Arrow Lake everybody come hang

He listened to the exchange, expression deadpan—the same as always. He hadn’t known a great deal about Alejandro; the man’s use of language didn’t surprise him, but went down in his mind as a rather interesting note. McBride couldn’t be certain to whether his companion was being serious or not, but then again, that was the beauty of a con. Whatever the case, Alejandro certainly seemed to find a way to get what he wanted. 

The other figure fired back with the same flirtatiousness as Ale, if not more. Tahoe studied the stranger more closely now, the man surely wasn’t a sight to forget. Brindled and brawny, bearing a physique that didn’t exactly strike him as fully lupine. The foreign man’s tail was notably curled against his rump. Tahoe wondered if he held it that way, or if it curled almost naturally. McBride paid less attention to what the foreigner looked like, but instead to what he said. He spoke with an enchanting allure of confidence, audaciously so. The name of his pack—the Saints—only added to his apprehension. The mention of violence and a plethora of enemies did not surprise him. He was unsure if this was a character, or group, he should associate himself with. Tahoe did not care for whatever may have earned the pack such adversaries, but would hate to be caught within a sticky situation. Selfish at heart, he wouldn’t fight another man’s battles. The subtle glances his way by both parties let him know his time eavesdropping was over. 

I didn’t wanna interrupt your little conversation. He woofed, eyeing the two as he traipsed out into the light. Tahoe halted roughly parallel to his familiar, yet still put a yard or two between them. He lifted his gaze and stared the stranger dead in the eyes. His quiet inquiry didn’t go unnoticed. The name’s Tahoe. How long’s your pack been ‘round? ‘Don’t believe I caught your name.