Chapter 12 #2
With a wink, I saunter over and pull up a chair. The men size me up, but the dealer just grunts and slides me a hand. I peel the cards slow, hum deep in my chest, and throw in a coin.
The first round, I come out smelling like a rose. I rake the pot, chips clacking cool under my palms. The whiskey’s burning warm in my gut now, loosening everything—shoulders, tongue, temper. Checking over my shoulder, Alice has left our table to stand behind me, jaw set hard enough to crack.
Shoulda let the woman order a damn whiskey. She could afford to lighten up.
Second round, I lean back in my chair, stretch my boots out long. “Reckon I got luck ridin’ on my shoulder tonight.”
One of the players, a farmer glistening with sweat, snorts. “See how long it lasts.”
The dealer snaps the deck, cards shuffling clean, then lays ’em out one by one across the table. The air’s thick with smoke and sweat. I slide my hand in close, tilt the corners just enough to take a peek. Three kings. A man couldn’t ask for better.
But showing that now’d be suicide. So I let my mouth pull into a sour line. I toss a chip in with a wince, like it pains me, then slump back in my chair, all loose and defeated.
Alice leans a little closer, peeking at the cards in my hand. “But you’ve got three kings,” she says, voice clear as a bell.
Every man at the table stifles.
I slam my cards face down, turning to her hot. “Sweet mercy, Alice—you don’t announce a man’s hand.”
She jerks back a fraction, lips fumbling open. “Oh—”
The table erupts—hoots, jeers, men slapping their thighs, one near falls out his chair laughing. The farmer across chokes on his drink. Alice presses her lips together, trying to hold it, but then her shoulders shake and the cheerful sound bursts out anyway—bright, sweet, ringing through the room.
“I’m sorry!” she says, laughing.
“Sorry?” I growl, pushing my chair back just enough to catch her wrist. “You show a man’s ass, then laugh at him for it.”
With that, I tug her down into my lap. She gasps, stiff at first, but my arm hooks firm around her waist, holding her snug. Her skirts spill over my legs, her back pressed to my chest.
“There,” I mutter against her ear, low enough only she hears. “If you’re bound to ruin my game, might as well keep you where I can watch you.”
She squirms, hands gripping her skirts like she might lift herself off. But I tighten my arm just an inch, enough to still her.
Her breath holds, cheeks flaming hot. “This is most improper.”
“So’s givin’ away a man’s hand.”
That wins me another laugh, softer this time. The sound sings right against my chest where she leans, making me dizzier than any bottle could. I want another. “How ’bout I bounce you on my knee, keep you entertained while I play.”
She sits up rigid, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I rock my knee once, subtle, just enough she feels it.
She scowls, but there ain’t no true ugliness in it. It cracks into a laugh quick. A pretty, breathless sound, smothered by her hand, but it’s there. Christ almighty. That sound could ruin me.
I pick my cards back up with my free hand, but it’s a losing fight. Every time she shifts, it pulls me clean out the game. A player mutters about me being distracted, and he ain’t wrong.
Alice tilts her head, whispering, “What do you have now?”
But she’s too close, breath too warm, too soft, and it damn near does me in. “Ain’t tellin’ you,” I growl, face schooled—though I’d be grinning like a fool if it was just her and me.
She lifts her eyebrows, mischief sparking. “Afraid I’ll give you away again?”
“Afraid you’ll have me stripped down to my drawers.”
That does it. She bursts out laughing again, and the sound feels like heaven. I grin too, can’t help it now, though I keep my face down toward the cards.
Next hand, I bet too much, too fast. One man calls, another raises. Alice squirms in my lap, and hell if I can think straight with her pressed against me like that. When the cards fall, I’m beat clean. Pot swept away.
“Damn it,” I mutter, pushing back from the table.
She blinks up at me, brows knit. “Did you lose?”
I let out a humorless chuckle. “Lost near everything but you sittin’ here.”
I drop the last of my coin on the table for the next round of whiskey. The barkeep’s quick to oblige, glass sliding my way. I take it down hard, heat burning through the hollow ache of losing.
Alice touches my arm, tentative. “Maybe that’s enough for tonight.”
“Not near enough,” I mutter, reaching for the bottle instead of the glass.
The room blurs, edges go soft, the sharpest thing is her weight against me. I tip my head close, my lips brushing her ear as I slur, “Reckon I’d lose my shirt—hell, my boots too—just to keep you sittin’ there laughin’ on me.”
She smells like lemon and sunshine. Goddamn, I’m a patient son of a bitch.
Travelled with this woman clear ’cross hell’s half acre, never stole more than a kiss.
A sweet shine glistens on her neck, the hollow of her throat.
Summer heat blesses me with her womanly perfume.
Lamplight catches a wet bead an inch below her ear, teasing the corner of her jaw.
God help me, but thinking on it’s got me hard as steel.
Reckon she can feel it. I can’t help it.
Some things can’t be explained; they just are.
Beasts wild roaming across the country to find salt.
“Somethin’ ’bout you…a man goes mad for it,” I mumble. “Like a beast cravin’ salt.”
Sounded better in my head.
A confused expression falls over her, and I hold her hips.
Bending close, I drag my tongue slow, starting at the corner of her jaw, along the curve of her neck, taste the scent of lemon on her skin and the salt the day’s heat left behind.
As I taste her, I hold her firm, grinding rough against her.
If she didn’t feel me before, she feels me now.
She jerks, a sharp little sound tearing from her throat. Her hand lashes out, flat across my mouth, and the slap stings hot as a wasp bite. Heads swivel. A few men hoot.
“How dare you do such a thing in public?” she spits, wrenching herself out of my lap. “Or anywhere for that matter.”
My grin’s stupid and slow in the wake of her outrage. I rub my mouth where her hand landed, more tickled than scolded. “Ain’t my fault you taste like summer.”
I keep my hands where they can be seen, flat on the table.
The barkeep coughs from behind the counter. “Room upstairs if you two need privacy.”
Alice stiffens beside me. “We need nothing of the sort.” Her hands clutch her skirts like she could scrub away what just happened. She’s scandalized near to death, and hell if I don’t want to scandalize her more.
I tip back the last of my whiskey and slam the glass on the table. “Room sounds right.”
Alice’s head snaps to me, eyes blazing. “You—”
The barkeep’s already got the key in his hand. “Two bits. Pay up or sleep in the street.”
“Come on, Alice. I’m piss-drunk; you wanna see me mount up? Cain’t feel my knees n’you want me to set up a tent or some fool thing?”
“You are the fool, Mr. Randolph.”
“Sure as hell am. I am a fool, an’ it’s you who I’m a fool for.”
Alice fumbles in her purse, drops the coins into his palm. She grabs my arm, hauling me toward the stairs. Small as she is, her scorn drags me up easy.
Upstairs, the hall’s dim, one oil lamp flickering on the wall. Alice marches us to the door, shoves the key into the lock, kicks it open. The room’s plain—iron bed, thin quilt, one chair, basin in the corner.
“Floor’s yours,” she snaps.
I stumble inside, halfway there on my own. “What, no goodnight kiss?”
She slams the door, spins on me. “You’ve had too much whiskey, Mr. Randolph. I’ll not be made a fool of in front of half a saloon again. You may sleep on the floor, or under it for all I care.”
I stretch out right there on the boards, hands behind my head. “Floor suits me just fine, Miss Alice.”
Her nostrils flare. “I wish you would stop calling me that.” She climbs into bed, back stiff, quilt yanked to her chin.
The silence hangs heavy—until a squeal bursts through the wall, followed by the thump-thump of headboard on plaster. Obscene moans roll like cows lowing on the pasture.
Alice grumbles, throws the quilt over her head.
I chuckle into the crook of my arm. “They wrestlin’ steers over there?”
Her giggle is muffled under the blanket.
“Goodnight, Miss Alice.”
“Go to sleep, wicked man,” her voice shoots back, sharp as ever.
I rest easy, grinning. “Ain’t no sleep in Salt Lick.”