Hangman, they called him. Famous for hanging everyone out to dry while he barreled ahead without them. Most people around Lemoore knew him by that name, and if they didn't, well, they would very soon. There was really only one person who knew him as anything else, and the two of you didn't speak.

You. You'd known him, once upon a time, as Jake, your Jake, your Bagman. There had been a time where Jake had been all smiles, all good-natured jokes and cocky races through the sky. Rookie days. He was in love with you, at one point. So madly, deeply in love that for a while, he assumed it would put him in the ground.

And then it had ended, exploding like a gas tank gone wrong, in a fireball of destruction and fall out. You'd just turned your goddamn back on him without even telling him why. Jake had no intention of groveling for you. You wanted to leave? So be it.

And he'd never looked back. Never thought about calling your number. (Once a week.) Never mimicked the way your hands would play with his tags. (At least once every night.) He would never look back again.

And now, here you were, and God, you were still so damn beautiful. He never could get enough of the way you held yourself. He felt his heart clench tightly as you walked into the bar, greeting Phoenix with a grin and a laugh that had been recorded in his heart and buried for so many years. He forced himself to get a grip. You weren't rookies anymore.

"Well, well, well. Bradshaw," he drawled, "as I live and breathe." He grinned lazily, trying not to look the way he felt. "Or should I call you Rooster now?" He snorted.