Outlaw's Prayer (ch. 9)
Title: Outlaw's Prayer (9/?)
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: NC/17
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), 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: This chapter, the start of Part 3 of the series (out of 3, so there's actually a light at the end of the tunnel!) is a little departure from what I've been writing, so I hope you're all okay with it. :D I have been working on this story for the past seven months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it. 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
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
Chapter 8
"The West, where a man can look farther and see less of anything but land and sky." - Will James
Kris Allen walked through the town with a sure and steady gait, gathering good mornings and respect from the passing townspeople more for the smile on his face than the badge on his chest. Matt Giraud, owner of the dry goods store, politely tipped his hat as he sent a toothy smile Kris's way, while Kristy Lee, the preacher's wife, nodded demurely as she escorted the children from their morning prayers to school. The town was awakening from its morning slumber, the New Mexico sun coming up strong as ever over the horizon but its warmth only encouraging residents to burrow themselves deeper into the covers, hoping for another five minutes of sleep. Though no farmer or cattle rancher, Kris found it best to rise early in the morning, a heavy sleeper by nature but maintaining vigilance even in slumber, training himself to awaken at the slightest call of trouble or the sound of a far-off gunshot, knowing that shot's owner might very well be gunning for his town. He was, after all, the best line of defense for the place he adopted as his home--and as far as he was concerned, the only line of defense.
He gave a pleasant morning greeting to Giraud--who always kept Kris far beyond the deputy's desire if he mentioned anything past the current day's weather--and courteously removed his wide-brimmed hat as Kristy Lee passed, the rush of morning air breezing through his hair, a northern-bound wind that told Kris the day would be a scorcher. Despite the years he had spent in the deserts of the West he still wasn't comfortable with the dry heat, oppressive on most days when cattle fainted and women swooned. Kris yearned for the summers of his Arkansas youth: humid, and sticky, but not so inhumanely hot the tumbleweeds caught aflame.
Harkening back to his youth was always a double-edged sword for Kris, who left his hat off and was already fanning the oncoming heat away from his face as he leisurely patrolled the street. The memories were fond ones, of crystal blue lakes he fished in with his father, the cornfields so high he could lose himself in them for hours; but it always brought the pangs of homesickness to his heart as well. He sent letters back home as often as he could and received them in turn, his brother Daniel regaling him with stories of the university and his mother reminding him to eat right, and they never failed to bring tears to his eyes, his desire for home overwhelming him in those moments. But it was the letters sent from his father, the first in particular, that stayed with him always, recalling both firmly and proudly that Kris left the comforts of home to find himself, to meet fortune, fame, or love, as he had always dreamed of doing as a boy.
Kris loved his family back in Arkansas, there was no question to his loyalty there; but he had a new family now, and it was every soul in the town he had sworn to protect.
Settling in the tiny yet growing town in the New Mexican territory was no accident; on the contrary, Kris always found time to include the anecdote when introducing himself, the long-time residents seeming to understand the place's attraction to the young man. With only a horse, his mother's pot roast and potatoes and the clothes on his back, Kris ventured out West to find his way, unclear to what he was searching for but certain only of the optimistic dream that he'd find it. The town's name itself called out to him, a clear path for an eager young man looking to make his mark not through riches or power but through good deeds and righteousness.
It was no wonder Kris found the town of Hope so endearing to him.
The name was quaint, and if one plied him with enough gimlets Kris would admit it was a tad on the corny side, but the town itself was quaint, and Kris would defend its humble nature to the death if he had to. It was a town of dreams, a town that held deeply onto its roots but hadn't been afraid to accept a fresh face like Kris into their fold, the young man transitioning from wide-eyed newcomer to a regular in the community in less than two years. Hope, not ironically, was built on the hope of its people, kept running on those aspirations and dreams; like steam fueling a locomotive, happily puttering towards its destination, hope let the town run forever.
"Everything all right?" He poked his head into the blacksmith's barn, only to be greeted by the enormous backside of a gray-haired gelding, almost as large as the enormous backside of the blacksmith. Kris took a step back as the horse swept his tail at the prone smith, irritated that the man was spending so much time and effort to repair his hind shoe.
The booming laugh of the portly man erupted from underneath the horse, the blacksmith too engrossed in his work to look up. "I've got to lodge a complaint with you, deputy!" he chuckled at his own upcoming joke, tight brown curls bouncing with his own laughter. "This fella here refuses to pay me! Says he's got no money and no pockets to keep 'em. Now," he carefully hammered the last nail into the horseshoe, releasing the leg gently and giving the gelding a comforting pat against its flank. "Is that any way to treat a humble cobbler?"
Stretching out to his full height and grinning, the blacksmith couldn't help but make Kris laugh, though not as enthusiastically as his company. The horse snorted, unpleased with the joke. "That's a lie," Kris narrowed his eyes, the smirk never leaving his lips. "Mister Sligh, you're no cobbler."
Chris Sligh threw up his hands in resignation. "You've caught me in my out-and-out lie, Deputy Allen," he claimed, as Kris went over to the gelding, giving him a warm welcome to his face. "It's not quite a crime, so it's out of your jurisdiction, but it is a sin, so I'll leave my fate up to a higher authority." He pointed to the roof though Kris hadn't paid attention, caring much more about the condition of the horse.
"My boy's doing well?" he asked, the familiar horse a much more welcome sight than the blacksmith.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of black soot in its wake, Sligh informed the deputy his Conway would be ready by the afternoon, a new set of shoes to accompany them both on their regular patrols of the area. Satisfied with the results, Kris gave a parting smile and goodbye to both backsides, continuing on his morning rounds. Though as a general rule--Kris gritted his teeth at the reminder that, as of late, it wasn't a de facto law--there wasn't much crime in the town to be had.
The opportunity had opened itself up to him like providence, like fate: a deputy position, a chance to make a difference in people's lives, and in a town that only required one slice of rhubarb pie and a glass of sweet tea to become enamored with. Though he had a fair amount of shooting lessons back home, Kris found himself to be more of a dozer than hunter, but the sheriff had only required his deputies to bring their own guns and horses, and to have a clear view of the laws of God and the territory. The sheriff who hired him--a bald man with an easy drawl and even easier grin--found common ground with Kris, discussing their shared literal shortcomings, and he had grown to be a close friend and confidante in the short time Kris had known him.
Quickly Kris blew on the two fingers on his right hand and made the sign of the cross. God rest Chris Daughtry's soul.
"Right hot day we're 'bout to have," he commented to two cowhands to a ranch nearby, settling early into town for feed and supplies. They both laughed hearty, well-natured chuckles, their tanned skin and the red New Mexico clay caking onto their clothes clear indications they were accustomed to the weather the territory had to offer.
"Ain't too bad, Dep," replied one of the men, his understatement already dampened by the sweat clinging to his long, blond locks underneath his hat. Kris almost expected the answer from Bucky, whom he had never seen face a day without a smile, tackling one of the most grueling jobs in the West without so much as a darkened thought or complaint. It was what Kris found so admirable about the frontier: there were hardships, more often endured alongside death and heartbreak, but the town always looked to the brighter side of life, eagerly turning towards the new day. Those who spat out the legends of opportunistic forty-niners and carpetbaggers hadn't yet encountered this town; his town, stocked with the salt of the Earth, people who loved their God, loved their land, and loved each other.
"Catch any outlaws today, Dep?" asked the other cowhand, a friendly face with hair as short as Bucky's was long, a rough layer of stubble upon his cheeks a stark contrast to the other man's sizable mustache.
Kris grinned; he expected that from Chris as well. "You should've been here yesterday, Richardson," he called out, already starting again on his daily patrol. "Caught myself a whole mess o' gunslingers. Wild Bill, Kid Longley, the whole Reno Gang; rounded them all up, was quite a sight. Pretty exciting," he joked, the answers all comfortingly routine.
But Bucky went off-script and grinned as they entered Giraud's store. "Maybe you'll catch the Kings today, eh, Kris?"
His smile went tight, then disappeared once Bucky and Chris were inside the store; he stopped for a moment to regain his composure, let the blood in his veins that just ran cold have some time to warm underneath the sun again. Normally the conversation ended there, a good-natured laugh among acquaintances, one small aspect of Kris's life in town that made up the whole. Kris always used the names of outlaws and gunslingers long dead in their quick, witty banter, the names of ghosts not nearly as threatening as the ones who still roamed the West searching for their next prey. Bucky meant no harm by the comment but it left the ground unsettled at Kris's feet, a dark steel trap cordoning off his sense of humor.
There were some far more superstitious folks in town who thought even saying the name of the Kings would invoke their presence, bring upon the destruction and death they lay in the wake of their horses wherever they went, no city too small, no town too safe. Kris always thought of himself as a more practical person than to believe in old wives' tales or toss salt over his shoulder, but he still didn't ever like the sound of that name in Hope. It was one thing to fear the gang of outlaws, to pray their shadows never graced the threshold of Hope, but if they ever did, Kris would be the one to take them down. From the stories he read in the newspapers, that was as good as a death sentence.
He needed something to lift his spirits quickly. The tiny red building sandwiched between the post office and the graveyard lightened Kris's heart, the heavy feeling of dread breaking like storm clouds at the sight of Hope's lone teacher greeting her students warmly outside of the schoolhouse, her smile beaming even from so far away.
Though Kris was friendly with everyone, a necessity for a deputy and particularly for a newcomer to Hope, there were few in the town he considered true friends, confidants; those that saw past the badge and cared to look for the man underneath. Hope's schoolmarm, a delightful woman with long, curly hair the color of sunshine and a sweet voice that calmed even the rowdiest of children, was one of them, declaring herself Hope's official one-woman welcome committee for the deputy and staying close ever since. Sheriff Daughtry had been another, growing close with the Arkansas native as he trained him, the nature of their work making them compatriots until the sheriff's sudden and untimely death.
"Morning there, Miss White," he called out as the schoolteacher ushered in the littlest children to the red schoolhouse by the hand.
Instead of receiving a shining grin as usual, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, slapping on a frown to cover her amusement. "How many times have I told you, Kris," she attempted a stern tone but the light in her eyes gave it away, and Kris wondered if her discipline ever worked on her students. "You, of all people, should be calling me Brooke."
His mouth quirked to the side as he approached, already the clenching in his gut over the thought of the Kings in his town melting away. "Not according to some folks, ma'am," he pointed out, both parties knowing how well-oiled Hope's gossip mill could be, the old women in the town appearing to have more sway than the sheriff. "Particularly if we're courting; wouldn't be proper if I did."
That certainly broke Brooke's stern expression: her face betrayed her facade and she grinned, the skin wrinkling at her eyes with repressed laughter. "Yes, courting," she emphasized, keeping her voice rather low and away from small, prying ears; she didn't need this conversation reaching the nosy parents of her students. News of the quick and close friendship the two shared had eventually reached the eyes and ears of the townsfolk, and within two months of Kris's arrival in Hope there were rumors that the pair would wed, or at the very least that they should. The well-intended yet invasive eyes of the town led them into a long courtship process, though Kris, with no intention or desire for marriage with Brooke White, took the long-standing rumors with a laugh and a grain of salt. Brooke winked, her honest eyes always giving away her similar intentions. "Because nothing would be more fulfilling in my life than to be married to you."
Kris flashed a warm smile at her; refusing to be dismissed as an old maid at twenty-six, career-minded Brooke agreed to the fabricated courtship for the same reason Kris had--to keep the town off her damned back. "Aw, don't be like that, Brookie," he toyed, using the nickname given to Brooke back when she had been a young girl in this very schoolhouse. Kris adored poking fun at his friend, who gasped and blushed among others but usually dished it out as often as she could take it. "A lot of young ladies would kick over their own grandmothers to be courted by me. I'm something special."
Brooke chuckled, crossing her arms at her chest. "Oh, you're something, alright." Though the two friends had rather stumbled into courtship, they both found it to be beneficial, leaving Brooke to focus on her career and dreams of traveling East to a university and Kris to police the town unfettered. Having the town imagine their relationship as a long courtship held more advantages than Kris could overlook; no doubt the young, handsome deputy would have every eligible female in the territory gunning for him if not for Brooke. If that were the case, Kris figured he'd rather take his chances with the Kings.
"We're still on for dinner tonight, right?" It was a reminder to Kris more than a request, the invitation from the preacher and his wife one that neither of them would care to miss. Kris enjoyed their suppers well enough, the pair always welcome at the tables of many of Hope's families, all eager to be the host for what everyone thought would be an inevitable marriage proposal. There were expectations to maintain so long as Kris was Hope's man of the law. Besides, Kris never passed up a free meal.
Accepting the preacher's kind invite and dramatically blowing a goodbye kiss to Brooke--more fuel to the fire, he realized, but after all he wasn't the one getting burned--he left her to her students, ambling his way down Hope's main street, thoughts of the prized mutton the preacher's wife was sure to cook for the evening's festivities. The sun inched its way high above the humble buildings of Hope before Kris reached the end of his patrol, his time well spent chatting with the townspeople and keeping himself abreast of the local news of the day. Bo and his wife out on the Bice farm were expecting yet another child, the couple proving themselves to be both fertile and frisky, and Bo regaled Kris with stories of his wife's extreme food cravings--he had to special-order a case of pickled beets from Matt Giraud, who shook his head and simply commented, "Women." The crops surrounding Hope were doing well, though Kris could never understand how farmers like Bo could cultivate anything in the barren deserts of New Mexico besides cactus. Despite what the Indians often said, Kris didn't think one should really eat cactus unless they were desperate.
But there was one place in Hope that held more news in its rafters than the entire town combined, secrets both serious and scandalous, and well-treasured by its inhabitants all the same.
Though the last stop on Kris's daily patrol, it was located in the center of town, an ancient structure of hardy stucco and adobe and more than a few bullet holes to mark its age. In most towns such a place was a harbinger of danger and death, banished to the outskirts where it could do the least damage to good, Godfearing people. But Hope's local tavern and whorehouse already had its wild days decades ago, the shells embedded in its walls dating back to times when the territory spoke more Spanish than English and when men really did remember the Alamo. It found a peaceful coexistence with the town, Hope's residents turning a blind eye to the drunkenness and prostitution--which, many justified, were debatable sins, and were enjoyed by members of the town as well--and in turn, the tavern kept a strict code of conduct inside and out, handling rowdy travelers and drunken brawls with their own enforcement of justice.
In truth, Kris never needed to visit The Lambert Inn, his services were unnecessary there; he always wanted to be there.
Even in the height of day the inn was crowded with people, travelers eager to come in from the oppressive heat into a cool building and a cooler drink, as well as the brothel's residents and their regular patrons, greeting the morning in various stages of undress. Kris had been startled at the brazen openness of the inn's inhabitants when he first arrived to Hope two years ago, the joyful freedom he witnessed intriguing to his young mind; now it was commonplace, just another attraction to him of Hope's mild-mannered pleasure den. He received many a warm greeting from the women there, Kris's eligibility known to more than just the town's virtuous farmers' daughters.
Decorated as a stately, sumptuous hotel, the Lambert Inn had lofty intentions back when it was first constructed, long before Kris had even been a twinkle in his mother's eye, much less dreamed of moving to New Mexico. But the lawlessness that plagued the frontier left a blight upon Eber Lambert's dreams of a stylish, elegant hotel, directing the Lambert Inn towards a future of saloon brawls, gunfights, and more than its share of outlaws. But the behavior, as well as the inn's reputation, simmered once frontiersmen began to settle in the area, building the quaint town of Hope around the once notorious saloon. Kris remembered running his hand down one of the swaths of wallpaper in the front room the first time he came in; soft velvet, as extravagant as the day it was installed. If he had lived to see what his eldest son had made of the place, Eber surely would have been proud.
"Well, look what that wind blew in! A fine day to grace us with your presence, lawman! Tell me, is this a raid on our establishment, or have you finally decided to partake in our wares?"
The voice was familiar to Kris; the assistant manager of the Lambert Inn welcomed the deputy from behind his greeters' podium, location of the first and last smile and handshake one received at the saloon. The man was the physical opposite of the owner: short and brown-haired speckled blond from the sun, he stood with his arms wide and a bright, teeth-baring smile even wider to welcome Kris to the inn. Fully embracing the laissez-faire atmosphere, his sleeves were cut short, exposing the many intricate tattoos he adorned himself with on the journey from his Seattle homeland to New Mexico. Kris wondered if the natives to this desert had only ever seen cherry blossoms like the ones inked onto Blake Lewis's skin.
Kris grinned, Blake's question as routine as the deputy's patrol, a slight variation on the small talk he encountered outside of the Lambert Inn. He loved to converse with the surprisingly intelligent emcee, decked out in a flashy red vest and gloves; and he never turned down a drink offered at the saloon, the bartender long since having discovered Kris's adoration for gimlets. But he never indulged in the other services they had to offer, though Sheriff Daughtry had told him about the peace agreement with the Lamberts regarding such affairs, providing the brothel stability and security for the occasional fringe benefit. The arrangements certainly changed once Daughtry died, the new sheriff not looking too kindly on the mutual benefit, but Kris's stance remained the same. Still, Blake always argued, it never hurt a man to try.
"No raid, not today," he replied, the warm smile reminding them both that there never would be a decency raid on the brothel, not so long as Kris Allen was the man enforcing Hope's laws and ordinances.
Even in the low lights of the inn, dimmed to set the mood for any patrons wandering in from the heat, Kris could see the waggle of Blake's eyebrows and see the suggestive glint in his eyes. "You're up for the latter, then?"
Shaking his head, Kris let the obvious answer the question for him. He never refused but he never accepted, either; Kris always paid close attention to formalities, and refusing a gift of what he had heard to be a very fine stock of young women could have offended the proprietor. He nodded over to the front room, where a small stage set for burlesque shows and other bawdy acts was being prepared for the evening's festivities. "It looks like you'll be mighty busy anyway without my business." Already men milled about the area, nursing drinks and ambling to get a good seat for what promised to be a delightfully dirty revue. Most were locals, the migrants along the Santa Fe trail typically riding into town later in the evening, but one traveler lounged at the bar, dressed all in black and peacefully sipping a mug of ale.
The emcee's pleasant, open expression soured; it was good business indeed, but not nearly as good as when Sheriff Daughtry was alive and sympathetic to the inn's necessary vice. "Not busy enough," he grumbled, keeping his voice low to keep the dire news from the customers that had arrived. No need to drive away the business that was already in the building. "Sheriff Gokey is making sure of that."
In the wake of Daughtry's untimely death, the town was searching for a new champion, someone to lift their spirits and maintain order lest Hope fall into the habits of the lawless West. Danny Gokey had fashioned himself as just that during his spectacular campaign, winning over voters with charm and promises instead of experience and substance--two elements his opponent, Hope's faithful deputy, held in spades but without the flash or dazzle. He stressed the importance of maintaining Hope's roots, claiming that only a native son could enforce its laws and bring peace to its streets. Being one of the aldermen's close relations didn't hurt him any when the ballots were counted, and it was Kris who was left feeling ousted by the very town he adopted as his. Gokey, a smooth talker but lazy and cowardly, kept Kris on as his deputy once discovering there were actual duties to his new title, and regularly sent him off to do Hope's dirty work while the sheriff raked in the glory.
Ironically, Gokey's platform of Hope's heritage cleverly excluded the pleasure den the town was built around, and his first order of business--in the best interests of the townspeople, of course--was to shut down the Lambert Inn. He sent Kris there on an almost daily basis, attempting to enforce ancient decency laws and fabricating new ordinances and fines, hacking tiny chinks into the inn's solid foundations in the area, leaving the business as weary and pockmarked as the building itself. Kris tried to ignore Gokey's attempts as much as he could, find loopholes in the ambitious sheriff's laws that the inn could navigate through, but the effort was trying for both parties involved. Kris didn't make the laws, he just enforced them; and with gritted teeth, he still had to answer to a sheriff who probably couldn't shoot a revolver if his pride depended on it.
Neither Kris Allen nor the staff of the Lambert Inn had any love for Sheriff Danny Gokey, and while their resentments were kept well-hidden in view of the rest of the town, those emotions bubbled to the surface in private.
"What's he doing now," Kris groaned, the quality of life efforts of his new boss growing more troublesome by the day. Sensing Kris was less than enthusiastic about cracking down on the Lambert Inn, Gokey had begun to take matters into his own hands--through craftily written form letters, of course, and never personally. It was the Gokey touch.
"Decency complaints." Blake looked sullenly over at the Lambert Inn's front parlor, the amateur revues held there the only touch of class he'd seen in the entire territory. If Gokey had his way, that wonderful noise would be silenced. "He's decided he'll lose a battle with the town over the ladies...but our gentlemen are fair game."
Kris's mouth went dry, and he clenched his jaw to keep it from hanging open in protest. The expressive freedom within the walls of the Lambert Inn extended to more than just the dress code: the brothel was known for its inclusive nature, housing prostitutes of all races and creeds, and both sexes as well. The owner once explained to Kris over brandy that every man has his special sexual vice, whether it be desiring company from a Nubian princess--Syesha was her name, though she was a former slave from Florida who never knew her African ancestors--or partaking in the delights of a young Tejano--David Hernandez, with his limber body and seductive stare, was the most popular. The Lambert Inn was merely providing the supply for a demand that already existed, and did no more damage to Hope than any other service the inn had to offer. Gokey was looking at any angle he could find to take down the establishment; he was throwing every ordinance he could think of at it and seeing what would stick.
In the two short years Kris had moved to Hope, he grew to love everything and everyone in the town, down to the last matchstick, and that included the residents of the Lambert Inn, who may not have worked in the same manner as the cattle ranchers or farmers but worked hard all the same. It made the bile rise in his throat to watch Danny Gokey try to raise his reputation at their expense.
His thoughts returned to the conversation, where Blake was muttering some choice words about how he'd show the sheriff where he could stick his "godly" self if he had the chance. "Your boss is breaking up my boss about this," he said, referring to the inn's owner. "He's gonna fight it but if he loses, it's serious charges and fines Gokey's trying to pull. He's upstairs in his room right now, ranting his head off."
Nodding grimly in sympathy, Kris assured Blake that whatever measures he could take to dodge Danny's attacks, he would; he was sore over losing the sheriff position to Gokey but he still loved this town and wouldn't allow him to threaten any part to stoke his own pride. The two said their goodbyes after Kris once again humbly declined the services of one of the inn's residents, and once Kris stepped back into the daylight, squinting from the direct sunlight, he doubled back towards the back of the building, his daily rounds completed.
Though he didn't fault him for it, Kris knew Blake's words weren't the truth: the owner of the Lambert Inn wasn't in his room above the parlor, seething over Sheriff Gokey's new ordinances. He was waiting behind the building, lizard-skin boots kicking up clouds of dust, sunlight glinting off the glass rhinestones sewn onto his shirt. Exactly where Kris told him to be.
***
There were a million things Adam could have said to Kris when he approached him, the alley behind his inherited Lambert Inn smelling of sweat and sex from employees and patrons meeting off the books. He wanted to tell the deputy he was late, complain that he had been waiting there, probably cooking up a harsh sunburn in the process, and he had much more important things to do than minding his minutes for a man of the law. The sheriff's decency complaints set against the inn made him livid, his face darkened to a stony, tight-lipped expression while in the front parlor so as not to cause a stir among clients and employees alike; there was no point in making a scene. Besides, he had a saloon to manage, the pride of the father modified and perfected by the son, and he couldn't very well do that while waiting in an alley for Kris Allen.
But Adam's mouth was currently too occupied to make any arguments on the matter, his head bowing low to drag his teeth along Kris's neck, feeling the pulse there quicken under his skin. He knew he would have waited until the end of fucking time for this.
He took a sharp nip at Kris's square jawline, growling in contentment as he produced a soft moan from the deputy, eyes squeezed shut, immersing himself in the pleasure. Stepping into the shadows, Kris's mouth was on Adam's before the New Mexico sand could settle at their feet, both speed and stealth their only friends at the moment. It had been Kris's idea--no, his request--to meet behind the Lambert Inn after the deputy's rounds, and while the rational conscience in Adam's mind warned that being in the open together like this was dangerous, possibly damning, he couldn't help but smile wickedly at the thrill of it all.
The alleyway was wide enough for a horse's carriage to wedge through, the buildings far enough away to prevent a fire from spreading from one to the other, but Adam had hauled a pickle barrel to its center to give the pair more cover. Kris's legs were braced against that pickle barrel now, boots digging into its iron rings as his back pressed against the rough stucco of the inn's exterior wall. The only things holding him up were the precariously-placed barrel, Adam's arms snaked around his waist, and sheer luck.
Trailing a lazy tongue up to Kris's ear, Adam held him securely in position, Kris's frame supported by sure arms, Adam driving into him as if his weight were held aloft by clouds. "This," Adam mumbled into his ear, hot breath tickling against Kris's throat, the pressure inside of him pushing up to the surface with each of Adam's thrusts. "Was a very good idea."
Adam's teeth captured an earlobe and Kris had to bite his lip not to cry out, lest they be detected. That would certainly damage the image of innocent, prolonged courtship he and Brooke were trying to pull off. He tasted blood but it didn't matter, nothing was of serious consequence when Adam was between his legs like this, buried deep inside him and working them both into euphoria. Not even the troubles caused by the new sheriff were of any mind to either of them at that moment, the rest of the town fading away to a dull buzz compared to the soft panting at Kris's ear, intensifying every sensation, every emotion.
Adam tasted the drawn blood on Kris's lips, the sweat that permeated his skin during his daily patrol, all of his senses heightened and every inch of his body longing to feel. Kris's left arm grabbed at Adam's bicep as he moaned shamelessly into his mouth, the noise now muffled by the both of them, and squeezed hard enough to bruise through Adam's shirt, the dull pain blossoming into pleasure as Adam worked to hold onto Kris as he thrust himself in deeper, faster. Theirs was a hasty encounter and they both remained fully clothed, Kris's pants down to his knees, his revolver holster still strapped to his shoulders underneath a vest. His other hand went to his own cock, fingers wrapping around it in a desperate need for contact, for release, his grip as solid as it was on Adam's arm.
Adam felt the pressure coiling in Kris's body, knew that it wouldn't be long now for either of them. He sped up his pace, Kris's shoulderblades knocking against the back wall, wishing he could raise his arms to wipe the sweat beading on Kris's forehead, to cradle his cheek in his hand as he came. But practicality called for a strong grip on Kris, and if he did not want to drop the deputy on his ass--and such a pleasant ass to drop, and at such an inopportune time--he needed to resist that urge. Instead he explored the flesh along Kris's jawline with his mouth as his hips rolled, feeling the low vibrations of a moan in Kris's throat, tasting the sweat Adam proudly recalled he was causing.
Kris felt the shudder course through his body as he finally gave in to the pleasure Adam was giving him, head rolling back and scraping against the exterior of the inn as he came, exposing his neck to Adam's wicked ministrations and letting lose an uninhibited moan. His cock jerked in his hand, spilling himself upon the both of them, body wracked with so much sensation and exertion he thought he might collapse, or explode, or possibly both. A gentle voice soothed him through his aftershocks, a thin shushing sound from Adam's lips turning into a sharp hiss as the other man reached his breaking point, the pair holding each other close, shaking.
"Since when are you ever quiet?" Kris mused, the rough grip on Adam's arm melting into a soft caress, kneading his thumb slightly into trembling, overused muscles.
He received a satisfied purr in response, Adam's work on the tender flesh at Kris's jaw still not complete. "I understand modesty, Kristopher," he said, the amusement evident in his weary voice. Owning and operating a brothel had its advantages: Adam learned early on that his moans of pleasure simply melted into the chorus of voices at the Lambert Inn, one indistinguishable from the next, and since then he found no reason to pretend to enjoy a quiet fuck. Kris knew of this quality of Adam's well; he was usually the cause of such moans.
A crooked smile spread across Kris's lips, his legs aching from their position against the pickle barrel but he wasn't ready to move out of Adam's arms, not yet. "You lie," he called Adam out on his claim, poking the older man squarely in the chest. "You've never been modest in your life."
Adam let the comment slide with a chaste kiss to Kris's temple, his body shivering after suddenly realizing the absence of Kris sheathed all around him. "I'm modest when I'm fucking you in a backalley," he reasoned, finding delight in the irony of the remark. "And what kind of an idea was this, anyway?"
It was the perfect idea, one sparked with thrill and the danger of being caught, and Kris knew full well Adam enjoyed every second of it. "Thought your bedroom was getting kinda boring," he teased, an Arkansas drawl seeping into his voice.
"My bedroom is not boring." Kris eased himself onto his sore legs so Adam's arms could be free to rest akimbo against his waist in full protest, head to the side, hips cocked, daring Kris to disprove him. "My bedroom is fabulous and you know it. I had some of those fabrics shipped from Europe, dammit, and that armoire is French, it didn't come from no Macy's catalog."
Kris had no other response but a smile, warm and infectious, his eyes cast upwards so familiarly to look the taller man in the eye. "I love you," the words came out easily, as they always did, soft and meaningful like flower petals brushed delicately against the skin.
The indignation in Adam's face softened to deep affection, his lips curling into a smile as the hand on his bicep moved upwards, palming the back of his neck to pull him down closer to Kris. "I love you, too," he breathed, feeling the warmth of the words wash over him in a much different way than his emotions played during sex, hot and staccato sharp, like pinpricks or devils' thorns. He let Kris kiss him, the deputy's lips moving slow and deliberate, less concerned with being caught than savoring the moment, reveling in the sensations they shared.
His badge was his duty: he'd give his all to protect the town, breaking through the fear, willing to kill for their safety; willing to die. But it wasn't everything in his life, nor was it even the most important thing: that honor went to the hand he held, the lips he kissed, blue-gray eyes striking as they shined back at him, grateful for every moment they had. Kris had certainly found himself out on the plain, and while the prospects of fortune and fame were still to come, he comforted himself in the warm embrace of his love.
Hope was why he came, but he stayed for something more.
Historical note: The Lambert Inn was a real establishment back in the New Mexico territory in the days of the old West. I stumbled across the information while doing research for this fic (as if I wouldn't do research!) and figured out it was the best way to introduce Adam and Kris's characters. Never a legal brothel, the Lambert Inn was a hotel and restaurant created by Henry Lambert in 1872, a little later than I set it here in order for Eber Lambert to have built it before Adam was born. It was known for being an outlaw hotspot, and had housed such famous names as Jesse James and the Earp brothers. It was also the location where Buffalo Bill Cody met Annie Oakley and put her in his Wild West show. It's still standing, though now it's called the St. James Hotel, in Cimarron, New Mexico. You can read more about the hotel here:
http://www.legendsofamerica.com/nm-stjameshotel.html
Hope, New Mexico, is an actual town, though I fudged with the dates of its creation. Founded around the turn of the century it's a small town along the Hope Highway which heads through the Southeast part of the state. These days the town only has about 100 inhabitants, so not many more than back in the days of Outlaw's Prayer.
And since I never mentioned it in the story, I'll say it here, since I know it well enough: the story takes place in the year 1879, and any historical details I include--like the names of the outlaws Kris mentions in this episode, as well as the dates of development for Tulsa and Blue Springs--I tried to keep as accurate as possible. That's just the crazy in me :)
Chapter 10
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: NC/17
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), 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: This chapter, the start of Part 3 of the series (out of 3, so there's actually a light at the end of the tunnel!) is a little departure from what I've been writing, so I hope you're all okay with it. :D I have been working on this story for the past seven months and I am SO excited to finally be posting it. 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
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
Chapter 8
"The West, where a man can look farther and see less of anything but land and sky." - Will James
Kris Allen walked through the town with a sure and steady gait, gathering good mornings and respect from the passing townspeople more for the smile on his face than the badge on his chest. Matt Giraud, owner of the dry goods store, politely tipped his hat as he sent a toothy smile Kris's way, while Kristy Lee, the preacher's wife, nodded demurely as she escorted the children from their morning prayers to school. The town was awakening from its morning slumber, the New Mexico sun coming up strong as ever over the horizon but its warmth only encouraging residents to burrow themselves deeper into the covers, hoping for another five minutes of sleep. Though no farmer or cattle rancher, Kris found it best to rise early in the morning, a heavy sleeper by nature but maintaining vigilance even in slumber, training himself to awaken at the slightest call of trouble or the sound of a far-off gunshot, knowing that shot's owner might very well be gunning for his town. He was, after all, the best line of defense for the place he adopted as his home--and as far as he was concerned, the only line of defense.
He gave a pleasant morning greeting to Giraud--who always kept Kris far beyond the deputy's desire if he mentioned anything past the current day's weather--and courteously removed his wide-brimmed hat as Kristy Lee passed, the rush of morning air breezing through his hair, a northern-bound wind that told Kris the day would be a scorcher. Despite the years he had spent in the deserts of the West he still wasn't comfortable with the dry heat, oppressive on most days when cattle fainted and women swooned. Kris yearned for the summers of his Arkansas youth: humid, and sticky, but not so inhumanely hot the tumbleweeds caught aflame.
Harkening back to his youth was always a double-edged sword for Kris, who left his hat off and was already fanning the oncoming heat away from his face as he leisurely patrolled the street. The memories were fond ones, of crystal blue lakes he fished in with his father, the cornfields so high he could lose himself in them for hours; but it always brought the pangs of homesickness to his heart as well. He sent letters back home as often as he could and received them in turn, his brother Daniel regaling him with stories of the university and his mother reminding him to eat right, and they never failed to bring tears to his eyes, his desire for home overwhelming him in those moments. But it was the letters sent from his father, the first in particular, that stayed with him always, recalling both firmly and proudly that Kris left the comforts of home to find himself, to meet fortune, fame, or love, as he had always dreamed of doing as a boy.
Kris loved his family back in Arkansas, there was no question to his loyalty there; but he had a new family now, and it was every soul in the town he had sworn to protect.
Settling in the tiny yet growing town in the New Mexican territory was no accident; on the contrary, Kris always found time to include the anecdote when introducing himself, the long-time residents seeming to understand the place's attraction to the young man. With only a horse, his mother's pot roast and potatoes and the clothes on his back, Kris ventured out West to find his way, unclear to what he was searching for but certain only of the optimistic dream that he'd find it. The town's name itself called out to him, a clear path for an eager young man looking to make his mark not through riches or power but through good deeds and righteousness.
It was no wonder Kris found the town of Hope so endearing to him.
The name was quaint, and if one plied him with enough gimlets Kris would admit it was a tad on the corny side, but the town itself was quaint, and Kris would defend its humble nature to the death if he had to. It was a town of dreams, a town that held deeply onto its roots but hadn't been afraid to accept a fresh face like Kris into their fold, the young man transitioning from wide-eyed newcomer to a regular in the community in less than two years. Hope, not ironically, was built on the hope of its people, kept running on those aspirations and dreams; like steam fueling a locomotive, happily puttering towards its destination, hope let the town run forever.
"Everything all right?" He poked his head into the blacksmith's barn, only to be greeted by the enormous backside of a gray-haired gelding, almost as large as the enormous backside of the blacksmith. Kris took a step back as the horse swept his tail at the prone smith, irritated that the man was spending so much time and effort to repair his hind shoe.
The booming laugh of the portly man erupted from underneath the horse, the blacksmith too engrossed in his work to look up. "I've got to lodge a complaint with you, deputy!" he chuckled at his own upcoming joke, tight brown curls bouncing with his own laughter. "This fella here refuses to pay me! Says he's got no money and no pockets to keep 'em. Now," he carefully hammered the last nail into the horseshoe, releasing the leg gently and giving the gelding a comforting pat against its flank. "Is that any way to treat a humble cobbler?"
Stretching out to his full height and grinning, the blacksmith couldn't help but make Kris laugh, though not as enthusiastically as his company. The horse snorted, unpleased with the joke. "That's a lie," Kris narrowed his eyes, the smirk never leaving his lips. "Mister Sligh, you're no cobbler."
Chris Sligh threw up his hands in resignation. "You've caught me in my out-and-out lie, Deputy Allen," he claimed, as Kris went over to the gelding, giving him a warm welcome to his face. "It's not quite a crime, so it's out of your jurisdiction, but it is a sin, so I'll leave my fate up to a higher authority." He pointed to the roof though Kris hadn't paid attention, caring much more about the condition of the horse.
"My boy's doing well?" he asked, the familiar horse a much more welcome sight than the blacksmith.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of black soot in its wake, Sligh informed the deputy his Conway would be ready by the afternoon, a new set of shoes to accompany them both on their regular patrols of the area. Satisfied with the results, Kris gave a parting smile and goodbye to both backsides, continuing on his morning rounds. Though as a general rule--Kris gritted his teeth at the reminder that, as of late, it wasn't a de facto law--there wasn't much crime in the town to be had.
The opportunity had opened itself up to him like providence, like fate: a deputy position, a chance to make a difference in people's lives, and in a town that only required one slice of rhubarb pie and a glass of sweet tea to become enamored with. Though he had a fair amount of shooting lessons back home, Kris found himself to be more of a dozer than hunter, but the sheriff had only required his deputies to bring their own guns and horses, and to have a clear view of the laws of God and the territory. The sheriff who hired him--a bald man with an easy drawl and even easier grin--found common ground with Kris, discussing their shared literal shortcomings, and he had grown to be a close friend and confidante in the short time Kris had known him.
Quickly Kris blew on the two fingers on his right hand and made the sign of the cross. God rest Chris Daughtry's soul.
"Right hot day we're 'bout to have," he commented to two cowhands to a ranch nearby, settling early into town for feed and supplies. They both laughed hearty, well-natured chuckles, their tanned skin and the red New Mexico clay caking onto their clothes clear indications they were accustomed to the weather the territory had to offer.
"Ain't too bad, Dep," replied one of the men, his understatement already dampened by the sweat clinging to his long, blond locks underneath his hat. Kris almost expected the answer from Bucky, whom he had never seen face a day without a smile, tackling one of the most grueling jobs in the West without so much as a darkened thought or complaint. It was what Kris found so admirable about the frontier: there were hardships, more often endured alongside death and heartbreak, but the town always looked to the brighter side of life, eagerly turning towards the new day. Those who spat out the legends of opportunistic forty-niners and carpetbaggers hadn't yet encountered this town; his town, stocked with the salt of the Earth, people who loved their God, loved their land, and loved each other.
"Catch any outlaws today, Dep?" asked the other cowhand, a friendly face with hair as short as Bucky's was long, a rough layer of stubble upon his cheeks a stark contrast to the other man's sizable mustache.
Kris grinned; he expected that from Chris as well. "You should've been here yesterday, Richardson," he called out, already starting again on his daily patrol. "Caught myself a whole mess o' gunslingers. Wild Bill, Kid Longley, the whole Reno Gang; rounded them all up, was quite a sight. Pretty exciting," he joked, the answers all comfortingly routine.
But Bucky went off-script and grinned as they entered Giraud's store. "Maybe you'll catch the Kings today, eh, Kris?"
His smile went tight, then disappeared once Bucky and Chris were inside the store; he stopped for a moment to regain his composure, let the blood in his veins that just ran cold have some time to warm underneath the sun again. Normally the conversation ended there, a good-natured laugh among acquaintances, one small aspect of Kris's life in town that made up the whole. Kris always used the names of outlaws and gunslingers long dead in their quick, witty banter, the names of ghosts not nearly as threatening as the ones who still roamed the West searching for their next prey. Bucky meant no harm by the comment but it left the ground unsettled at Kris's feet, a dark steel trap cordoning off his sense of humor.
There were some far more superstitious folks in town who thought even saying the name of the Kings would invoke their presence, bring upon the destruction and death they lay in the wake of their horses wherever they went, no city too small, no town too safe. Kris always thought of himself as a more practical person than to believe in old wives' tales or toss salt over his shoulder, but he still didn't ever like the sound of that name in Hope. It was one thing to fear the gang of outlaws, to pray their shadows never graced the threshold of Hope, but if they ever did, Kris would be the one to take them down. From the stories he read in the newspapers, that was as good as a death sentence.
He needed something to lift his spirits quickly. The tiny red building sandwiched between the post office and the graveyard lightened Kris's heart, the heavy feeling of dread breaking like storm clouds at the sight of Hope's lone teacher greeting her students warmly outside of the schoolhouse, her smile beaming even from so far away.
Though Kris was friendly with everyone, a necessity for a deputy and particularly for a newcomer to Hope, there were few in the town he considered true friends, confidants; those that saw past the badge and cared to look for the man underneath. Hope's schoolmarm, a delightful woman with long, curly hair the color of sunshine and a sweet voice that calmed even the rowdiest of children, was one of them, declaring herself Hope's official one-woman welcome committee for the deputy and staying close ever since. Sheriff Daughtry had been another, growing close with the Arkansas native as he trained him, the nature of their work making them compatriots until the sheriff's sudden and untimely death.
"Morning there, Miss White," he called out as the schoolteacher ushered in the littlest children to the red schoolhouse by the hand.
Instead of receiving a shining grin as usual, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, slapping on a frown to cover her amusement. "How many times have I told you, Kris," she attempted a stern tone but the light in her eyes gave it away, and Kris wondered if her discipline ever worked on her students. "You, of all people, should be calling me Brooke."
His mouth quirked to the side as he approached, already the clenching in his gut over the thought of the Kings in his town melting away. "Not according to some folks, ma'am," he pointed out, both parties knowing how well-oiled Hope's gossip mill could be, the old women in the town appearing to have more sway than the sheriff. "Particularly if we're courting; wouldn't be proper if I did."
That certainly broke Brooke's stern expression: her face betrayed her facade and she grinned, the skin wrinkling at her eyes with repressed laughter. "Yes, courting," she emphasized, keeping her voice rather low and away from small, prying ears; she didn't need this conversation reaching the nosy parents of her students. News of the quick and close friendship the two shared had eventually reached the eyes and ears of the townsfolk, and within two months of Kris's arrival in Hope there were rumors that the pair would wed, or at the very least that they should. The well-intended yet invasive eyes of the town led them into a long courtship process, though Kris, with no intention or desire for marriage with Brooke White, took the long-standing rumors with a laugh and a grain of salt. Brooke winked, her honest eyes always giving away her similar intentions. "Because nothing would be more fulfilling in my life than to be married to you."
Kris flashed a warm smile at her; refusing to be dismissed as an old maid at twenty-six, career-minded Brooke agreed to the fabricated courtship for the same reason Kris had--to keep the town off her damned back. "Aw, don't be like that, Brookie," he toyed, using the nickname given to Brooke back when she had been a young girl in this very schoolhouse. Kris adored poking fun at his friend, who gasped and blushed among others but usually dished it out as often as she could take it. "A lot of young ladies would kick over their own grandmothers to be courted by me. I'm something special."
Brooke chuckled, crossing her arms at her chest. "Oh, you're something, alright." Though the two friends had rather stumbled into courtship, they both found it to be beneficial, leaving Brooke to focus on her career and dreams of traveling East to a university and Kris to police the town unfettered. Having the town imagine their relationship as a long courtship held more advantages than Kris could overlook; no doubt the young, handsome deputy would have every eligible female in the territory gunning for him if not for Brooke. If that were the case, Kris figured he'd rather take his chances with the Kings.
"We're still on for dinner tonight, right?" It was a reminder to Kris more than a request, the invitation from the preacher and his wife one that neither of them would care to miss. Kris enjoyed their suppers well enough, the pair always welcome at the tables of many of Hope's families, all eager to be the host for what everyone thought would be an inevitable marriage proposal. There were expectations to maintain so long as Kris was Hope's man of the law. Besides, Kris never passed up a free meal.
Accepting the preacher's kind invite and dramatically blowing a goodbye kiss to Brooke--more fuel to the fire, he realized, but after all he wasn't the one getting burned--he left her to her students, ambling his way down Hope's main street, thoughts of the prized mutton the preacher's wife was sure to cook for the evening's festivities. The sun inched its way high above the humble buildings of Hope before Kris reached the end of his patrol, his time well spent chatting with the townspeople and keeping himself abreast of the local news of the day. Bo and his wife out on the Bice farm were expecting yet another child, the couple proving themselves to be both fertile and frisky, and Bo regaled Kris with stories of his wife's extreme food cravings--he had to special-order a case of pickled beets from Matt Giraud, who shook his head and simply commented, "Women." The crops surrounding Hope were doing well, though Kris could never understand how farmers like Bo could cultivate anything in the barren deserts of New Mexico besides cactus. Despite what the Indians often said, Kris didn't think one should really eat cactus unless they were desperate.
But there was one place in Hope that held more news in its rafters than the entire town combined, secrets both serious and scandalous, and well-treasured by its inhabitants all the same.
Though the last stop on Kris's daily patrol, it was located in the center of town, an ancient structure of hardy stucco and adobe and more than a few bullet holes to mark its age. In most towns such a place was a harbinger of danger and death, banished to the outskirts where it could do the least damage to good, Godfearing people. But Hope's local tavern and whorehouse already had its wild days decades ago, the shells embedded in its walls dating back to times when the territory spoke more Spanish than English and when men really did remember the Alamo. It found a peaceful coexistence with the town, Hope's residents turning a blind eye to the drunkenness and prostitution--which, many justified, were debatable sins, and were enjoyed by members of the town as well--and in turn, the tavern kept a strict code of conduct inside and out, handling rowdy travelers and drunken brawls with their own enforcement of justice.
In truth, Kris never needed to visit The Lambert Inn, his services were unnecessary there; he always wanted to be there.
Even in the height of day the inn was crowded with people, travelers eager to come in from the oppressive heat into a cool building and a cooler drink, as well as the brothel's residents and their regular patrons, greeting the morning in various stages of undress. Kris had been startled at the brazen openness of the inn's inhabitants when he first arrived to Hope two years ago, the joyful freedom he witnessed intriguing to his young mind; now it was commonplace, just another attraction to him of Hope's mild-mannered pleasure den. He received many a warm greeting from the women there, Kris's eligibility known to more than just the town's virtuous farmers' daughters.
Decorated as a stately, sumptuous hotel, the Lambert Inn had lofty intentions back when it was first constructed, long before Kris had even been a twinkle in his mother's eye, much less dreamed of moving to New Mexico. But the lawlessness that plagued the frontier left a blight upon Eber Lambert's dreams of a stylish, elegant hotel, directing the Lambert Inn towards a future of saloon brawls, gunfights, and more than its share of outlaws. But the behavior, as well as the inn's reputation, simmered once frontiersmen began to settle in the area, building the quaint town of Hope around the once notorious saloon. Kris remembered running his hand down one of the swaths of wallpaper in the front room the first time he came in; soft velvet, as extravagant as the day it was installed. If he had lived to see what his eldest son had made of the place, Eber surely would have been proud.
"Well, look what that wind blew in! A fine day to grace us with your presence, lawman! Tell me, is this a raid on our establishment, or have you finally decided to partake in our wares?"
The voice was familiar to Kris; the assistant manager of the Lambert Inn welcomed the deputy from behind his greeters' podium, location of the first and last smile and handshake one received at the saloon. The man was the physical opposite of the owner: short and brown-haired speckled blond from the sun, he stood with his arms wide and a bright, teeth-baring smile even wider to welcome Kris to the inn. Fully embracing the laissez-faire atmosphere, his sleeves were cut short, exposing the many intricate tattoos he adorned himself with on the journey from his Seattle homeland to New Mexico. Kris wondered if the natives to this desert had only ever seen cherry blossoms like the ones inked onto Blake Lewis's skin.
Kris grinned, Blake's question as routine as the deputy's patrol, a slight variation on the small talk he encountered outside of the Lambert Inn. He loved to converse with the surprisingly intelligent emcee, decked out in a flashy red vest and gloves; and he never turned down a drink offered at the saloon, the bartender long since having discovered Kris's adoration for gimlets. But he never indulged in the other services they had to offer, though Sheriff Daughtry had told him about the peace agreement with the Lamberts regarding such affairs, providing the brothel stability and security for the occasional fringe benefit. The arrangements certainly changed once Daughtry died, the new sheriff not looking too kindly on the mutual benefit, but Kris's stance remained the same. Still, Blake always argued, it never hurt a man to try.
"No raid, not today," he replied, the warm smile reminding them both that there never would be a decency raid on the brothel, not so long as Kris Allen was the man enforcing Hope's laws and ordinances.
Even in the low lights of the inn, dimmed to set the mood for any patrons wandering in from the heat, Kris could see the waggle of Blake's eyebrows and see the suggestive glint in his eyes. "You're up for the latter, then?"
Shaking his head, Kris let the obvious answer the question for him. He never refused but he never accepted, either; Kris always paid close attention to formalities, and refusing a gift of what he had heard to be a very fine stock of young women could have offended the proprietor. He nodded over to the front room, where a small stage set for burlesque shows and other bawdy acts was being prepared for the evening's festivities. "It looks like you'll be mighty busy anyway without my business." Already men milled about the area, nursing drinks and ambling to get a good seat for what promised to be a delightfully dirty revue. Most were locals, the migrants along the Santa Fe trail typically riding into town later in the evening, but one traveler lounged at the bar, dressed all in black and peacefully sipping a mug of ale.
The emcee's pleasant, open expression soured; it was good business indeed, but not nearly as good as when Sheriff Daughtry was alive and sympathetic to the inn's necessary vice. "Not busy enough," he grumbled, keeping his voice low to keep the dire news from the customers that had arrived. No need to drive away the business that was already in the building. "Sheriff Gokey is making sure of that."
In the wake of Daughtry's untimely death, the town was searching for a new champion, someone to lift their spirits and maintain order lest Hope fall into the habits of the lawless West. Danny Gokey had fashioned himself as just that during his spectacular campaign, winning over voters with charm and promises instead of experience and substance--two elements his opponent, Hope's faithful deputy, held in spades but without the flash or dazzle. He stressed the importance of maintaining Hope's roots, claiming that only a native son could enforce its laws and bring peace to its streets. Being one of the aldermen's close relations didn't hurt him any when the ballots were counted, and it was Kris who was left feeling ousted by the very town he adopted as his. Gokey, a smooth talker but lazy and cowardly, kept Kris on as his deputy once discovering there were actual duties to his new title, and regularly sent him off to do Hope's dirty work while the sheriff raked in the glory.
Ironically, Gokey's platform of Hope's heritage cleverly excluded the pleasure den the town was built around, and his first order of business--in the best interests of the townspeople, of course--was to shut down the Lambert Inn. He sent Kris there on an almost daily basis, attempting to enforce ancient decency laws and fabricating new ordinances and fines, hacking tiny chinks into the inn's solid foundations in the area, leaving the business as weary and pockmarked as the building itself. Kris tried to ignore Gokey's attempts as much as he could, find loopholes in the ambitious sheriff's laws that the inn could navigate through, but the effort was trying for both parties involved. Kris didn't make the laws, he just enforced them; and with gritted teeth, he still had to answer to a sheriff who probably couldn't shoot a revolver if his pride depended on it.
Neither Kris Allen nor the staff of the Lambert Inn had any love for Sheriff Danny Gokey, and while their resentments were kept well-hidden in view of the rest of the town, those emotions bubbled to the surface in private.
"What's he doing now," Kris groaned, the quality of life efforts of his new boss growing more troublesome by the day. Sensing Kris was less than enthusiastic about cracking down on the Lambert Inn, Gokey had begun to take matters into his own hands--through craftily written form letters, of course, and never personally. It was the Gokey touch.
"Decency complaints." Blake looked sullenly over at the Lambert Inn's front parlor, the amateur revues held there the only touch of class he'd seen in the entire territory. If Gokey had his way, that wonderful noise would be silenced. "He's decided he'll lose a battle with the town over the ladies...but our gentlemen are fair game."
Kris's mouth went dry, and he clenched his jaw to keep it from hanging open in protest. The expressive freedom within the walls of the Lambert Inn extended to more than just the dress code: the brothel was known for its inclusive nature, housing prostitutes of all races and creeds, and both sexes as well. The owner once explained to Kris over brandy that every man has his special sexual vice, whether it be desiring company from a Nubian princess--Syesha was her name, though she was a former slave from Florida who never knew her African ancestors--or partaking in the delights of a young Tejano--David Hernandez, with his limber body and seductive stare, was the most popular. The Lambert Inn was merely providing the supply for a demand that already existed, and did no more damage to Hope than any other service the inn had to offer. Gokey was looking at any angle he could find to take down the establishment; he was throwing every ordinance he could think of at it and seeing what would stick.
In the two short years Kris had moved to Hope, he grew to love everything and everyone in the town, down to the last matchstick, and that included the residents of the Lambert Inn, who may not have worked in the same manner as the cattle ranchers or farmers but worked hard all the same. It made the bile rise in his throat to watch Danny Gokey try to raise his reputation at their expense.
His thoughts returned to the conversation, where Blake was muttering some choice words about how he'd show the sheriff where he could stick his "godly" self if he had the chance. "Your boss is breaking up my boss about this," he said, referring to the inn's owner. "He's gonna fight it but if he loses, it's serious charges and fines Gokey's trying to pull. He's upstairs in his room right now, ranting his head off."
Nodding grimly in sympathy, Kris assured Blake that whatever measures he could take to dodge Danny's attacks, he would; he was sore over losing the sheriff position to Gokey but he still loved this town and wouldn't allow him to threaten any part to stoke his own pride. The two said their goodbyes after Kris once again humbly declined the services of one of the inn's residents, and once Kris stepped back into the daylight, squinting from the direct sunlight, he doubled back towards the back of the building, his daily rounds completed.
Though he didn't fault him for it, Kris knew Blake's words weren't the truth: the owner of the Lambert Inn wasn't in his room above the parlor, seething over Sheriff Gokey's new ordinances. He was waiting behind the building, lizard-skin boots kicking up clouds of dust, sunlight glinting off the glass rhinestones sewn onto his shirt. Exactly where Kris told him to be.
***
There were a million things Adam could have said to Kris when he approached him, the alley behind his inherited Lambert Inn smelling of sweat and sex from employees and patrons meeting off the books. He wanted to tell the deputy he was late, complain that he had been waiting there, probably cooking up a harsh sunburn in the process, and he had much more important things to do than minding his minutes for a man of the law. The sheriff's decency complaints set against the inn made him livid, his face darkened to a stony, tight-lipped expression while in the front parlor so as not to cause a stir among clients and employees alike; there was no point in making a scene. Besides, he had a saloon to manage, the pride of the father modified and perfected by the son, and he couldn't very well do that while waiting in an alley for Kris Allen.
But Adam's mouth was currently too occupied to make any arguments on the matter, his head bowing low to drag his teeth along Kris's neck, feeling the pulse there quicken under his skin. He knew he would have waited until the end of fucking time for this.
He took a sharp nip at Kris's square jawline, growling in contentment as he produced a soft moan from the deputy, eyes squeezed shut, immersing himself in the pleasure. Stepping into the shadows, Kris's mouth was on Adam's before the New Mexico sand could settle at their feet, both speed and stealth their only friends at the moment. It had been Kris's idea--no, his request--to meet behind the Lambert Inn after the deputy's rounds, and while the rational conscience in Adam's mind warned that being in the open together like this was dangerous, possibly damning, he couldn't help but smile wickedly at the thrill of it all.
The alleyway was wide enough for a horse's carriage to wedge through, the buildings far enough away to prevent a fire from spreading from one to the other, but Adam had hauled a pickle barrel to its center to give the pair more cover. Kris's legs were braced against that pickle barrel now, boots digging into its iron rings as his back pressed against the rough stucco of the inn's exterior wall. The only things holding him up were the precariously-placed barrel, Adam's arms snaked around his waist, and sheer luck.
Trailing a lazy tongue up to Kris's ear, Adam held him securely in position, Kris's frame supported by sure arms, Adam driving into him as if his weight were held aloft by clouds. "This," Adam mumbled into his ear, hot breath tickling against Kris's throat, the pressure inside of him pushing up to the surface with each of Adam's thrusts. "Was a very good idea."
Adam's teeth captured an earlobe and Kris had to bite his lip not to cry out, lest they be detected. That would certainly damage the image of innocent, prolonged courtship he and Brooke were trying to pull off. He tasted blood but it didn't matter, nothing was of serious consequence when Adam was between his legs like this, buried deep inside him and working them both into euphoria. Not even the troubles caused by the new sheriff were of any mind to either of them at that moment, the rest of the town fading away to a dull buzz compared to the soft panting at Kris's ear, intensifying every sensation, every emotion.
Adam tasted the drawn blood on Kris's lips, the sweat that permeated his skin during his daily patrol, all of his senses heightened and every inch of his body longing to feel. Kris's left arm grabbed at Adam's bicep as he moaned shamelessly into his mouth, the noise now muffled by the both of them, and squeezed hard enough to bruise through Adam's shirt, the dull pain blossoming into pleasure as Adam worked to hold onto Kris as he thrust himself in deeper, faster. Theirs was a hasty encounter and they both remained fully clothed, Kris's pants down to his knees, his revolver holster still strapped to his shoulders underneath a vest. His other hand went to his own cock, fingers wrapping around it in a desperate need for contact, for release, his grip as solid as it was on Adam's arm.
Adam felt the pressure coiling in Kris's body, knew that it wouldn't be long now for either of them. He sped up his pace, Kris's shoulderblades knocking against the back wall, wishing he could raise his arms to wipe the sweat beading on Kris's forehead, to cradle his cheek in his hand as he came. But practicality called for a strong grip on Kris, and if he did not want to drop the deputy on his ass--and such a pleasant ass to drop, and at such an inopportune time--he needed to resist that urge. Instead he explored the flesh along Kris's jawline with his mouth as his hips rolled, feeling the low vibrations of a moan in Kris's throat, tasting the sweat Adam proudly recalled he was causing.
Kris felt the shudder course through his body as he finally gave in to the pleasure Adam was giving him, head rolling back and scraping against the exterior of the inn as he came, exposing his neck to Adam's wicked ministrations and letting lose an uninhibited moan. His cock jerked in his hand, spilling himself upon the both of them, body wracked with so much sensation and exertion he thought he might collapse, or explode, or possibly both. A gentle voice soothed him through his aftershocks, a thin shushing sound from Adam's lips turning into a sharp hiss as the other man reached his breaking point, the pair holding each other close, shaking.
"Since when are you ever quiet?" Kris mused, the rough grip on Adam's arm melting into a soft caress, kneading his thumb slightly into trembling, overused muscles.
He received a satisfied purr in response, Adam's work on the tender flesh at Kris's jaw still not complete. "I understand modesty, Kristopher," he said, the amusement evident in his weary voice. Owning and operating a brothel had its advantages: Adam learned early on that his moans of pleasure simply melted into the chorus of voices at the Lambert Inn, one indistinguishable from the next, and since then he found no reason to pretend to enjoy a quiet fuck. Kris knew of this quality of Adam's well; he was usually the cause of such moans.
A crooked smile spread across Kris's lips, his legs aching from their position against the pickle barrel but he wasn't ready to move out of Adam's arms, not yet. "You lie," he called Adam out on his claim, poking the older man squarely in the chest. "You've never been modest in your life."
Adam let the comment slide with a chaste kiss to Kris's temple, his body shivering after suddenly realizing the absence of Kris sheathed all around him. "I'm modest when I'm fucking you in a backalley," he reasoned, finding delight in the irony of the remark. "And what kind of an idea was this, anyway?"
It was the perfect idea, one sparked with thrill and the danger of being caught, and Kris knew full well Adam enjoyed every second of it. "Thought your bedroom was getting kinda boring," he teased, an Arkansas drawl seeping into his voice.
"My bedroom is not boring." Kris eased himself onto his sore legs so Adam's arms could be free to rest akimbo against his waist in full protest, head to the side, hips cocked, daring Kris to disprove him. "My bedroom is fabulous and you know it. I had some of those fabrics shipped from Europe, dammit, and that armoire is French, it didn't come from no Macy's catalog."
Kris had no other response but a smile, warm and infectious, his eyes cast upwards so familiarly to look the taller man in the eye. "I love you," the words came out easily, as they always did, soft and meaningful like flower petals brushed delicately against the skin.
The indignation in Adam's face softened to deep affection, his lips curling into a smile as the hand on his bicep moved upwards, palming the back of his neck to pull him down closer to Kris. "I love you, too," he breathed, feeling the warmth of the words wash over him in a much different way than his emotions played during sex, hot and staccato sharp, like pinpricks or devils' thorns. He let Kris kiss him, the deputy's lips moving slow and deliberate, less concerned with being caught than savoring the moment, reveling in the sensations they shared.
His badge was his duty: he'd give his all to protect the town, breaking through the fear, willing to kill for their safety; willing to die. But it wasn't everything in his life, nor was it even the most important thing: that honor went to the hand he held, the lips he kissed, blue-gray eyes striking as they shined back at him, grateful for every moment they had. Kris had certainly found himself out on the plain, and while the prospects of fortune and fame were still to come, he comforted himself in the warm embrace of his love.
Hope was why he came, but he stayed for something more.
Historical note: The Lambert Inn was a real establishment back in the New Mexico territory in the days of the old West. I stumbled across the information while doing research for this fic (as if I wouldn't do research!) and figured out it was the best way to introduce Adam and Kris's characters. Never a legal brothel, the Lambert Inn was a hotel and restaurant created by Henry Lambert in 1872, a little later than I set it here in order for Eber Lambert to have built it before Adam was born. It was known for being an outlaw hotspot, and had housed such famous names as Jesse James and the Earp brothers. It was also the location where Buffalo Bill Cody met Annie Oakley and put her in his Wild West show. It's still standing, though now it's called the St. James Hotel, in Cimarron, New Mexico. You can read more about the hotel here:
http://www.legendsofamerica.com/nm-stjameshotel.html
Hope, New Mexico, is an actual town, though I fudged with the dates of its creation. Founded around the turn of the century it's a small town along the Hope Highway which heads through the Southeast part of the state. These days the town only has about 100 inhabitants, so not many more than back in the days of Outlaw's Prayer.
And since I never mentioned it in the story, I'll say it here, since I know it well enough: the story takes place in the year 1879, and any historical details I include--like the names of the outlaws Kris mentions in this episode, as well as the dates of development for Tulsa and Blue Springs--I tried to keep as accurate as possible. That's just the crazy in me :)
Chapter 10