Outlaw's Prayer (ch. 6)
Title: Outlaw's Prayer (6/?)
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: I have been working on this story for the past seven months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it :D What started out as a fledgling idea grew to be a huge AU and I'm very grateful to share it with you. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
"You sure pick some of the damnedest friends." - Luke Short to Bat Masterson, after killing Masterson's friend Charlie Storm
Another nameless town along the endless plain, built with hard labor on the bones of peoples who existed before time, developed now as a haven for wayward pilgrims and travelers and the thieves that preyed upon their naivety. Another heist, executed perfectly with the added security of an additional lookout on their hands. Although Kyle's presence and skill shaved off precious seconds from their getaway, David felt the drudgery of this lifestyle, eating away at his years, wishing he could be somewhere else. Another saloon filled to its timber rafters with low-lifes and whores, the West's den of debauchery. David no longer cared to wonder if he'd ever be surprised with immaculate floors and Spanish oak furniture; he almost expected the opposite now, always wondering if that bar, that woman, that entire town had somehow been a trick of his mind, a mirage.
But this was not the time for brooding over the past; he had done enough of that recently, dreaming away the hours on a life that could have been. He even recognized that his inaction was noticed by the rest of the Kings, their newest member keenly and enthusiastically observant; a quality David liked about Kyle, endeared him to the greenhorn in most aspects besides his personal life. Every man needed some time to themselves, to sort out their thoughts without the scrutiny of others at their backs, but David's respite for contemplation had overstayed its welcome among the outlaws, and as the leader of the Kings it was his responsibility to maintain the morale of the others, even if it was at the cost of his own.
This, he thought, as he slung an arm around Kyle's shoulders, the smell of stale liquor and the sound of a wild, roaring party welcoming them, this is a time for celebration.
No one paid any mind to the outlaws walking into a rowdy tavern, just as David had expected: the report from Andy, who had rode ahead one day in search of a town with a low tolerance for rumors and an even lower standard of morals, was accurate as it had always been. This was a den full of thieves and robbers, though none with such a reputation as the Kings, and it proved to be the perfect place to blow off a little steam--in more ways than one. Andy had also reported that the saloon girls here in town--little more than a row of weather-beaten shanties surrounding the saloon simply called the Grove--weren't of the highest quality, but they were plentiful and quite friendly. Neal had raised an eyebrow at this news but stayed silent while Joey clapped his hands together and gave out a whoop; Kyle grinned as usual, once again trying to hide his excitement but failing, ready to experience the one fringe benefit to the outlaw life he had yet to discover.
And David...David wished he could say he held the higher ground, was the better man because of it, but the letter that burned a hole in his shirt pocket left desire burning in him somewhere else, and while he was a man with a deep love in his heart, he was still just a man.
From the look on Kyle's face as they entered the saloon, the kid had never been to a place such as this, entranced by its halfhearted attempts at exoticism and decadence, the delicate paper lanterns dotting the ceiling and black and red lacquer wall decorations fooling no one. The floorboards were stained with old blood, final, lasting reminders from former patrons, and etched into the Grove's permanence with a thick layer of spilled liquor, inadvertently polishing the floor to a respectable sheen. The colored lanterns cast the entire saloon in a deep red glow, its inhabitants shifting through the room like souls from Hell, the darkened lights disguising any physical deformities of saloon girl and patron alike. It was like spying the sky right before a dangerous morning thunderstorm, deep reds a warning to everyone around: abandon all virtue, ye who shall enter here.
"This is quite a place," David commented, taking Kyle's wide-eyed wonder as his response. Even he had to admit, for a brothel in the middle of nowhere, with wild men and outlaws its most loyal patrons, the Grove outdid itself in its appearance; most places didn't even bother to whitewash the walls as decoration, their proprietors content in leaving the wood bare. The furniture in the main room, he noticed--tables and chairs set up for poker, benches lining the back walls with old cushions worn to the stuffing for private, lustful conversations--was painted a gaudy black, and looked nothing like sturdy, Spanish-crafted oak. A stairway behind the bar led to a second floor filled with mousehole-like bedrooms, a maze of stiff mattresses, strong perfumes and writhing bodies, a paradise for the paying customer.
Joey, already eyeing the human merchandise on display underneath the red lights, threw an arm overtop David's, each outlaw flanking Kyle's sides. "Work hard," he said, thumbing a wad of bank notes in his hand, his take from their latest heist. "Play hard."
He left them quickly, eager to be parted with his cash in the many methods the Grove had to offer him. The payouts for each King after a heist, now split five ways instead of merely four, were never large but they were always quite enough; Kyle's share for Fox Canyon alone was more money than he had ever held in his hand before, and the loot added from each heist was more than he could imagine. Each outlaw had their own vices they liked to indulge in that depleted their coffers a bit, but Joey's were indeed the most decadent, and the most expensive. David had discovered immediately after their first heist with Joey that he enjoyed gambling, placing bets on any game one could pass in a saloon, raising the stakes of his poker and blackjack games high and keeping them there--and typically losing. Much like his history before joining the Kings, Joey never spoke about his massive losses, and David never asked, but he always suspected the latter might have led to the former--and wondered if whatever, or whomever, chased Joey Clement out of Arizona would come back to haunt them all.
But for now, the air was calm, the ground underneath them docile and the other thieves and drifters in the saloon apathetic to their presence. This was a time for fun, not the worries of a leader David always placed upon himself. "Go on, Kid," he implored Kyle, jutting his chin out to the scene before them. "Have a ball."
Like a child let loose in a confectioner's shop and given free reign, Kyle took a hesitant step forward as if approaching a deer or rabbit for the kill, careful not to startle the saloon lest it disappear. But before he took his full leap into the revelry, David's hand clamped down on his shoulder again, much stronger than before, and with more purpose than a friendly gesture. The outlaw's face was serious when Kyle looked back, his eyes shifting throughout the room and landing on the bar at the far end of the saloon. "If you approach Andy," he instructed, leaning in close to Kyle's ear, making sure they were the only two hearing this conversation. "Make sure he approaches you first. Keep it light, but not too friendly. Always follow his lead; if he thinks you're being watched, then you don't know him, and you never have."
David's directions were stern and odd, but immediately Kyle understood their necessity; this may have been a den of thieves but they were indeed not friends. The Grove was meant to be pure relaxation and enjoyment for the Kings but they always had to remember that Andy's identity and his role as the shadow of the outlaw gang were kept hidden from all, that revealing he was even associated with the Kings could spell disaster in their next heist. The climate of the saloon seemed to be that of indifference to everyone's business but one's own, but they could never be too confident or too careless.
His gaze followed David's over to the bar, noticing a familiar blond ordering a stiff drink, settling himself down in a barstool. "What about Neal?" he asked. When they had arrived, the sharpshooter had made a beeline to the shelves of poor quality liquor, the reflection of red light off the bottles illuminating the bar, serving as a beacon to those looking to satisfy their thirst.
The hand on his shoulder gave a light squeeze; David's indication not to take the question further. "Neal knows what he's doing," he assured him, an answer David commonly gave to questions concerning Neal Tiemann: intimidating at best to those that did not know him well, Neal had the temperament of a loner who was never alone, his words parsed but meaningful and his actions all his own.
Kyle watched as Neal waited patiently for his drink, the man of few words seeming to feel right at home in a den of voices and sounds, the constant buzz of noise soothing what Kyle had considered his naturally irritable nature. Neal's head turned to survey the saloon's surroundings, first one way and then the other, catching the eye of the younger man seated on the stool next to him. He gave the man a solemn nod of recognition, watching his large, expressive brown eyes carefully; the tension in his bones relaxing when Andy returned the nod, raising his glass to Neal in greeting with a hint of a smile on his lips so faint only Neal could recognize it. The young saloon girl draped over Andy's shoulders, chatty and round-faced, pouty painted lips as she tossed back long blond hair, distressed that her prospective client seemed to have suddenly lost interest.
David's arm around Kyle's shoulders was quickly replaced by a slender, more feminine arm, adorned with an elaborate tattoo far more pleasing to Kyle's sensibilities than the unblinking eye on David's wrist. The body that belonged to the arm was also more enjoyable than David Cook: its slenderness continued throughout the young woman's frame, down her petite hips and long legs thinly veiled with a sheer petticoat, an obvious marker of what kind of attention she was seeking at the Grove. The fair skin underneath her ink was flawless, Kyle would have remarked had his brain been functioning correctly, and while her loose bun of blond hair inferred modesty, her striking blue eyes and the sly smile upon red lips told him otherwise.
"You look lost," she supplied, leaning over Kyle's frame, low-cut cleavage pressing against his shoulder. "Is this your first time?"
Her breath against his ear felt nothing like a summer breeze, her voice comparable more to a crow's caw than a bluebird's song, but Kyle was instantly smitten, his face awash with startled attraction. David mused that perhaps everything to Kyle Peek received some kind of shocked wonderment. Kyle nodded, his eyes wide and miraculously on the saloon girl's face instead of other points south, before quickly attempting to correct himself. "I mean, not my first time, it's my first time with you...damnit, here! I mean my first time here..." His face grew redder than the paper lanterns, and he shrugged sheepishly, unable to form any sort of excuse for his awkwardness. "Never been to Utah before."
David could do nothing more than put his head in his hands, palm making full contact with face, and try not to drop dead from laughter. The kid was hopeless, it seemed, and David wondered if it really was Kyle's first time with a woman; he couldn't fathom how he got anywhere close enough to a girl with that lovingly pathetic display. But this girl didn't mind, had not been fazed in the least, Kyle's pocketful of bank notes more of a motivator than his self-humiliating charm. When David looked up again through his fingers, the blond had maneuvered Kyle away from the entrance and over to one of the benches lining the walls, perkily introducing herself as Megan.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," he overheard Kyle reply, employing the courtesy and politeness David bet Mama Peek never thought her sweet son would be using to address a prostitute. Hell, if the kid had a hat on, he'd probably be tipping it to her, too. "I really like your tattoos," he observed, pointing to Megan's arm, her shoulder covered in intricate ink, the grin on his face in hopeful anticipation that he might get closer to examine its contents.
With a chipper squeal that came more from instinct than the prospect of finding a client for the night, Megan took both of Kyle's hands in hers, eyes lighting up with excitement. "Really?" she asked, her smile nearly breaking free of her face when Kyle nodded his head enthusiastically, dying to talk more. "I got them from a woman who used to live here, took care of us girls better than we do ourselves. We used to call her 'Mama;' I think the designs come all the way from Africa." David watched as Kyle, that sly, genius kid Kyle, reached over to tuck a strand of Megan's hair behind her ear that had become loose from her bun, inching himself closer, the hand coming to rest on Megan's shoulder. Maybe the kid wasn't as clueless as David thought. "Wanna see the other ones she did for me?"
Before Kyle even had a moment to nod his assent her legs were already off the ground, feet waggling in Kyle's face. "She did the tops of my feet, too," she enthused, hiking one of her elegantly long assets atop Kyle's shoulder, the other coming to rest at his hipbone, Megan virtually seating herself in his lap. The hint of suaveness David thought he saw in Kyle was obliterated by these new developments, and the kid was startled to immobility, body so stiff one would assume Megan was cozying up to a lifelike statue. Always expressive, Kyle gave away his shock all over his face, eyes large and unblinking, jaw dropped so wide open David bet he could throw grapes into it even from ten feet away.
There was little David could do but shake his head and laugh; he was sure Kyle would laugh along with him eventually, when the embarrassment of being shown up by a saloon girl cooled and his blushed red cheeks returned to their original pallor. Work hard, play hard, David reminded himself of Joey's motto, the outlaw who had already found himself in the thick of a blackjack game, a glass of gin in one hand and the backside of a leggy brunette in the other. He looked on with some mild interest as Megan leaned in, ever flexible, and whispered to Kyle that if he followed to her private room upstairs--and for an inevitable fee--she'd show him where on her body her more discreet tattoos were located.
"It looks like she's taken."
David spun around, shocked he had been taken by such surprise, and found himself face to face with expanses of voluptuous, milky-white flesh, intelligent eyes ringed with kohl, and smirking red lips. Taken by surprise by a woman, no less; some infamous outlaw, he berated himself. "Oh, I wasn't interested in her," he explained, watching the self-satisfied smirk widen on the woman's face, with a much keener interest than he had been watching Kyle with his saloon girl.
She nodded her head over to the couple, who were giggling to each other as Kyle's fingers ran over her tattooed shoulder and Megan toyed with wisps of his shoulder-length hair. "Well, you were looking," she called him out brazenly, unafraid of losing a prospective client or making an enemy. "And if he's what you're interested in, we don't sell it."
He couldn't help but grin at the absurdity, a light chuckle deep in his lungs building and coming out from his mouth a loud, encouraging laugh. "That is certainly not what I'm interested in, I assure you," he said, spying the blond draped around Andy and a smiley, thin woman with deep slits up her skirts vying for Neal's attention; he wondered if those girls bothered to ask them the same question. He narrowed his eyes at the woman before him, his playful streak winning out. "You've got quite a mouth on you, don't you?"
"I take that as a compliment, thank you." She quickly looked away, regarding the paper lanterns as terribly interesting, trying not to reveal to David in her eyes that she wasn't usually the receiver of compliments. "Life's too short not to speak up once in a while," she mused, folding her arms across her chest in contemplation. Life was too short to spend it in a whorehouse, David thought to himself, but he, unlike this woman, wasn't looking to ruffle any feathers. "Can't say I've ever really lived if I've never had anything to regret, right?"
The lives he had taken with his revolver to save his own skin; each bank robbery that now became more mundane routine than excitement or necessity. The reason he had tracked that lawman down so many years ago and flung himself gun-first into the life of an outlaw. Leaving Burleson, Texas, and the young card shark behind in Sugarfoot's dust. "I've got a whole list of regrets," he noted, very ready to tack another onto that list.
She introduced herself as Gina, holding out her hand with the intention of shaking for an introduction. David instead took the hand he was given, upturned it in his own, and pressed his lips to the palm. The intimacy of the kiss was not lost on Gina, whose fingers curled at the underside of his chin, tangling themselves in a short-cropped beard. He didn't need to lay the charm on thick tonight, not in a den full of women he was sure reacted more favorably to gold than sweet words, but this woman had a quick wit and intelligence in her eyes that endeared her to David. Made him think of another girl he had met in a saloon, who had been far from the lifestyle of red lanterns and smeared makeup. "I'm David," he replied, squeezing her hand gently as he watched the color rush to her cheeks.
But her eyes were not on his, nor were they characteristically on the wad of bank notes in his shirt pocket; Gina's attentions were caught by the distinctive and detailed tattoo of an unblinking eye on David's wrist, his reminder to himself that, whether guarded or safe, he was always being watched--both by good and by bad. And, ironically, it had become one of the very things the ones who were watching made notice to identify him. "David Cook," she supplied, the knowing smile spreading across her face wiping away his own, replaced with a tense, tight-lipped smirk. "You're one of the Kings gang, aren't you?"
The grip on Gina's hand tightened; even in a pleasure den, he could never be too secure. "Depends on who's asking," he said, the quick, emotionless turn of his voice a warning to anyone who had known, though dangerously few ever lived to repeat it. He was letting things go too quickly, revealing what he shouldn't. Perhaps he should have borrowed a bit of Andy's skepticism or Neal's distrust before he walked into the saloon.
He hadn't fazed Gina in the slightest; still smiling, she leaned in closer, until the ends of her black hair tickled against David's cheek. "I'm not gonna rat you out," she explained, unaffected by David's tight grip on her hand; she had experienced worse in this profession before, by men even more dangerous than David Cook, and not nearly as attractive. "No one here even cares, most have the same troubles as you. Just not quite as famous, rich--" she patted the shirt pocket at his breast, feeling both the sizable bankroll he kept there as well as Kelly's most recent letter. "Or handsome." The hand went up to stroke his cheek, Gina's fingers grazing against the stubble, and against his instincts David didn't pull away. It was so good to feel the touch of a woman against his skin again, and although he had been with many a saloon girl in his years in the West, it was refreshing--and a bit invigorating--to find one he could possibly have an intelligent conversation with as well. He could charm a woman easily into her bed, but rarely found anyone worth charming into their mind.
"I'm just an admirer," she said, breath tickling against David's ear.
Without thinking he was leaning into the touch, eyes locked onto Gina's, eager to enjoy in the nature of the Grove as his fellow Kings had already begun. "And just what is it that you admire?" he asked; he had found many a woman in the saloons dotting the West whose interests were sparked the moment they discovered his dangerous identity, the chance encounter of courting with the famed leader of the Kings only bested in excitement by bedding him. His reputation with the ladies of frontier towns had certainly improved along with the notoriety of their heists.
Gina had all the right answers, and she had them right when David wanted to hear them. "You," she answered simply, her dark eyes entrancing in the dim lights of the saloon, making David wish to forget his troubles in them, of the responsibilities that came with this infamy, and the woman he left behind because of it. For right now, all he wanted was to see how far his outlaw fame could take him.
***
Neal could vaguely recall the brunette gyrating on his lap was named Haley, but he would have had a better time remembering it had her name been scrawled across her cleavage.
It was most of what he saw of the woman, anyway, her tired-looking eyes and thin, smiling lips that first revealed her name not leaving as much of a lasting impression as the other physical characteristics she chose to showcase. Her legs were equally alluring, the deep slit in her skirts made for such an observation, and Neal felt almost obliged to make it, if only for the sake of her ruined petticoats. Haley leaned closer to Neal, the deep scent of rosewater in her hair, and whispered something he was sure was supposed to be enticing, but with her chest brought up closer like this, his chin almost pressed against the flesh, there wasn't much desire to concentrate on what she had to say.
Just as Neal had made a beeline for the barstool on his way into the Grove, Haley had made a direct route over to Neal, almost sensing the cash on him, just waiting to be spent. It had been a rather eventful night for the saloon but her own prospects had fallen through, each man she cozied up to ending up broke, surly, or too inebriated to make their way up the stairs. The fresh meat that came in late into the night--obviously outlaws, no one came to their poor excuse for a pleasure den unless there were no other options available--seemed eager to spend their money, and Haley was more than happy to take it from this man.
"What did you say?" Neal asked over the din of the crowd, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, with one hand on his glass of whiskey and the other securely around Haley's waist, making sure her ministrations didn't send her flying off his lap.
Haley wanted to frown--she hated being ignored, hated it, and in her line of work it usually meant the difference between having the money for a roof over her head and breakfast the next morning. But frowns also caused wrinkles, and unhappy clients, and those qualities were far more dangerous than an outlaw who wasn't paying attention. "I said," she leaned in a little closer, her voice a little louder. "You've got quite a grip there. You're pretty strong, ain't you?"
Nonchalantly Neal shrugged as he downed the last of his drink, spending more time placing the glass back onto the bar than caring about Haley's flirtations. He had heard her this time, though, and wasn't quite impressed: she was like every other saloon girl that passed his fancy throughout any town of the West, long-legged, coy and flirtatious to a fault, their names and the sensation of their bodies against him lost to his memory. But he smirked anyway, pretending to feel complimented just as Haley had pretended to be sincere about the compliment, and let his hand sweep down her body to squeeze a supple backside. "I suppose."
She wanted to whisper more, perhaps cause that hand of his to wander elsewhere along her frame, but Neal's attentions were already sidelined by the bartender, who had begun to refill Neal's empty glass instead of carting it away. He gave the bartender a quizzical look; he hadn't ordered another whiskey, though he wasn't going to refuse it once the liquid splashed into his glass. "Compliments of him," the gruff bartender answered, hiking a thumb to the right of Neal's barstool. The man hadn't even needed to go through the trouble; Neal already knew if someone had just bought him a drink at the Grove, it would be him.
"Enjoying yourself?" came the low voice dancing against his ear, the voice Neal had known in every capacity, heard every emotion inflected through the years. He heard playfulness this time, with a hint of deep lust, layered with inebriation. One of his favorite mixes.
He turned to his benefactor, who had a girl of his own vying for his affections--blond, and round-faced, a bit too fresh-faced for Andy's usual fare but this town seemed not to be for choosers. "Very much," he exaggerated over his shoulder, the glint in his eye matched in Andy's, daring each other to break this facade, knowing neither of them would. His night was going far from spectacularly: Haley could barely keep his attention, having no patience for her overused flirtations and flatteries, though her body and the way she had mastered its power were indeed captivating. She would certainly do for tonight, ideas of how to demonstrate that strength of his she liked to muse upon already running through his head.
Andy persisted, and the mere sound of his voice low in the saloon and the feel of his breath against Neal's skin enticed him more than anything Haley's body could have done. "You may fuck her tonight," he challenged, voice heard only by Neal as he intended, both of the saloon girls beside them too preoccupied with landing their clients to care about their closeness. The hint of a smile on Andy's lips came through even in his words, and Neal took it as a sign of assent, a mark of Andy giving him permission to do so. "But she'll never compare to me."
A jolt of shivers ran through Neal's body at the thought, the memory: Andy's full, kiss-swollen lips asking, pleading, his body hot and welcoming against Neal's, pulling him in closer, pulling him inside. He closed his eyes as his mind flooded with the images of Andy beside him, large eyes heavy-lidded with lust, then squeezed tight as he stuttered out a moan. Neal had to bite his lip to hold back his own moan right there in the saloon, teeth digging into the silver rings in his lip, shuddering as he remembered how tight Andy felt when Neal entered him, every time, how it felt to have every sense filled with him.
Neal hated to admit it to that smug little face he knew, even with his eyes closed, Andy wore, but he was completely right. Andy always was.
The touch of a warm, delicate hand brought him back to his senses, elegant fingers tracing against the outline of a hardening cock in his pants. Neal didn't even have to glance down to know those fingers were attached to a slender, feminine arm, belonging to the saloon girl in his lap; not the hand he had been hoping for. "Maybe we should take this courting somewhere else," Haley purred in Neal's ear, the tickling sensation of her breath far from the cool pleasantness of Andy's. She did not know nor care what the other man had whispered into Neal's ear; she was confident that for the rest of the night he was hers. "There's a room upstairs..."
But, for Neal, first things were first. Retrieving the refilled glass of whiskey he placed it to his lips, wondering in his increasingly tipsy state if he would be able to taste Andy's generosity in the drink, and flashed a glance over his shoulder towards the other man. The saloon girl draped over Andy's shoulders had regained his attentions, albeit with an irritated, coy pout and a grating request for affection--that wasn't going to go over well. "I'm thirsty, too," she whined, banking on her previous experiences that her porcelain doll-like appearance and youthful body would overwhelm any man against her entitlement. Neal rolled his eyes, nearly feeling sorry for the poor girl's efforts; her combination of spoiled sweetness was being wasted on Andy Skib. He wondered how his fellow King had ever become the master of gathering information and misdirecting the less knowledgeable about their outlaw gang: his apathy over his suitor was plastered all over his face like a mask.
With matching rolling eyes Andy finally paid notice to the girl, whom he barely recalled said her name was Carmen, though he could care even less than Neal about the particulars of his own woman of the evening. He bit his tongue, holding back the remark that he doubted they served chocolate milk at this establishment; her request was instead met with a marked silence, plainly informing her if she wanted Andy's favors, she had to earn it.
Carmen may have appeared young, but she was no stranger to this game: she had tougher customers than this one before, and sometimes it just took a little sampling for a man to decide he wanted to put down the hard cash for the night. Taking a page from Haley's book she pulled herself into Andy's lap, legs dangling over the side of the barstool as she gave him her most coquettish gaze, batting her eyelashes and running the tip of her tongue along her lips, like a lynx sizing up her next meal. Neal finally looked away from the pair once their lips met, Andy shrugging to himself as he snaked his arms around her waist, a probing tongue asking her mouth for entrance. It wasn't that Neal didn't have the stomach to watch Andy kiss this girl--he had seen far more before this night, had even handpicked a few throughout the years for Andy's gratification--but it was the indifference with which Andy kissed her, the passionless embrace that would lead to more later in the night. Neal didn't think he could stand seeing Andy in such a state without any passion or desire behind it, it just wasn't in him.
Instead he turned his attentions back to the woman in his lap, a new kind of fire flaring up in him. "What did you say about a room?" he asked, and Haley grinned.
***
Andy rationalized it: she was here. She was here, in his lap, pouting her lips and shimmying back and forth so delightfully, and here he was with nothing else to do at the Grove but partake in the very pleasures for which the saloon was renown. She wanted money and he had it in abundance from their last heist. Her lips were soft, her skin smooth, and he had nothing to hide tonight, the liquor in his blood granting him the courage to be extra daring. She was fairly nice to look at, if a bit young, and Andy discovered she wasn't nearly as irritating when her mouth was preoccupied with kissing him instead of talking.
Her youth masked her experience, Andy discovered, when he realized only after coming up for air that she was straddling him, maneuvering her body atop his in the barstool, modesty not something served at the saloon this late in the night. Carmen's body was warm and inviting against his, indeed, and he was having no trouble demonstrating that to her, the erection in his pants most probably the reason she had hoisted herself onto the stool in the first place. She certainly had all the elements he was looking for to unwind that night, to celebrate the Kings's successful heist, but something didn't feel right to him about this; something felt off, and he couldn't pinpoint what.
"God, you're amazing," she said seductively, the words meaning nothing more to her than her expert training at wrangling and keeping a man's attentions for the night. But to Andy, they meant so much more.
He held Andy through his shuddering aftershocks, stroking his hair, placing sated kisses on his skin when he could, refusing to retreat from Andy's body even after he had grown soft inside him. His limbs feeling impossibly heavy from exhaustion and satisfaction, Andy felt inclined to do little but pull himself in close to Neal, basking in his heady scent and falling into a peaceful, secure sleep to the sounds of his lover's beating heart. "God," he heard Neal whisper before drifting off, voice heavy with an emotion he couldn't define. "You're amazing."
Andy turned to his side and was greeted by an empty barstool. Without thinking he frowned; there wasn't much point to sexual conquest if there was no one around to boast to about it.
A flash of movement above him caught Andy's eye, and he saw Neal being led past the stairs and into one of the bedrooms on the second floor, his arm around Haley's waist as they disappeared behind a painted door, one of her elegantly long legs kicking it closed behind them. Andy stared as though he could bore a hole through the door with his eyes, the din of the saloon and its rowdy patrons preventing him from hearing anything happening on the other side.
He was no idiot: he knew what happened on the other side of a prostitute's door. He had been on that side of the door many times before, and so had Neal, but this felt different somehow; his heart felt suddenly rejected, and lonely, despite the saloon girl currently straddling his lap.
"Where's my drink?" Carmen huffed, certain her little display so far had been worth at least that. After one lingering last look at the closed door above them, Haley and Neal's exploits behind it limited only by his imagination and Haley's flexibility, Andy returned his attentions to the coquettish girl atop his lap, arched an eyebrow in contemplation, and then promptly dumped her onto the Grove's floor.
***
He thought this was going to be a bit more enjoyable than it was turning out to be.
Neal sat on the edge of the thin mattress glancing down at the top of Haley's head with mild interest, in a room sparsely decorated with dried rose petals and scented oils, and other impersonal aphrodisiacs: tools of Haley's trade. Though the room was permanently Haley's--a true mark of her seniority at the Grove--nothing in the room was uniquely hers, save for a stack of letters she stashed away in a dresser drawer, her only memories of a long-lost fiancee in a life she left on a homestead in San Antonio years ago. She had to keep those, even if she never read them, if only for her own sanity: she had to have something that reminded her this world was real.
It would have been some use for Neal to have seen that, would have gone far in helping him humanize her and regard her as more than just another whore on her knees in front of him, just like the ones before, or the ones that would come after. But he hadn't seen them, and she had not shown them, and all that he saw in the room were the crumpled bank notes he scattered across her vanity, even more pathetic a decoration than the rose petals, and her head in between his legs, bobbing up and down on his cock like it was her job.
He groaned but from the irony, not from any pleasure Haley was supposed to give him; it was her job, and she wasn't even that good at it.
When they had first entered Haley's bedroom, the walk up to the second floor punctuated with coy giggles from the woman pretending to be demure when she was anything but, Neal had thrown down the money immediately, letting her know exactly what he was there for. He looked for no romance at the Grove and he didn't even need companionship: this was merely the quenching of a vice all men had, the pursuit and courtship sometimes more intriguing in itself than the actual sex. But tonight Neal dully went through the motions, not even bothering to undress her or himself as Haley beckoned him to the edge of the bed, the hand caressing his cock proficient yet impersonal, almost clinical about it. There was no chase, there was no dance; Neal didn't like anything to come too easily, not even this.
Closing his eyes and rolling his head back, he tried to imagine this was someone else; but the mouth sliding along his shaft was too small, the hair he tangled his fingers into too long, and it just wasn't the same.
Almost as if summoned on cue, the door inched its way open silently, the intruder to their private room unnoticed by both Neal, trying fruitlessly to take some pleasure out of this and make his payment worth it, and Haley, who was far too busy concentrating on other things. But instead of walking in the figure remained in the doorway, watching the scene before him, drinking in with delight the way Neal's fingers drummed against the mattress instead of clutching its edge, his other hand pressed against Haley's scalp, begging her to do something worthwhile.
Andy leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms against his chest, his expression giving away none of the thoughts running through his mind. It wasn't often he got to see Neal Tiemann from this vantage point.
The breeze that invited itself into the room was what brought Haley's attentions to the entrance, her skirts rustling in the wind as they splayed along the floor. Recognizing the man dressed all in black she smiled around Neal's cock, extricating herself sloppily with a noisy, wet pop. But her face was all business when she sat up straight, locking eyes with Andy, trying to look as presentable as a whore caught in the act ever could.
"It'll cost extra if you want the both of you," she announced; she may have been a prostitute but she was a business-savvy one, never allowing the worth of her unique commodity to be overlooked. Two in one night wasn't terrible, it wasn't anything she had never accomplished before; and besides, the other man appeared to be a high roller, spending money on his drinks throughout the night like they were water. Perhaps these boys were big tippers.
With a furrowed brow Neal opened his eyes, peering down to see Haley's attentions brought towards the door. He should have been surprised when his eyes met Andy's in the doorway, silently observing, an indifferent expression masking the amused smirk Neal knew he was dying to give. But their gazes locked, Neal getting lost in the darkened brown eyes that told him everything. If he was being truthful to himself, Neal knew he'd be meeting Andy in this room the moment he raised his glass to him in greeting.
Haley prattled on, not noticing the intense stare held above her head by the mysterious new man at the door and her client, a conversation of desire going on in midair, requiring no words; Haley had enough of those for the three of them. "I knew Carmen couldn't keep your attention," she gloated; Carmen's youthful appearance and attitude were always hits with older men looking for a girlish conquest, but this time she had aimed her bar too high. "You don't want a girl." She arched her back conceitedly, her own eyes doing nothing to conceal the greed for double her normal charge in case these two wanted to get frisky. "You want a woman."
Neal considered himself far too much of a gentleman to point out to Haley how her ignorance was so great it was almost laughable. Instead he tapped her on the top of her head none too gently, his expression devoid of any amusement. "Out," he ordered brusquely, no longer interested in what the woman had to sell. He may have thought himself a gentleman, but he wasn't a goddamn saint.
"Excuse me?!" Haley sat there shocked, offended that the outlaw would even think of kicking her out of her own bedroom--particularly since she hadn't even finished what she had been paid for. She never let it be said that she was a prostitute without integrity.
Sighing impatiently, Neal leaned back onto the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as if Haley were the intruder. "You heard me," was his retort, and nodded his head towards the door.
"This is my room."
"Yeah, and we need it." Cleverly Andy noticed Neal said nothing about what the two outlaws would need the bedroom for, but that was no concern of theirs; the girl could come to her own conclusions. Considering her brash, proud cluelessness, she'd probably assume they just needed a private room to speak in the saloon, a cloaked business meeting between cloaked men. Neal rolled his eyes at Haley's stubbornness; he had been used to not getting his way from early childhood, but he was impatient now, and in no mood to handle her temperament, and Andy was right there. "I already paid you," he noted, motioning towards the crumpled bills on the dresser.
Still Haley hesitated, more on principle than any solid bearing. Neal raised an eyebrow at her provocatively, his pants still undone and exposed, his legs spread wide and casual. She really should have left when he was being polite about it. "I hope you're not expecting me to romance you after that," he put on a lewd smile, running his hand down the front of his pants and stroking himself more for the effect than for pleasure. Even Haley couldn't hide her disgust at this, the disrespect of it all, and she got to her feet, storming out in frustration before thinking about maintaining the condition of her room. She hoped whatever business meeting two outlaws found themselves in wouldn't leave her room riddled with bullet holes, though at that moment she wasn't opposed to wishing those holes on either man. She breezed past Andy in the doorway, making no ladylike gestures of courtesy when she edged a shoulder into him deliberately, slamming the door behind her.
Andy assessed the room without taking his eyes off of Neal, his eyes giving away only what he wanted to reveal. Patiently he waited for Neal's gaze to lock with his again, a lazy, lounging glance that told him Neal was in no hurry; he could look upon Andy Skib any time he so desired. Neal's hand retreated from his crotch but he made no move to redress himself, and he snorted out a laugh at Haley's expense. Andy returned the sentiment with an unaffected smirk, mind instead on the way Neal's laugh rippled through his body, down the tense muscles in his forearms and even to his half-hard cock, yearning for the previous attention it was receiving.
"I told you," Andy said, dropping his chin and peering at Neal through the fringe of his dark hair. "The ladies in this here town...leave something to be desired."
There was certainly something Haley left Neal desiring. His hands smoothed out along the thin mattress, testing its resiliency. This wasn't the best bed in the West, worn and extremely well-used, with straw stuffing sticking out of its base, but Neal hadn't slept on anything besides the hard-packed earth for weeks and damn, this felt like heaven. "I can't tell you the better blowjobs I've gotten than this," he rolled his eyes, watching Andy carefully; who hadn't taken a step further into the room since Haley left. He was playing a game, Neal could tell, and all he wanted to do was stalk over there, cross the room with big, sweeping steps and brush Andy's hair out of those striking eyes. "Hell, I've given better blowjobs than this."
Andy would know--Andy was the only one to know, give his informed take on the matter--but he didn't let his own desire show on his face, only in the ragged breath he took in as Neal smirked at his own invitation and the sweat he felt forming on his palms. God, like it was his first time. Andy's eyes raked over Neal's body, each curve, each inch of skin so familiar to him even when clothed, and yet he could make Andy feel sixteen again with just a glance.
Their eyes locked again, Andy's lips slightly parted, the tiniest hint of a smile curving into the edges. The game was over. "Prove it."
***
This wasn't anywhere close to feeling like heaven.
In fact, David thought as he hovered overtop of Gina, feeling her body tense and then breathe out a pleasured sigh as he entered her, this felt more base than he had experienced in a long while. There was no fantasy to this encounter, no false notions of romance or displacement of lust like in the dime novels he would never admit to reading. They both knew what the other wanted, David a soft, warm bed for the night and a soft and warm body to go along with it, and Gina the due payment she would receive--and a bit of the notoriety, too, obtaining the all-important notch on her bedpost so she could boast about seducing the great outlaw even years after her sheets were cold. They were both more than willing to give these things to one another, an agreement more along the lines of a business proposition than a courtship, though neither had much experience with the latter. He granted her soft caresses of his naked skin and heady, swoonful sighs that must work wonders on the disillusioned, and she allowed him to kiss tenderly against her neck, lick curves along her collarbone as if he really loved the woman.
The tiny room itself, like a runaway stagecoach hurtling its way towards doom, was pushing David towards this feeling of earthiness, reality so ingrained into the wood, like old paint, it was suffocating. Gina seemed to keep the place as neat as she could, but there was no mistaking the atmosphere, the thick air of other men in this room, in this bed. All around him--even in the way Gina arched into his touch, how she had expertly undressed and disarmed him, guided him to her by the cock, with little surprise and even less trepidation--he was reminded of how he wasn't the first man to be here, nor would he be the last.
He wasn't the first man here, holding her naked frame close to his, each curve accented in the moonlight streaming in through the window. He knew right away she was no newcomer to passion, felt it instantly in the way she opened up to him, unfolding her legs when his hands asked, requested, longed for the heat he found between them.
"There was a cowboy...once," Kelly revealed later, when the rest of the world was quiet and he was trying to memorize the curves of her body on touch alone. "Was rustling through from Mexico. Sweetest damn smile you'd ever see." He gave her his own take on a toothy grin, and it sent her into stitches; he could feel the vibrations of her laughter all over her body. "He left after about two weeks, never heard from him again. Thought I was really in love that time."
The wistful look on her face, cold from more than the bluish moonlight cast against it, sent a shudder through his body. He curled an arm around her waist, trailing kisses along her neck and whispering her name against the flesh, promising himself he'd write though he never even told her he wouldn't stay, like her cowboy. There had been someone else in that bed before with her, but as far as they both were concerned, this night was all that mattered.
David dug his fingers into the mattress, pushing himself deeper into Gina and using sensation alone as a guide: her creamy, pale skin and full lips made her far from ugly, but the less David saw her, caught her eye during sex, the better. Burying his face in the hollow of her neck, he inhaled deeply the smell of skin scrubbed smooth and scented with musk, Gina's daily ritual that kept her popular among the male visitors of the Grove and, thus, kept her career in check.
The clean smell of perfumed soap upon her startled him, made him see more red than the paper lanterns in the great parlor: he snapped his hips suddenly, thrusting into her with more force than either expected. Gina let out a cry, though from shock or from pleasure David didn't know and couldn't care; he wanted to apologize, but his heart still raced with an illogical anger, the scent a reminder to him whose bed he was in, and whose he was not.
Kelly's hair had smelled of rich tobacco smoke filtering through the Breakaway Saloon, her skin like deep sunsets and honest sweat. She had been real.
She knew about their infamy, how David and the others lined their pockets with enough cash to attempt taking her on in a poker game, that was clear enough to David; but she never spoke about it, never let it cloud her judgment towards the charming, humbly handsome man she couldn't take her eyes off of. And she didn't let it rule her thoughts when she took him to her bed, so late in that first night David saw no lamp lights on the horizon for miles, the entire state of Texas in slumber, leaving the couple alone to their devices.
"I've killed people," he admitted as Kelly worked on the buttons of his shirt, unhooking each one to reveal new, desired expanses of skin. Her hands ran beneath the fabric, anxious to touch, and David groaned when her thumb brushed against a nipple; he had never been with a woman so forward before, not even the saloon girls he had encountered who were paid to be forward.
"They probably deserved it," she said breezily, focused on the task at hand. She slid his shirt from his shoulders, running her fingers along his biceps, silently asking him to do the same.
His fingers worked independent from his brain, not bothering to wait to make up his mind before revealing the smooth skin of her shoulders, the warmth of her breasts that he was sure were his own imagination, she simply couldn't be real. "We all have," he insisted, reaching out to cradle one in his palm, feeling its weight and massaging the nipple until it grew erect from his touch, Kelly's head rolling back in pleasure. "Shot them dead. Neal has, and Andy--"
"I really don't want to talk about your friends right now," she groaned, hands already on his belt, careful not to disturb his revolver. The brush of her fingers against the bulge in his pants, even through the fabric, reminded him that he didn't really want to talk about them, either.
It wasn't until they were both undressed, his hands sweeping over her curves, no longer under the supervision of his mind, that he stopped himself again, only moments before a point of no return. "I'm not a good guy," he said, his conscience winning out over his desires. His cock lingered at her entrance, feeling her heat radiating against him, the closeness teasing them both.
A hand came up to caress his cheek, and pressing beyond his self-deprecation and shame he looked into Kelly's eyes; with long shadows cast over her soft features in the moonlight and her hair splayed across her pillow, cheeks flushed with arousal, David thought she looked like an angel. A whiskey-swilling, poker-mastering, foul-mouthed vixen of an angel. "You ain't just good," she whispered, shaking her head and pulling him closer, waiting for him to bridge that final gap. "You're the best."
It wasn't just Gina's scent, or the way she knew the exact methods in bed to make a man melt--her efforts, how she arched her back underneath him to draw David closer, the leg hooked around his hip, seemed almost preternatural but he knew came from years of training and experience. She certainly could have, and probably routinely did, turn the heads of men from all over the state, perhaps even all the West, with her dark, alluring hair, comely looks and brazen attitude men often saw as a challenge, like an unbridled horse begging to be captured, tamed. David raked his hands over her body, letting his more primal instincts take over, feeling the mounting pleasure in his gut as his fingers ran across flesh, knowing for all her pride Gina was already tamed by her profession.
But it was clear to him, in every way possible, from the nails scraping against his back to the seductive words she purred into his ear, that she wasn't her, and she never would be.
When he came, eyes shut tightly to both avoid and embrace the images of dark blond hair and hazel eyes swimming in his vision, David gritted his teeth, holding himself back from calling out the name that was on his lips. His energy quickly drained and his limbs like leaden weights, he shivered atop her and Gina held him like she had so many other men, the strongest and boldest of them like stuttering infants after she was through with them.
"David fucking Cook of the notorious Kings," she mused with a satisfied smirk, leg running up and down his calf, one of the few times she was ever giddy to feel the weight of a man settle overtop her. He could almost feel her humming, see her reminiscing on this one night once she was hunched and gray while all he wanted to do was forget. "Wait'll the girls hear about this one. Nobody's going to believe it."
He told her things that night he had never spoken to another being, secrets not even Neal nor Andy knew, had not even whispered them to Sugarfoot in case the wind kicked up his words and sent them across the plains. The sheets of Kelly's bed kept his secrets well, the soft linen tucking them in along with the couple, who feared nothing between them except the coming of the dawn.
"Never wanted to travel, really," he said as he stroked her hair, his mind more on its unimaginable softness instead of his own words. "Would be happy staying in one place, a house of my own; maybe even a farm, though I don't know a damn thing about chickens and I bet they don't know a damn thing about me." His laugh resounded in his chest; Kelly rested her head against it, entranced by the vibrations.
The laughter subsided, and was replaced with a sad longing Kelly had never thought the outlaw would have in him. "Andrew was the one who wanted to go places," he said softly; he always remembered his younger brother as he last saw him, wishing David safe passage for his routine trip into town with a mock salute, disappointed he couldn't join his brother but taking pride in being named the man of the house until David returned. Andrew had only been fourteen, and just traveled so far as the railway station in Blue Springs during its opening, boasting that one day he'd take that train as far as the oceans, see the country as a blur underneath its tracks. But that was more than two years ago now, a fact David felt with every muscle in his body, every memory that slowly eroded with time. God, Andrew had only been fourteen.
It wasn't the most romantic pillow talk in the world but there was much more to it than that. Kelly felt the weight of his words in David's chest, a building pressure of emotions he never let out, never allowed himself to, until this moment. She liked to think that he needed simply to say these things aloud rather than to her; he needed an outlet or else he'd burst like a swelled dam, wrecked and just as devastating. She pressed her fingers against the cherry red heart tattooed against his breast, dripping blood as if the very organ were weeping. Her own heart had tearful secrets, too.
"Things don't always make sense in this world," she said, almost feeling the tightness coil inside David through his skin. Tilting her head up to meet his eyes, Kelly saw a glassy sheen where there had been intelligent wit and lightness before; unshed tears of mourning, something she was more than versed in herself. "And sometimes, things happen and it just don't seem fair. But everything's got its own reason, its own purpose--even if you can't see it right away." She smiled, thinking of those words given to her as comfort, and now she tried to give them in kind. "My daddy lives by those words...guess he has to, some days."
David lifted her chin lightly with his hand, eyes asking for clarification. "My mama--" she bit her lip; even after all these years it was too painful to give it that final sentence, that permanence. Her shoulders sagged, and David held her tighter to him, his heart feeling strained and full for an entirely different reason than before. "Typhoid. I was only nine at the time. Broke my daddy's heart, but he tried not to show it much; still had a little girl to raise. He's taught me everything, he has; smart enough to found this whole town, keep it running even when the cows seem like they're gonna overrun the place." She smirked then, thoughts of her father and his good nature, his good intentions, much closer to her heart than memories of her mother's tortured last days.
"Is he the one who taught you not to wear a skirt?" David joked, the laughter back in his eyes, creasing the skin at their corners as he ran a hand down Kelly's side, tickling the flesh there and pulling her in closer. His body was almost ready for another round, his heart already there.
Kelly nodded, desire already burrowing itself back in underneath her skin along with something else, a deeper emotion she had not felt since that one cowboy many years ago, and thought she'd never feel again. "'You only need to dress up for your wedding and your funeral'," she recited her father's words, who was equally a man of the land as he was a man of books. "That's what my daddy always says. Though I'd hope either man I meet at those occasions would take me in blue jeans as well as a dress."
Pressing his smiling lips to her temple, David wanted to say how he'd take Kelly in any capacity, as princess or beggar, cowgirl or maid. So long as he could touch her like this, feel her, listen to the sound of her laughter like bluebirds in spring...he didn't give a damn about anything else. But these feelings felt too fresh, too soon; he didn't want to disappoint her like her cowboy. Never. "Who's your daddy?" he asked with a wink, rewarded with that laugh he never knew how he lived without.
Her answer startled him but he made certain she couldn't notice, forgetting Kelly was the one to call out the outlaws in the first place. He couldn't hide anything from her. "He owns the bank."
Chapter 7, part one
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: I have been working on this story for the past seven months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it :D What started out as a fledgling idea grew to be a huge AU and I'm very grateful to share it with you. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
"You sure pick some of the damnedest friends." - Luke Short to Bat Masterson, after killing Masterson's friend Charlie Storm
Another nameless town along the endless plain, built with hard labor on the bones of peoples who existed before time, developed now as a haven for wayward pilgrims and travelers and the thieves that preyed upon their naivety. Another heist, executed perfectly with the added security of an additional lookout on their hands. Although Kyle's presence and skill shaved off precious seconds from their getaway, David felt the drudgery of this lifestyle, eating away at his years, wishing he could be somewhere else. Another saloon filled to its timber rafters with low-lifes and whores, the West's den of debauchery. David no longer cared to wonder if he'd ever be surprised with immaculate floors and Spanish oak furniture; he almost expected the opposite now, always wondering if that bar, that woman, that entire town had somehow been a trick of his mind, a mirage.
But this was not the time for brooding over the past; he had done enough of that recently, dreaming away the hours on a life that could have been. He even recognized that his inaction was noticed by the rest of the Kings, their newest member keenly and enthusiastically observant; a quality David liked about Kyle, endeared him to the greenhorn in most aspects besides his personal life. Every man needed some time to themselves, to sort out their thoughts without the scrutiny of others at their backs, but David's respite for contemplation had overstayed its welcome among the outlaws, and as the leader of the Kings it was his responsibility to maintain the morale of the others, even if it was at the cost of his own.
This, he thought, as he slung an arm around Kyle's shoulders, the smell of stale liquor and the sound of a wild, roaring party welcoming them, this is a time for celebration.
No one paid any mind to the outlaws walking into a rowdy tavern, just as David had expected: the report from Andy, who had rode ahead one day in search of a town with a low tolerance for rumors and an even lower standard of morals, was accurate as it had always been. This was a den full of thieves and robbers, though none with such a reputation as the Kings, and it proved to be the perfect place to blow off a little steam--in more ways than one. Andy had also reported that the saloon girls here in town--little more than a row of weather-beaten shanties surrounding the saloon simply called the Grove--weren't of the highest quality, but they were plentiful and quite friendly. Neal had raised an eyebrow at this news but stayed silent while Joey clapped his hands together and gave out a whoop; Kyle grinned as usual, once again trying to hide his excitement but failing, ready to experience the one fringe benefit to the outlaw life he had yet to discover.
And David...David wished he could say he held the higher ground, was the better man because of it, but the letter that burned a hole in his shirt pocket left desire burning in him somewhere else, and while he was a man with a deep love in his heart, he was still just a man.
From the look on Kyle's face as they entered the saloon, the kid had never been to a place such as this, entranced by its halfhearted attempts at exoticism and decadence, the delicate paper lanterns dotting the ceiling and black and red lacquer wall decorations fooling no one. The floorboards were stained with old blood, final, lasting reminders from former patrons, and etched into the Grove's permanence with a thick layer of spilled liquor, inadvertently polishing the floor to a respectable sheen. The colored lanterns cast the entire saloon in a deep red glow, its inhabitants shifting through the room like souls from Hell, the darkened lights disguising any physical deformities of saloon girl and patron alike. It was like spying the sky right before a dangerous morning thunderstorm, deep reds a warning to everyone around: abandon all virtue, ye who shall enter here.
"This is quite a place," David commented, taking Kyle's wide-eyed wonder as his response. Even he had to admit, for a brothel in the middle of nowhere, with wild men and outlaws its most loyal patrons, the Grove outdid itself in its appearance; most places didn't even bother to whitewash the walls as decoration, their proprietors content in leaving the wood bare. The furniture in the main room, he noticed--tables and chairs set up for poker, benches lining the back walls with old cushions worn to the stuffing for private, lustful conversations--was painted a gaudy black, and looked nothing like sturdy, Spanish-crafted oak. A stairway behind the bar led to a second floor filled with mousehole-like bedrooms, a maze of stiff mattresses, strong perfumes and writhing bodies, a paradise for the paying customer.
Joey, already eyeing the human merchandise on display underneath the red lights, threw an arm overtop David's, each outlaw flanking Kyle's sides. "Work hard," he said, thumbing a wad of bank notes in his hand, his take from their latest heist. "Play hard."
He left them quickly, eager to be parted with his cash in the many methods the Grove had to offer him. The payouts for each King after a heist, now split five ways instead of merely four, were never large but they were always quite enough; Kyle's share for Fox Canyon alone was more money than he had ever held in his hand before, and the loot added from each heist was more than he could imagine. Each outlaw had their own vices they liked to indulge in that depleted their coffers a bit, but Joey's were indeed the most decadent, and the most expensive. David had discovered immediately after their first heist with Joey that he enjoyed gambling, placing bets on any game one could pass in a saloon, raising the stakes of his poker and blackjack games high and keeping them there--and typically losing. Much like his history before joining the Kings, Joey never spoke about his massive losses, and David never asked, but he always suspected the latter might have led to the former--and wondered if whatever, or whomever, chased Joey Clement out of Arizona would come back to haunt them all.
But for now, the air was calm, the ground underneath them docile and the other thieves and drifters in the saloon apathetic to their presence. This was a time for fun, not the worries of a leader David always placed upon himself. "Go on, Kid," he implored Kyle, jutting his chin out to the scene before them. "Have a ball."
Like a child let loose in a confectioner's shop and given free reign, Kyle took a hesitant step forward as if approaching a deer or rabbit for the kill, careful not to startle the saloon lest it disappear. But before he took his full leap into the revelry, David's hand clamped down on his shoulder again, much stronger than before, and with more purpose than a friendly gesture. The outlaw's face was serious when Kyle looked back, his eyes shifting throughout the room and landing on the bar at the far end of the saloon. "If you approach Andy," he instructed, leaning in close to Kyle's ear, making sure they were the only two hearing this conversation. "Make sure he approaches you first. Keep it light, but not too friendly. Always follow his lead; if he thinks you're being watched, then you don't know him, and you never have."
David's directions were stern and odd, but immediately Kyle understood their necessity; this may have been a den of thieves but they were indeed not friends. The Grove was meant to be pure relaxation and enjoyment for the Kings but they always had to remember that Andy's identity and his role as the shadow of the outlaw gang were kept hidden from all, that revealing he was even associated with the Kings could spell disaster in their next heist. The climate of the saloon seemed to be that of indifference to everyone's business but one's own, but they could never be too confident or too careless.
His gaze followed David's over to the bar, noticing a familiar blond ordering a stiff drink, settling himself down in a barstool. "What about Neal?" he asked. When they had arrived, the sharpshooter had made a beeline to the shelves of poor quality liquor, the reflection of red light off the bottles illuminating the bar, serving as a beacon to those looking to satisfy their thirst.
The hand on his shoulder gave a light squeeze; David's indication not to take the question further. "Neal knows what he's doing," he assured him, an answer David commonly gave to questions concerning Neal Tiemann: intimidating at best to those that did not know him well, Neal had the temperament of a loner who was never alone, his words parsed but meaningful and his actions all his own.
Kyle watched as Neal waited patiently for his drink, the man of few words seeming to feel right at home in a den of voices and sounds, the constant buzz of noise soothing what Kyle had considered his naturally irritable nature. Neal's head turned to survey the saloon's surroundings, first one way and then the other, catching the eye of the younger man seated on the stool next to him. He gave the man a solemn nod of recognition, watching his large, expressive brown eyes carefully; the tension in his bones relaxing when Andy returned the nod, raising his glass to Neal in greeting with a hint of a smile on his lips so faint only Neal could recognize it. The young saloon girl draped over Andy's shoulders, chatty and round-faced, pouty painted lips as she tossed back long blond hair, distressed that her prospective client seemed to have suddenly lost interest.
David's arm around Kyle's shoulders was quickly replaced by a slender, more feminine arm, adorned with an elaborate tattoo far more pleasing to Kyle's sensibilities than the unblinking eye on David's wrist. The body that belonged to the arm was also more enjoyable than David Cook: its slenderness continued throughout the young woman's frame, down her petite hips and long legs thinly veiled with a sheer petticoat, an obvious marker of what kind of attention she was seeking at the Grove. The fair skin underneath her ink was flawless, Kyle would have remarked had his brain been functioning correctly, and while her loose bun of blond hair inferred modesty, her striking blue eyes and the sly smile upon red lips told him otherwise.
"You look lost," she supplied, leaning over Kyle's frame, low-cut cleavage pressing against his shoulder. "Is this your first time?"
Her breath against his ear felt nothing like a summer breeze, her voice comparable more to a crow's caw than a bluebird's song, but Kyle was instantly smitten, his face awash with startled attraction. David mused that perhaps everything to Kyle Peek received some kind of shocked wonderment. Kyle nodded, his eyes wide and miraculously on the saloon girl's face instead of other points south, before quickly attempting to correct himself. "I mean, not my first time, it's my first time with you...damnit, here! I mean my first time here..." His face grew redder than the paper lanterns, and he shrugged sheepishly, unable to form any sort of excuse for his awkwardness. "Never been to Utah before."
David could do nothing more than put his head in his hands, palm making full contact with face, and try not to drop dead from laughter. The kid was hopeless, it seemed, and David wondered if it really was Kyle's first time with a woman; he couldn't fathom how he got anywhere close enough to a girl with that lovingly pathetic display. But this girl didn't mind, had not been fazed in the least, Kyle's pocketful of bank notes more of a motivator than his self-humiliating charm. When David looked up again through his fingers, the blond had maneuvered Kyle away from the entrance and over to one of the benches lining the walls, perkily introducing herself as Megan.
"Nice to meet you, ma'am," he overheard Kyle reply, employing the courtesy and politeness David bet Mama Peek never thought her sweet son would be using to address a prostitute. Hell, if the kid had a hat on, he'd probably be tipping it to her, too. "I really like your tattoos," he observed, pointing to Megan's arm, her shoulder covered in intricate ink, the grin on his face in hopeful anticipation that he might get closer to examine its contents.
With a chipper squeal that came more from instinct than the prospect of finding a client for the night, Megan took both of Kyle's hands in hers, eyes lighting up with excitement. "Really?" she asked, her smile nearly breaking free of her face when Kyle nodded his head enthusiastically, dying to talk more. "I got them from a woman who used to live here, took care of us girls better than we do ourselves. We used to call her 'Mama;' I think the designs come all the way from Africa." David watched as Kyle, that sly, genius kid Kyle, reached over to tuck a strand of Megan's hair behind her ear that had become loose from her bun, inching himself closer, the hand coming to rest on Megan's shoulder. Maybe the kid wasn't as clueless as David thought. "Wanna see the other ones she did for me?"
Before Kyle even had a moment to nod his assent her legs were already off the ground, feet waggling in Kyle's face. "She did the tops of my feet, too," she enthused, hiking one of her elegantly long assets atop Kyle's shoulder, the other coming to rest at his hipbone, Megan virtually seating herself in his lap. The hint of suaveness David thought he saw in Kyle was obliterated by these new developments, and the kid was startled to immobility, body so stiff one would assume Megan was cozying up to a lifelike statue. Always expressive, Kyle gave away his shock all over his face, eyes large and unblinking, jaw dropped so wide open David bet he could throw grapes into it even from ten feet away.
There was little David could do but shake his head and laugh; he was sure Kyle would laugh along with him eventually, when the embarrassment of being shown up by a saloon girl cooled and his blushed red cheeks returned to their original pallor. Work hard, play hard, David reminded himself of Joey's motto, the outlaw who had already found himself in the thick of a blackjack game, a glass of gin in one hand and the backside of a leggy brunette in the other. He looked on with some mild interest as Megan leaned in, ever flexible, and whispered to Kyle that if he followed to her private room upstairs--and for an inevitable fee--she'd show him where on her body her more discreet tattoos were located.
"It looks like she's taken."
David spun around, shocked he had been taken by such surprise, and found himself face to face with expanses of voluptuous, milky-white flesh, intelligent eyes ringed with kohl, and smirking red lips. Taken by surprise by a woman, no less; some infamous outlaw, he berated himself. "Oh, I wasn't interested in her," he explained, watching the self-satisfied smirk widen on the woman's face, with a much keener interest than he had been watching Kyle with his saloon girl.
She nodded her head over to the couple, who were giggling to each other as Kyle's fingers ran over her tattooed shoulder and Megan toyed with wisps of his shoulder-length hair. "Well, you were looking," she called him out brazenly, unafraid of losing a prospective client or making an enemy. "And if he's what you're interested in, we don't sell it."
He couldn't help but grin at the absurdity, a light chuckle deep in his lungs building and coming out from his mouth a loud, encouraging laugh. "That is certainly not what I'm interested in, I assure you," he said, spying the blond draped around Andy and a smiley, thin woman with deep slits up her skirts vying for Neal's attention; he wondered if those girls bothered to ask them the same question. He narrowed his eyes at the woman before him, his playful streak winning out. "You've got quite a mouth on you, don't you?"
"I take that as a compliment, thank you." She quickly looked away, regarding the paper lanterns as terribly interesting, trying not to reveal to David in her eyes that she wasn't usually the receiver of compliments. "Life's too short not to speak up once in a while," she mused, folding her arms across her chest in contemplation. Life was too short to spend it in a whorehouse, David thought to himself, but he, unlike this woman, wasn't looking to ruffle any feathers. "Can't say I've ever really lived if I've never had anything to regret, right?"
The lives he had taken with his revolver to save his own skin; each bank robbery that now became more mundane routine than excitement or necessity. The reason he had tracked that lawman down so many years ago and flung himself gun-first into the life of an outlaw. Leaving Burleson, Texas, and the young card shark behind in Sugarfoot's dust. "I've got a whole list of regrets," he noted, very ready to tack another onto that list.
She introduced herself as Gina, holding out her hand with the intention of shaking for an introduction. David instead took the hand he was given, upturned it in his own, and pressed his lips to the palm. The intimacy of the kiss was not lost on Gina, whose fingers curled at the underside of his chin, tangling themselves in a short-cropped beard. He didn't need to lay the charm on thick tonight, not in a den full of women he was sure reacted more favorably to gold than sweet words, but this woman had a quick wit and intelligence in her eyes that endeared her to David. Made him think of another girl he had met in a saloon, who had been far from the lifestyle of red lanterns and smeared makeup. "I'm David," he replied, squeezing her hand gently as he watched the color rush to her cheeks.
But her eyes were not on his, nor were they characteristically on the wad of bank notes in his shirt pocket; Gina's attentions were caught by the distinctive and detailed tattoo of an unblinking eye on David's wrist, his reminder to himself that, whether guarded or safe, he was always being watched--both by good and by bad. And, ironically, it had become one of the very things the ones who were watching made notice to identify him. "David Cook," she supplied, the knowing smile spreading across her face wiping away his own, replaced with a tense, tight-lipped smirk. "You're one of the Kings gang, aren't you?"
The grip on Gina's hand tightened; even in a pleasure den, he could never be too secure. "Depends on who's asking," he said, the quick, emotionless turn of his voice a warning to anyone who had known, though dangerously few ever lived to repeat it. He was letting things go too quickly, revealing what he shouldn't. Perhaps he should have borrowed a bit of Andy's skepticism or Neal's distrust before he walked into the saloon.
He hadn't fazed Gina in the slightest; still smiling, she leaned in closer, until the ends of her black hair tickled against David's cheek. "I'm not gonna rat you out," she explained, unaffected by David's tight grip on her hand; she had experienced worse in this profession before, by men even more dangerous than David Cook, and not nearly as attractive. "No one here even cares, most have the same troubles as you. Just not quite as famous, rich--" she patted the shirt pocket at his breast, feeling both the sizable bankroll he kept there as well as Kelly's most recent letter. "Or handsome." The hand went up to stroke his cheek, Gina's fingers grazing against the stubble, and against his instincts David didn't pull away. It was so good to feel the touch of a woman against his skin again, and although he had been with many a saloon girl in his years in the West, it was refreshing--and a bit invigorating--to find one he could possibly have an intelligent conversation with as well. He could charm a woman easily into her bed, but rarely found anyone worth charming into their mind.
"I'm just an admirer," she said, breath tickling against David's ear.
Without thinking he was leaning into the touch, eyes locked onto Gina's, eager to enjoy in the nature of the Grove as his fellow Kings had already begun. "And just what is it that you admire?" he asked; he had found many a woman in the saloons dotting the West whose interests were sparked the moment they discovered his dangerous identity, the chance encounter of courting with the famed leader of the Kings only bested in excitement by bedding him. His reputation with the ladies of frontier towns had certainly improved along with the notoriety of their heists.
Gina had all the right answers, and she had them right when David wanted to hear them. "You," she answered simply, her dark eyes entrancing in the dim lights of the saloon, making David wish to forget his troubles in them, of the responsibilities that came with this infamy, and the woman he left behind because of it. For right now, all he wanted was to see how far his outlaw fame could take him.
***
Neal could vaguely recall the brunette gyrating on his lap was named Haley, but he would have had a better time remembering it had her name been scrawled across her cleavage.
It was most of what he saw of the woman, anyway, her tired-looking eyes and thin, smiling lips that first revealed her name not leaving as much of a lasting impression as the other physical characteristics she chose to showcase. Her legs were equally alluring, the deep slit in her skirts made for such an observation, and Neal felt almost obliged to make it, if only for the sake of her ruined petticoats. Haley leaned closer to Neal, the deep scent of rosewater in her hair, and whispered something he was sure was supposed to be enticing, but with her chest brought up closer like this, his chin almost pressed against the flesh, there wasn't much desire to concentrate on what she had to say.
Just as Neal had made a beeline for the barstool on his way into the Grove, Haley had made a direct route over to Neal, almost sensing the cash on him, just waiting to be spent. It had been a rather eventful night for the saloon but her own prospects had fallen through, each man she cozied up to ending up broke, surly, or too inebriated to make their way up the stairs. The fresh meat that came in late into the night--obviously outlaws, no one came to their poor excuse for a pleasure den unless there were no other options available--seemed eager to spend their money, and Haley was more than happy to take it from this man.
"What did you say?" Neal asked over the din of the crowd, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, with one hand on his glass of whiskey and the other securely around Haley's waist, making sure her ministrations didn't send her flying off his lap.
Haley wanted to frown--she hated being ignored, hated it, and in her line of work it usually meant the difference between having the money for a roof over her head and breakfast the next morning. But frowns also caused wrinkles, and unhappy clients, and those qualities were far more dangerous than an outlaw who wasn't paying attention. "I said," she leaned in a little closer, her voice a little louder. "You've got quite a grip there. You're pretty strong, ain't you?"
Nonchalantly Neal shrugged as he downed the last of his drink, spending more time placing the glass back onto the bar than caring about Haley's flirtations. He had heard her this time, though, and wasn't quite impressed: she was like every other saloon girl that passed his fancy throughout any town of the West, long-legged, coy and flirtatious to a fault, their names and the sensation of their bodies against him lost to his memory. But he smirked anyway, pretending to feel complimented just as Haley had pretended to be sincere about the compliment, and let his hand sweep down her body to squeeze a supple backside. "I suppose."
She wanted to whisper more, perhaps cause that hand of his to wander elsewhere along her frame, but Neal's attentions were already sidelined by the bartender, who had begun to refill Neal's empty glass instead of carting it away. He gave the bartender a quizzical look; he hadn't ordered another whiskey, though he wasn't going to refuse it once the liquid splashed into his glass. "Compliments of him," the gruff bartender answered, hiking a thumb to the right of Neal's barstool. The man hadn't even needed to go through the trouble; Neal already knew if someone had just bought him a drink at the Grove, it would be him.
"Enjoying yourself?" came the low voice dancing against his ear, the voice Neal had known in every capacity, heard every emotion inflected through the years. He heard playfulness this time, with a hint of deep lust, layered with inebriation. One of his favorite mixes.
He turned to his benefactor, who had a girl of his own vying for his affections--blond, and round-faced, a bit too fresh-faced for Andy's usual fare but this town seemed not to be for choosers. "Very much," he exaggerated over his shoulder, the glint in his eye matched in Andy's, daring each other to break this facade, knowing neither of them would. His night was going far from spectacularly: Haley could barely keep his attention, having no patience for her overused flirtations and flatteries, though her body and the way she had mastered its power were indeed captivating. She would certainly do for tonight, ideas of how to demonstrate that strength of his she liked to muse upon already running through his head.
Andy persisted, and the mere sound of his voice low in the saloon and the feel of his breath against Neal's skin enticed him more than anything Haley's body could have done. "You may fuck her tonight," he challenged, voice heard only by Neal as he intended, both of the saloon girls beside them too preoccupied with landing their clients to care about their closeness. The hint of a smile on Andy's lips came through even in his words, and Neal took it as a sign of assent, a mark of Andy giving him permission to do so. "But she'll never compare to me."
A jolt of shivers ran through Neal's body at the thought, the memory: Andy's full, kiss-swollen lips asking, pleading, his body hot and welcoming against Neal's, pulling him in closer, pulling him inside. He closed his eyes as his mind flooded with the images of Andy beside him, large eyes heavy-lidded with lust, then squeezed tight as he stuttered out a moan. Neal had to bite his lip to hold back his own moan right there in the saloon, teeth digging into the silver rings in his lip, shuddering as he remembered how tight Andy felt when Neal entered him, every time, how it felt to have every sense filled with him.
Neal hated to admit it to that smug little face he knew, even with his eyes closed, Andy wore, but he was completely right. Andy always was.
The touch of a warm, delicate hand brought him back to his senses, elegant fingers tracing against the outline of a hardening cock in his pants. Neal didn't even have to glance down to know those fingers were attached to a slender, feminine arm, belonging to the saloon girl in his lap; not the hand he had been hoping for. "Maybe we should take this courting somewhere else," Haley purred in Neal's ear, the tickling sensation of her breath far from the cool pleasantness of Andy's. She did not know nor care what the other man had whispered into Neal's ear; she was confident that for the rest of the night he was hers. "There's a room upstairs..."
But, for Neal, first things were first. Retrieving the refilled glass of whiskey he placed it to his lips, wondering in his increasingly tipsy state if he would be able to taste Andy's generosity in the drink, and flashed a glance over his shoulder towards the other man. The saloon girl draped over Andy's shoulders had regained his attentions, albeit with an irritated, coy pout and a grating request for affection--that wasn't going to go over well. "I'm thirsty, too," she whined, banking on her previous experiences that her porcelain doll-like appearance and youthful body would overwhelm any man against her entitlement. Neal rolled his eyes, nearly feeling sorry for the poor girl's efforts; her combination of spoiled sweetness was being wasted on Andy Skib. He wondered how his fellow King had ever become the master of gathering information and misdirecting the less knowledgeable about their outlaw gang: his apathy over his suitor was plastered all over his face like a mask.
With matching rolling eyes Andy finally paid notice to the girl, whom he barely recalled said her name was Carmen, though he could care even less than Neal about the particulars of his own woman of the evening. He bit his tongue, holding back the remark that he doubted they served chocolate milk at this establishment; her request was instead met with a marked silence, plainly informing her if she wanted Andy's favors, she had to earn it.
Carmen may have appeared young, but she was no stranger to this game: she had tougher customers than this one before, and sometimes it just took a little sampling for a man to decide he wanted to put down the hard cash for the night. Taking a page from Haley's book she pulled herself into Andy's lap, legs dangling over the side of the barstool as she gave him her most coquettish gaze, batting her eyelashes and running the tip of her tongue along her lips, like a lynx sizing up her next meal. Neal finally looked away from the pair once their lips met, Andy shrugging to himself as he snaked his arms around her waist, a probing tongue asking her mouth for entrance. It wasn't that Neal didn't have the stomach to watch Andy kiss this girl--he had seen far more before this night, had even handpicked a few throughout the years for Andy's gratification--but it was the indifference with which Andy kissed her, the passionless embrace that would lead to more later in the night. Neal didn't think he could stand seeing Andy in such a state without any passion or desire behind it, it just wasn't in him.
Instead he turned his attentions back to the woman in his lap, a new kind of fire flaring up in him. "What did you say about a room?" he asked, and Haley grinned.
***
Andy rationalized it: she was here. She was here, in his lap, pouting her lips and shimmying back and forth so delightfully, and here he was with nothing else to do at the Grove but partake in the very pleasures for which the saloon was renown. She wanted money and he had it in abundance from their last heist. Her lips were soft, her skin smooth, and he had nothing to hide tonight, the liquor in his blood granting him the courage to be extra daring. She was fairly nice to look at, if a bit young, and Andy discovered she wasn't nearly as irritating when her mouth was preoccupied with kissing him instead of talking.
Her youth masked her experience, Andy discovered, when he realized only after coming up for air that she was straddling him, maneuvering her body atop his in the barstool, modesty not something served at the saloon this late in the night. Carmen's body was warm and inviting against his, indeed, and he was having no trouble demonstrating that to her, the erection in his pants most probably the reason she had hoisted herself onto the stool in the first place. She certainly had all the elements he was looking for to unwind that night, to celebrate the Kings's successful heist, but something didn't feel right to him about this; something felt off, and he couldn't pinpoint what.
"God, you're amazing," she said seductively, the words meaning nothing more to her than her expert training at wrangling and keeping a man's attentions for the night. But to Andy, they meant so much more.
He held Andy through his shuddering aftershocks, stroking his hair, placing sated kisses on his skin when he could, refusing to retreat from Andy's body even after he had grown soft inside him. His limbs feeling impossibly heavy from exhaustion and satisfaction, Andy felt inclined to do little but pull himself in close to Neal, basking in his heady scent and falling into a peaceful, secure sleep to the sounds of his lover's beating heart. "God," he heard Neal whisper before drifting off, voice heavy with an emotion he couldn't define. "You're amazing."
Andy turned to his side and was greeted by an empty barstool. Without thinking he frowned; there wasn't much point to sexual conquest if there was no one around to boast to about it.
A flash of movement above him caught Andy's eye, and he saw Neal being led past the stairs and into one of the bedrooms on the second floor, his arm around Haley's waist as they disappeared behind a painted door, one of her elegantly long legs kicking it closed behind them. Andy stared as though he could bore a hole through the door with his eyes, the din of the saloon and its rowdy patrons preventing him from hearing anything happening on the other side.
He was no idiot: he knew what happened on the other side of a prostitute's door. He had been on that side of the door many times before, and so had Neal, but this felt different somehow; his heart felt suddenly rejected, and lonely, despite the saloon girl currently straddling his lap.
"Where's my drink?" Carmen huffed, certain her little display so far had been worth at least that. After one lingering last look at the closed door above them, Haley and Neal's exploits behind it limited only by his imagination and Haley's flexibility, Andy returned his attentions to the coquettish girl atop his lap, arched an eyebrow in contemplation, and then promptly dumped her onto the Grove's floor.
***
He thought this was going to be a bit more enjoyable than it was turning out to be.
Neal sat on the edge of the thin mattress glancing down at the top of Haley's head with mild interest, in a room sparsely decorated with dried rose petals and scented oils, and other impersonal aphrodisiacs: tools of Haley's trade. Though the room was permanently Haley's--a true mark of her seniority at the Grove--nothing in the room was uniquely hers, save for a stack of letters she stashed away in a dresser drawer, her only memories of a long-lost fiancee in a life she left on a homestead in San Antonio years ago. She had to keep those, even if she never read them, if only for her own sanity: she had to have something that reminded her this world was real.
It would have been some use for Neal to have seen that, would have gone far in helping him humanize her and regard her as more than just another whore on her knees in front of him, just like the ones before, or the ones that would come after. But he hadn't seen them, and she had not shown them, and all that he saw in the room were the crumpled bank notes he scattered across her vanity, even more pathetic a decoration than the rose petals, and her head in between his legs, bobbing up and down on his cock like it was her job.
He groaned but from the irony, not from any pleasure Haley was supposed to give him; it was her job, and she wasn't even that good at it.
When they had first entered Haley's bedroom, the walk up to the second floor punctuated with coy giggles from the woman pretending to be demure when she was anything but, Neal had thrown down the money immediately, letting her know exactly what he was there for. He looked for no romance at the Grove and he didn't even need companionship: this was merely the quenching of a vice all men had, the pursuit and courtship sometimes more intriguing in itself than the actual sex. But tonight Neal dully went through the motions, not even bothering to undress her or himself as Haley beckoned him to the edge of the bed, the hand caressing his cock proficient yet impersonal, almost clinical about it. There was no chase, there was no dance; Neal didn't like anything to come too easily, not even this.
Closing his eyes and rolling his head back, he tried to imagine this was someone else; but the mouth sliding along his shaft was too small, the hair he tangled his fingers into too long, and it just wasn't the same.
Almost as if summoned on cue, the door inched its way open silently, the intruder to their private room unnoticed by both Neal, trying fruitlessly to take some pleasure out of this and make his payment worth it, and Haley, who was far too busy concentrating on other things. But instead of walking in the figure remained in the doorway, watching the scene before him, drinking in with delight the way Neal's fingers drummed against the mattress instead of clutching its edge, his other hand pressed against Haley's scalp, begging her to do something worthwhile.
Andy leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms against his chest, his expression giving away none of the thoughts running through his mind. It wasn't often he got to see Neal Tiemann from this vantage point.
The breeze that invited itself into the room was what brought Haley's attentions to the entrance, her skirts rustling in the wind as they splayed along the floor. Recognizing the man dressed all in black she smiled around Neal's cock, extricating herself sloppily with a noisy, wet pop. But her face was all business when she sat up straight, locking eyes with Andy, trying to look as presentable as a whore caught in the act ever could.
"It'll cost extra if you want the both of you," she announced; she may have been a prostitute but she was a business-savvy one, never allowing the worth of her unique commodity to be overlooked. Two in one night wasn't terrible, it wasn't anything she had never accomplished before; and besides, the other man appeared to be a high roller, spending money on his drinks throughout the night like they were water. Perhaps these boys were big tippers.
With a furrowed brow Neal opened his eyes, peering down to see Haley's attentions brought towards the door. He should have been surprised when his eyes met Andy's in the doorway, silently observing, an indifferent expression masking the amused smirk Neal knew he was dying to give. But their gazes locked, Neal getting lost in the darkened brown eyes that told him everything. If he was being truthful to himself, Neal knew he'd be meeting Andy in this room the moment he raised his glass to him in greeting.
Haley prattled on, not noticing the intense stare held above her head by the mysterious new man at the door and her client, a conversation of desire going on in midair, requiring no words; Haley had enough of those for the three of them. "I knew Carmen couldn't keep your attention," she gloated; Carmen's youthful appearance and attitude were always hits with older men looking for a girlish conquest, but this time she had aimed her bar too high. "You don't want a girl." She arched her back conceitedly, her own eyes doing nothing to conceal the greed for double her normal charge in case these two wanted to get frisky. "You want a woman."
Neal considered himself far too much of a gentleman to point out to Haley how her ignorance was so great it was almost laughable. Instead he tapped her on the top of her head none too gently, his expression devoid of any amusement. "Out," he ordered brusquely, no longer interested in what the woman had to sell. He may have thought himself a gentleman, but he wasn't a goddamn saint.
"Excuse me?!" Haley sat there shocked, offended that the outlaw would even think of kicking her out of her own bedroom--particularly since she hadn't even finished what she had been paid for. She never let it be said that she was a prostitute without integrity.
Sighing impatiently, Neal leaned back onto the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as if Haley were the intruder. "You heard me," was his retort, and nodded his head towards the door.
"This is my room."
"Yeah, and we need it." Cleverly Andy noticed Neal said nothing about what the two outlaws would need the bedroom for, but that was no concern of theirs; the girl could come to her own conclusions. Considering her brash, proud cluelessness, she'd probably assume they just needed a private room to speak in the saloon, a cloaked business meeting between cloaked men. Neal rolled his eyes at Haley's stubbornness; he had been used to not getting his way from early childhood, but he was impatient now, and in no mood to handle her temperament, and Andy was right there. "I already paid you," he noted, motioning towards the crumpled bills on the dresser.
Still Haley hesitated, more on principle than any solid bearing. Neal raised an eyebrow at her provocatively, his pants still undone and exposed, his legs spread wide and casual. She really should have left when he was being polite about it. "I hope you're not expecting me to romance you after that," he put on a lewd smile, running his hand down the front of his pants and stroking himself more for the effect than for pleasure. Even Haley couldn't hide her disgust at this, the disrespect of it all, and she got to her feet, storming out in frustration before thinking about maintaining the condition of her room. She hoped whatever business meeting two outlaws found themselves in wouldn't leave her room riddled with bullet holes, though at that moment she wasn't opposed to wishing those holes on either man. She breezed past Andy in the doorway, making no ladylike gestures of courtesy when she edged a shoulder into him deliberately, slamming the door behind her.
Andy assessed the room without taking his eyes off of Neal, his eyes giving away only what he wanted to reveal. Patiently he waited for Neal's gaze to lock with his again, a lazy, lounging glance that told him Neal was in no hurry; he could look upon Andy Skib any time he so desired. Neal's hand retreated from his crotch but he made no move to redress himself, and he snorted out a laugh at Haley's expense. Andy returned the sentiment with an unaffected smirk, mind instead on the way Neal's laugh rippled through his body, down the tense muscles in his forearms and even to his half-hard cock, yearning for the previous attention it was receiving.
"I told you," Andy said, dropping his chin and peering at Neal through the fringe of his dark hair. "The ladies in this here town...leave something to be desired."
There was certainly something Haley left Neal desiring. His hands smoothed out along the thin mattress, testing its resiliency. This wasn't the best bed in the West, worn and extremely well-used, with straw stuffing sticking out of its base, but Neal hadn't slept on anything besides the hard-packed earth for weeks and damn, this felt like heaven. "I can't tell you the better blowjobs I've gotten than this," he rolled his eyes, watching Andy carefully; who hadn't taken a step further into the room since Haley left. He was playing a game, Neal could tell, and all he wanted to do was stalk over there, cross the room with big, sweeping steps and brush Andy's hair out of those striking eyes. "Hell, I've given better blowjobs than this."
Andy would know--Andy was the only one to know, give his informed take on the matter--but he didn't let his own desire show on his face, only in the ragged breath he took in as Neal smirked at his own invitation and the sweat he felt forming on his palms. God, like it was his first time. Andy's eyes raked over Neal's body, each curve, each inch of skin so familiar to him even when clothed, and yet he could make Andy feel sixteen again with just a glance.
Their eyes locked again, Andy's lips slightly parted, the tiniest hint of a smile curving into the edges. The game was over. "Prove it."
***
This wasn't anywhere close to feeling like heaven.
In fact, David thought as he hovered overtop of Gina, feeling her body tense and then breathe out a pleasured sigh as he entered her, this felt more base than he had experienced in a long while. There was no fantasy to this encounter, no false notions of romance or displacement of lust like in the dime novels he would never admit to reading. They both knew what the other wanted, David a soft, warm bed for the night and a soft and warm body to go along with it, and Gina the due payment she would receive--and a bit of the notoriety, too, obtaining the all-important notch on her bedpost so she could boast about seducing the great outlaw even years after her sheets were cold. They were both more than willing to give these things to one another, an agreement more along the lines of a business proposition than a courtship, though neither had much experience with the latter. He granted her soft caresses of his naked skin and heady, swoonful sighs that must work wonders on the disillusioned, and she allowed him to kiss tenderly against her neck, lick curves along her collarbone as if he really loved the woman.
The tiny room itself, like a runaway stagecoach hurtling its way towards doom, was pushing David towards this feeling of earthiness, reality so ingrained into the wood, like old paint, it was suffocating. Gina seemed to keep the place as neat as she could, but there was no mistaking the atmosphere, the thick air of other men in this room, in this bed. All around him--even in the way Gina arched into his touch, how she had expertly undressed and disarmed him, guided him to her by the cock, with little surprise and even less trepidation--he was reminded of how he wasn't the first man to be here, nor would he be the last.
He wasn't the first man here, holding her naked frame close to his, each curve accented in the moonlight streaming in through the window. He knew right away she was no newcomer to passion, felt it instantly in the way she opened up to him, unfolding her legs when his hands asked, requested, longed for the heat he found between them.
"There was a cowboy...once," Kelly revealed later, when the rest of the world was quiet and he was trying to memorize the curves of her body on touch alone. "Was rustling through from Mexico. Sweetest damn smile you'd ever see." He gave her his own take on a toothy grin, and it sent her into stitches; he could feel the vibrations of her laughter all over her body. "He left after about two weeks, never heard from him again. Thought I was really in love that time."
The wistful look on her face, cold from more than the bluish moonlight cast against it, sent a shudder through his body. He curled an arm around her waist, trailing kisses along her neck and whispering her name against the flesh, promising himself he'd write though he never even told her he wouldn't stay, like her cowboy. There had been someone else in that bed before with her, but as far as they both were concerned, this night was all that mattered.
David dug his fingers into the mattress, pushing himself deeper into Gina and using sensation alone as a guide: her creamy, pale skin and full lips made her far from ugly, but the less David saw her, caught her eye during sex, the better. Burying his face in the hollow of her neck, he inhaled deeply the smell of skin scrubbed smooth and scented with musk, Gina's daily ritual that kept her popular among the male visitors of the Grove and, thus, kept her career in check.
The clean smell of perfumed soap upon her startled him, made him see more red than the paper lanterns in the great parlor: he snapped his hips suddenly, thrusting into her with more force than either expected. Gina let out a cry, though from shock or from pleasure David didn't know and couldn't care; he wanted to apologize, but his heart still raced with an illogical anger, the scent a reminder to him whose bed he was in, and whose he was not.
Kelly's hair had smelled of rich tobacco smoke filtering through the Breakaway Saloon, her skin like deep sunsets and honest sweat. She had been real.
She knew about their infamy, how David and the others lined their pockets with enough cash to attempt taking her on in a poker game, that was clear enough to David; but she never spoke about it, never let it cloud her judgment towards the charming, humbly handsome man she couldn't take her eyes off of. And she didn't let it rule her thoughts when she took him to her bed, so late in that first night David saw no lamp lights on the horizon for miles, the entire state of Texas in slumber, leaving the couple alone to their devices.
"I've killed people," he admitted as Kelly worked on the buttons of his shirt, unhooking each one to reveal new, desired expanses of skin. Her hands ran beneath the fabric, anxious to touch, and David groaned when her thumb brushed against a nipple; he had never been with a woman so forward before, not even the saloon girls he had encountered who were paid to be forward.
"They probably deserved it," she said breezily, focused on the task at hand. She slid his shirt from his shoulders, running her fingers along his biceps, silently asking him to do the same.
His fingers worked independent from his brain, not bothering to wait to make up his mind before revealing the smooth skin of her shoulders, the warmth of her breasts that he was sure were his own imagination, she simply couldn't be real. "We all have," he insisted, reaching out to cradle one in his palm, feeling its weight and massaging the nipple until it grew erect from his touch, Kelly's head rolling back in pleasure. "Shot them dead. Neal has, and Andy--"
"I really don't want to talk about your friends right now," she groaned, hands already on his belt, careful not to disturb his revolver. The brush of her fingers against the bulge in his pants, even through the fabric, reminded him that he didn't really want to talk about them, either.
It wasn't until they were both undressed, his hands sweeping over her curves, no longer under the supervision of his mind, that he stopped himself again, only moments before a point of no return. "I'm not a good guy," he said, his conscience winning out over his desires. His cock lingered at her entrance, feeling her heat radiating against him, the closeness teasing them both.
A hand came up to caress his cheek, and pressing beyond his self-deprecation and shame he looked into Kelly's eyes; with long shadows cast over her soft features in the moonlight and her hair splayed across her pillow, cheeks flushed with arousal, David thought she looked like an angel. A whiskey-swilling, poker-mastering, foul-mouthed vixen of an angel. "You ain't just good," she whispered, shaking her head and pulling him closer, waiting for him to bridge that final gap. "You're the best."
It wasn't just Gina's scent, or the way she knew the exact methods in bed to make a man melt--her efforts, how she arched her back underneath him to draw David closer, the leg hooked around his hip, seemed almost preternatural but he knew came from years of training and experience. She certainly could have, and probably routinely did, turn the heads of men from all over the state, perhaps even all the West, with her dark, alluring hair, comely looks and brazen attitude men often saw as a challenge, like an unbridled horse begging to be captured, tamed. David raked his hands over her body, letting his more primal instincts take over, feeling the mounting pleasure in his gut as his fingers ran across flesh, knowing for all her pride Gina was already tamed by her profession.
But it was clear to him, in every way possible, from the nails scraping against his back to the seductive words she purred into his ear, that she wasn't her, and she never would be.
When he came, eyes shut tightly to both avoid and embrace the images of dark blond hair and hazel eyes swimming in his vision, David gritted his teeth, holding himself back from calling out the name that was on his lips. His energy quickly drained and his limbs like leaden weights, he shivered atop her and Gina held him like she had so many other men, the strongest and boldest of them like stuttering infants after she was through with them.
"David fucking Cook of the notorious Kings," she mused with a satisfied smirk, leg running up and down his calf, one of the few times she was ever giddy to feel the weight of a man settle overtop her. He could almost feel her humming, see her reminiscing on this one night once she was hunched and gray while all he wanted to do was forget. "Wait'll the girls hear about this one. Nobody's going to believe it."
He told her things that night he had never spoken to another being, secrets not even Neal nor Andy knew, had not even whispered them to Sugarfoot in case the wind kicked up his words and sent them across the plains. The sheets of Kelly's bed kept his secrets well, the soft linen tucking them in along with the couple, who feared nothing between them except the coming of the dawn.
"Never wanted to travel, really," he said as he stroked her hair, his mind more on its unimaginable softness instead of his own words. "Would be happy staying in one place, a house of my own; maybe even a farm, though I don't know a damn thing about chickens and I bet they don't know a damn thing about me." His laugh resounded in his chest; Kelly rested her head against it, entranced by the vibrations.
The laughter subsided, and was replaced with a sad longing Kelly had never thought the outlaw would have in him. "Andrew was the one who wanted to go places," he said softly; he always remembered his younger brother as he last saw him, wishing David safe passage for his routine trip into town with a mock salute, disappointed he couldn't join his brother but taking pride in being named the man of the house until David returned. Andrew had only been fourteen, and just traveled so far as the railway station in Blue Springs during its opening, boasting that one day he'd take that train as far as the oceans, see the country as a blur underneath its tracks. But that was more than two years ago now, a fact David felt with every muscle in his body, every memory that slowly eroded with time. God, Andrew had only been fourteen.
It wasn't the most romantic pillow talk in the world but there was much more to it than that. Kelly felt the weight of his words in David's chest, a building pressure of emotions he never let out, never allowed himself to, until this moment. She liked to think that he needed simply to say these things aloud rather than to her; he needed an outlet or else he'd burst like a swelled dam, wrecked and just as devastating. She pressed her fingers against the cherry red heart tattooed against his breast, dripping blood as if the very organ were weeping. Her own heart had tearful secrets, too.
"Things don't always make sense in this world," she said, almost feeling the tightness coil inside David through his skin. Tilting her head up to meet his eyes, Kelly saw a glassy sheen where there had been intelligent wit and lightness before; unshed tears of mourning, something she was more than versed in herself. "And sometimes, things happen and it just don't seem fair. But everything's got its own reason, its own purpose--even if you can't see it right away." She smiled, thinking of those words given to her as comfort, and now she tried to give them in kind. "My daddy lives by those words...guess he has to, some days."
David lifted her chin lightly with his hand, eyes asking for clarification. "My mama--" she bit her lip; even after all these years it was too painful to give it that final sentence, that permanence. Her shoulders sagged, and David held her tighter to him, his heart feeling strained and full for an entirely different reason than before. "Typhoid. I was only nine at the time. Broke my daddy's heart, but he tried not to show it much; still had a little girl to raise. He's taught me everything, he has; smart enough to found this whole town, keep it running even when the cows seem like they're gonna overrun the place." She smirked then, thoughts of her father and his good nature, his good intentions, much closer to her heart than memories of her mother's tortured last days.
"Is he the one who taught you not to wear a skirt?" David joked, the laughter back in his eyes, creasing the skin at their corners as he ran a hand down Kelly's side, tickling the flesh there and pulling her in closer. His body was almost ready for another round, his heart already there.
Kelly nodded, desire already burrowing itself back in underneath her skin along with something else, a deeper emotion she had not felt since that one cowboy many years ago, and thought she'd never feel again. "'You only need to dress up for your wedding and your funeral'," she recited her father's words, who was equally a man of the land as he was a man of books. "That's what my daddy always says. Though I'd hope either man I meet at those occasions would take me in blue jeans as well as a dress."
Pressing his smiling lips to her temple, David wanted to say how he'd take Kelly in any capacity, as princess or beggar, cowgirl or maid. So long as he could touch her like this, feel her, listen to the sound of her laughter like bluebirds in spring...he didn't give a damn about anything else. But these feelings felt too fresh, too soon; he didn't want to disappoint her like her cowboy. Never. "Who's your daddy?" he asked with a wink, rewarded with that laugh he never knew how he lived without.
Her answer startled him but he made certain she couldn't notice, forgetting Kelly was the one to call out the outlaws in the first place. He couldn't hide anything from her. "He owns the bank."
Chapter 7, part one