel-faced brat learned that she could bat her fluttering lashes and fix her lips into that simpering pout and adults would cave like dominoes. The boys didn’t even need that much—one look, and they’d be at her feet. Under her feet.

Quinn Fabray has always done whatever the hell she wanted; it’s just that nobody thought she’d ever want to hang up her babydoll dresses and become a goddamn, gun-slinging cowgirl. Rare enough as it is, for a girl to be doin’ the rodeos. The Mayor’s pretty, perfect sweetheart of a daughter? Unheard of.

“Doll!” Speak of the devil. There’s the telltale sound of horse steps clopping, and the whip of blonde hair from underneath a wide-brimmed hat, as Quinn Fabray comes into view. She’s only decked halfway in cowgirl regalia. The practical parts, at least; skirt split for riding astride, hat shielding the elegant slope of her features, though sweat sheens her cheeks anyways—a tanned glow. She looks like a prom queen who took a roll around in the hay. Euphemism none withstanding. You’re pretty sure she did win prom queen. (Not that there were any competition).

Who would have thought, huh?

“Didn’t come around to my last rodeo.” Quinn pouts, looking everything like the precious doll she isn’t, anymore. She could be, but she isn’t nearly as fragile as the porcelain on the shelves. You’ve seen her shoot—and she’s a bloody show-off, at that. Though, she always has been. Even without the muck under her boots and new callouses on her hands.

“Was looking for your pretty face.” She tilts her head, faux wide, hurt eyes betrayed by the way lips twitch upwards. It’s a smug thing. The heel of her boot stamp down as she dismounts, puffing up a cloud of rust-coloured dust. She plows through the streets like she owns them. Suppose, she technically does. “Didn’t care to see me win?”

See? Show-off.