Beares was looking at Hattie hungrily and he waved Fargo away. “Of course, Fargo, by all means. I’m glad we were able to reach an understanding.”
Fargo nodded and headed for the exit, wincing as he heard Hattie mutter behind him. “Men! They think with their peckers and believe theirs should be the only plow in the field.”
“Of course we do, darling,” Beares replied. “Speaking of plowing . . .”
Fargo quickened his pace, hoping that he’d get back to his hotel room without any other adventures. He’d had more than enough for one day and his head was spinning with all the secrets and lies he’d heard . . . and all the money in his pocket.
8
Fargo made his way back to the Bayou without incident, his mind working on all the things he’d learned during the day’s events, while his eyes scanned the crowded streets, keeping alert for any sign of trouble. Given how rowdy many of the saloons seemed to be, he somewhat expected it, but other than having to step out of the way of a man headed for an alleyway to throw up, no one bothered him.
Worn out from his day, Fargo nodded briefly to the man behind the counter and trudged up the stairs to his room. What he wanted now was a good night’s sleep. Perhaps in the morning, with a decent breakfast and some coffee in him, he’d be able to figure out what was really going on here—hopefully before the poker game got under way and the powder keg all these people were sitting on blew sky-high.
He started to insert his key in the lock, but the door creaked open when he leaned a hand against it. Instantly awake, Fargo pulled his Colt, shoving himself against the wall and listening for any sounds. The room was quiet and dark, so he spun back into the doorway and kicked it wide open, shoving his Colt before him.
A high-pitched gasp of surprise stopped him in his tracks. “Please! Don’t shoot me!”
“Mary?” Fargo asked, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice quavering. “It’s . . . it’s Mary.”
“Hold on a minute,” Fargo said. He fumbled a match out of his vest, struck it against his thumb and lit the oil lamp. Light warmed the room as he turned up the wick a little bit. He turned to the girl, who was curled up beneath the thin blankets on his bed. Her skin glowed softly in the dim light, a deep, rich brown that reminded him a little of light molasses.
“What are you doing here, Mary?”
“Miz Hamilton,” the girl said. “She told me to come over here before she left the Blue Emporium. I didn’t ask too many questions, but please, don’t hit me none. I still have to work.”
“Ah, hell,” Fargo said.
“You promise?” she asked.
“I promise,” Fargo said. He sat down at the foot of the bed—there was nowhere else to sit in the room.
“I’ll . . . I’ll go back now,” she said. “Miz Hamilton said if I didn’t please you, I was to go back and she’d send another girl.” She started to climb from beneath the blankets and Fargo’s heart sped up a bit.
“What!” he exclaimed. “No, wait. I like you fine, Mary. I just . . . I wasn’t expecting you, is all.” He patted the bed. “Stay . . . please.”
She sank back down and seemed to relax a little. “Thank you—”
“Call me Fargo,” he said. “Or Skye, if you like.”
Mary considered this for a moment, then said, “Skye, then. It’s a nice name.”
“Thank you,” Fargo said. He was tired and had absorbed too much information in a short time—he needed to think and to rest.
“Skye,” Mary said, her voice almost a whisper. “I don’t understand why Miz Hamilton . . . she ain’t never sent me out like this. I don’t understand.”
Fargo chuckled. “I can’t say as I completely do, either.” He pulled off his boots and unbuckled his gun belt, leaning forward to hang it over the bedpost. “Probably best if we get some sleep and try to figure it out tomorrow.”
“Sleep?” Mary asked. “I thought . . . you don’t think I’m pretty, Skye?”
He looked over the beautiful young woman lying in his bed and smiled. With her dark hair and skin, she looked like a ribbon of chocolate silk against the white of the bedcovers. “I think you’re very pretty,” he said. He got to his feet and undressed, enjoying the sound when she gasped quiet appreciation at his flat, rock-hard stomach muscles and lean form.
He was down to only his underdrawers when she got out of the bed and turned down the lamp until the room was little more than pockets of dark gold light and shadows. The window shade was drawn and the noise from the street below faded into the background as he felt more than saw her come closer, running her hands down his chest.
“You been hurt a lot,” she said. “Lots of scars.”
“I’ve got a few,” he said. Her hands roamed over the terrain of his shoulders, her nails lightly scratching. “But compared to those who gave them to me, I came out okay.”
Her hands found his biceps and she said, “You’re strong.”
She moved lower, her hands seeking his manhood. Even if she wasn’t often given pleasure for herself, she certainly knew how to give it as she stroked him to full hardness, then took him in her warm mouth. Using her tongue, she worked the shaft, base to tip and back again, warm and wet. Her hands found his sac and gently worked on him. Fargo’s hands found her hair and he groaned in pleasure.
Finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he eased away, pulling her to her feet. Mary kept her silence, her eyes wide open. Keeping his own silence, Fargo removed the nightgown, lifting it over her head. Her breasts fell free, rounded and full, but not overly large, with rose-colored areolas and pert nipples. Stepping closer, Fargo lowered his head and took one in his mouth, using his opposite hand to caress and stroke the nipple of the other. He felt them harden.
Her thighs were smooth and muscular, leading down to shapely calves. He knew it was time to please her. Her legs splayed open, giving him full access to her treasures, and Fargo didn’t hesitate to explore the offerings on display to the fullest extent possible. He used his hands, his fingers, and his tongue, touching her, tasting her, arousing her senses everywhere he touched until she writhed on the bed, moaning and begging. Her breath came in short, sharp pants and Fargo knew she was ready, right on the edge of orgasm.
He quickened his pace, moving himself atop her and sliding into her warm center in one smooth motion. She shrieked in pleasure, rocketing to her climax as her hips shuddered beneath him.
“Oh, my God, my God!” she screamed, shoving herself against him. “Eeee . . . Yes, Skye! Yes, oh God, yes!” she screamed as her orgasm hit.
Her body shook beneath him, her hard nipples jutting into the air and the sweat on her skin making it shine. Fargo let himself go when he felt her clench his manhood, the sweet, musky scent of her orgasm hitting his nostrils and filling the air.
In the dim light he saw her small, wondering smile and she curled into the protective curve of his arm, sated and giving off an almost visible glow. After they’d gathered their breath, Fargo gently lifted her up and beneath the blanket, then joined her as she drifted into sleep.
Tired in mind and body, Fargo let himself wind down until sleep came on quiet feet to take him, too. His last thought was one of some concern and he promised himself to think on it more:
But it turned out not to be his last thought, after all. Suddenly he was awake again. He lay there listening to Mary breathing. Snoring, really. The soft, sweet sounds a child makes while sleeping. He smiled, grateful for an image of innocence in a city that knew very little innocence of any kind.
He reached over and touched her hip beneath the sheet. He envied her ability to fall asleep. There were so many angles and lies to sort through in this place. You couldn’t be sure of anybody. Sometimes you even doubted yourself, something Skye Fargo wasn’t used to.
He forced himself to close his eyes. To drive all thoughts of conspiracy from his mind. He wouldn’t be much
