by JR Roberts
Chapter Thirty-Two
She slid around him so she could slip his pants off again, then straddled him and began to kiss his neck, his chest, his belly. She slithered down to pepper his groin with hot kisses. She kissed all around his penis without touching it, but it kept swelling nevertheless. When he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, she suddenly grasped it and began to stroke it.
With her other hand, she rubbed his thighs, reached up to rub his chest, even cupped his testicles. She pressed his hard penis to her face, rubbing it against her cheeks, moving it over her mouth, which she kept closed. She smiled, though, knowing that he was waiting for her hot mouth to take him inside.
Let him wait, she thought. Let him wonder when it would happen.
She continued to rub him with her right hand, stroke him with her left, smiling the whole time...
Clint reclined on his back, enjoying the feel of her hands on him, the way she rubbed his dick over her face. She slid up on him, took him between her chubby breasts, and rubbed him there. And then just what he was waiting for …
Her hot breath on him, her lips, moist now, then her tongue, and finally the heat enveloped him, took him inside—all of him—and she began to suck. She suckled him for a long time, enjoying how slick he felt when he was wet with her saliva, then released him and scooted up on him so she could take him into her pussy, with heat even more intense than her mouth.
She caught her breath as she sank down on him, taking him in, and then began to ride him up and down. He put his hands on her hips and began to move in time with her. She leaned over to tease him with her breasts, and he licked and bit them as she dangled them in his face.
She sat up straight then, placing her hands on his chest as she continued to move on him, grinding now, seeking her release. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back as she chased it, and then suddenly there it was, warming her, shaking her, washing over her. She opened her mouth and released a long, guttural groan...
To Clint it was like having molten lava rush over his crotch. She gushed, wetting him, warming him, making him sticky, exciting him more and more until finally he lifted his hips and spurted inside her, again and again, until it felt like she was milking him, until the pleasure mixed with pain, a pain he hoped would never stop...
She collapsed on him as he filled her with hot needles, and at one point the two of them simply twitched, no longer able to move. Breathing both hurt and felt good. Perspiration caused their skin to stick together and the room smelled of both of them.
And they fell asleep that way, with her lying on top of him, but each still aware that their guns were close by, if needed...
Chapter Thirty-Three
They slept ‘til morning, then rolled apart and groped for their clothes and guns.
“Whoa,” she said when she tried to stand up.
“What?’
“My legs are weak.”
He stood up.
“Mine, too. We’re going to have to cut that out.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “It feels too good.”
“Anybody could have sneaked up on us last night,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s true either,” she said. “I was very alert for trouble.”
“Yeah,” he said, “right.”
They took turns at the pitcher and basin, but what they really needed was a bath.
“Let’s have breakfast, then we’ll go looking for some new clothes, and a bath,” he suggested.
“Oooh, a bath together?” she said.
“No, separately,” he said, “or we’ll never get out of the tub. You want to look like a prune?”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Let’s go and eat.”
Clint strapped on his gun belt and Molly handed him her Colt.
“Can you carry that for me?”
He tucked it into his belt. They left the room and went downstairs. There was a clerk behind the desk, but not the one they had been dealing with. This was an older man, who regarded them with a bored look as they approached.
“Rooms six and seven,” Clint said. “Any telegrams for us?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “One for six, two for seven.” He handed them over.
“Thank you.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what happened to our clerk?”
“No idea,” Clint said. “When we came in last night, he wasn’t here.”
“And our keys?” the man asked. “Would you know what happened to all our keys?”
“No idea.”
“Strange.”
“You’re not the owner, are you?” Clint asked.
“No, sir,” the man said. “I’m just a clerk.”
“Well, I guess you better get to finding your keys,” Clint said. “Thanks for the telegrams.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “They came in this morning, sir.”
Outside Molly asked, “Are we gonna read them?”
“Let’s find a place for breakfast first.”
“Someplace nicer than the Barbary Coast?”
Clint answered “There’s a place a few blocks from here that does great steak and eggs.”
“Fine,” she said. “Sounds good. Lead the way.”
Clint tucked the three telegrams into his shirt pocket. The place was still there, and still served great steak and eggs, which they both ordered. Over coffee he handed her die telegram that was addressed to her, from Jim West. He opened his two and read what Rick Hartman and Talbot Roper had to say.
By the time they were done reading, their plates had arrived. They started eating before they discussed the contents of the telegrams.
“So?” she asked.
“I got the same from both of them,” he said. “Tate’s military career is stalled. He’s not expected to rise any higher in rank, or position.”
“That’s what Jim says,” she said. “But he also said he has no reason to question Tate’s loyalty to the United States.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Clint said. “Even a madman can think he’s serving his country.”
“You think Tate might be mad?”
“No.”
“It would make sense,” she said. “Didn’t some men come out of Andersonville crazy?”
“Yes,” he said, “some. Not Tate. Even if he’s mad now, I wouldn’t blame it on Andersonville. Not all these years later.”
“What about Atwater? He could have come out crazy and hidden it all these years. Maybe thinking he saw Henry Wirz brought it out.”
“Maybe,” Clint said.
“Nothing more helpful in your telegrams?”
“No,” Clint said.
She handed hers across to him.
“Jim says to telegraph a man named Frank Harper in Washington,” she said. “He says he’ll know more about the senator’s schedule.”
“Frank Harper used to be a partner of Jim’s,” he said. “We’ll do that after we eat.”
“After we have a bath and get some new clothes,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, tucking the telegrams away. “For now let’s stop talking and start eating.”
“I won’t argue with that,” she said.
Clint cut into his steak, scooped up some eggs, and forked the whole thing into his mouth. He was feeling stronger already.
Chapter Thirty-Four
They found a bathhouse off the Barbary Coast, just to be fairly certain their belongings—or at least, their guns and money—wouldn’t be stolen while they were bathing. Clint also had a shave and a haircut before they were done.
After that they went to a store where they could both buy some new clothes. They both shopped in a similar fashion—new pants and several shirts. Molly bought a new hat. Their boots were in good shape, so neither bought any footwear. Clint bought some new socks.
They threw out their old clothes and wore some of the new duds out, carrying the rest wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.
&n
bsp; “Now what?” she asked.
“I think,” he said, “it’s probably time to change hotels. Too many people seem to know about the Bucket of Blood.”
“Should we go back there?” she asked. “Your saddlebags are still there.”
“With an extra gun, a book, and not much else,” he said.
“What about your rifle?”
“I’ll go back later,” he said. “When this is all over.”
“So we go to a new hotel right now?”
“Yup,” he said. “Right now”
“Where?”
“I’ll show you.”
As they approached the Farrell House Hotel, Molly gasped. “Whooee.”
“And this is off Portsmouth Square,” he said. “A few blocks that way are the really big hotels and gaming houses.”
“This isn’t big?”
“This is considered medium,” he said. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
As they entered the opulent lobby, she asked, “Who owns this place?”
“A good friend of mine named Duke Farrell,” Clint said. He didn’t bother telling her that he owned a piece of it, too.
As they approached the desk, he saw that the clerk was a stranger to him. Personnel changed constantly in the hotel business. The handsome young man watched as they walked toward him, his eyes roaming up and down Molly’s body. When they stopped, she gave him a hard stare.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asked. “Ma’am?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “is Duke around?”
“Mr. Farrell is in his office,” the young man said. “Can I say—”
“I know the way,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
“Sir, you can’t—”
“Don’t worry, son,” Clint said. “It’s okay. We’re old friends.”
He led Molly down a hallway with the young clerk still stammering behind them. When he reached the office door, he knocked and then opened it. Duke Farrell looked up from his desk.
“So, you finally gave up on your Barbary Coast palace?” he asked.
“Yep,” Clint said. “We need a room, Duke. Got anything available?”
Farrell smiled and said, “Best room in the house, for you.”
He came around the desk and the two men embraced warmly. Farrell was barely five-foot-five, but he was a big man in Clint’s eyes. As always, he was wearing a very expensive suit, and his haircut was recent and impeccable.
“Duke, this is Molly.”
“Hello, Molly. You smell mighty good.”
“Just had a bath,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Farrell.”
“Duke,” Farrell said, “just call me Duke.”
“Okay, Duke.”
Farrell looked at Clint. The smaller man could have been forty or fifty, Clint had never known his true age. He had spent many years as a con man before becoming a hotel owner.
“I got your message,” Farrell said. “Did I help?”
“You helped a lot, but now I need a room here.”
“You’ve always got a room here, Clint,” Farrell said. “You know that.”
“Thanks, Duke.”
“Want to tell me what it’s about?” Farrell asked.
“Not yet.”
“Am I gonna get shot at? Or arrested?”
“Shot at, maybe,” Clint said, “but not arrested.”
“Well, that’s somethin’,” Farrell said. “Come on, let’s get you that room.”
Out in the lobby Farrell introduced Clint and Molly to the desk clerk, whose name was Cal.
“Mr. Adams has a regular room in the hotel, Cal,” Farrell said. “The key’s always in the upper-left-hand slot.”
“That’s the one you tell me never to rent out,” Cal said.
“That’s right.”
“So this is …” Cal said, indicating Clint.
“Yes,” Molly said, “he’s the Gunsmith.”
Cal, about Molly’s age, looked at her and asked, “And who are you?”
“For now,” she said, “I’m with him.”
“So,” Cal asked, “one room, then?”
“That’s right,” Molly said brazenly, “one room.”
Cal looked at Clint.
“Any luggage?”
“Sure.” Clint picked up the two brown paper bundles they’d put down when they first came in and handed them to the clerk. “There you go. Take them upstairs like a good lad.”
“I’m a desk clerk,” Cal said, “not a bell man.”
“Take them upstairs, Cal,” Farrell said. “We’ll talk later.”
“Sure, boss.”
Cal came around the desk and took the bundles up the stairs with him.
“Dining room’s open,” Farrell said. “Want to get a bite to eat?”
“Coffee’d be good,” Clint said.
“I think I’ll go up to the room,” Molly said. “See you there later.”
“Sure,” Clint said.
As she went up the stairs, Farrell noticed the Colt Paterson in her belt.
“Will she shoot Cal?” he asked.
“Only if he gets fresh,” Clint said.
Farrell smiled and said, “I guess he’s as good as dead, then. Come on, let’s get that coffee. I think I should hear more about what might get me shot at.”
“But not arrested,” Clint reminded him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“She’s a what?” Farrell asked.
“A Secret Service agent.”
Farrell sat back in his chair.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“I’m not.”
“How old is she?”
“I never asked.”
“Are you workin’ for the Secret Service now?” Farrell asked.
“Not in any official capacity,” Clint said. “I just happened to end up with her.”
“So who are you workin’ for?”
“I’m doin’ a favor for somebody.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Farrell said. “West?”
Clint nodded.
“That jasper is always gettin’ you in trouble.”
“We’ve gotten each other into a lot of trouble over the years.”
“You and me?”
“Me and him,” Clint said, “but yeah, you and me, too.”
“What’s goin’ on, Clint?”
Clint had never told Farrell about Andersonville, and he wasn’t going to start now. At the moment Molly was the only person he’d ever told, and he wanted to keep it that way. He’d never mentioned it to Bat Masterson, Wyatt Earp, Rick Hartman, Talbot Roper—none of them. Jim West knew, but that was different.
“What do you know about a U.S. senator named Harlan Winston?”
“Shitkicker politician from the South,” Farrell said. “Got elected on the basis of his accent, I think.”
Clint sat back. It sounded like Farrell knew more than anyone else he’d inquired with.
“Go on.”
“I don’t know much more,” Farrell said. “I just never knew how he got elected. One minute he was nobody—no, ‘unknown’ would be a better word—and the next thing you know, he’s in the Senate.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Farrell said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the fix was in.”
“Why wouldn’t you say the fix is in?” Clint asked.
“Because we all know elections aren’t fixed, right?” Farrell asked.
Clint didn’t respond. What if the fix had been in? But who fixed it? And why? And if there was a fix, that didn’t mean that Winston was Henry Wirz.
“You want to tell me what this is all really about?” Farrell asked.
“Nope,” Clint said. “Better for you not to know.”
“So from this point on, I should just mind my own business?”
“That would be best, Duke.”
Farrell sat back.
“I’m gonna have some pie.”
“Peach?” Clint asked.
“Apple,” Farrell said, “but I can get you peach if you want.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll have a piece of pie with you.”
Farrell waved the waiter over.
In the hallway upstairs Molly had been heading for the room when the door opened and Cal stepped out.
“Where’s your Gunsmith?” he asked.
“Downstairs with your boss,” she said.
He blocked her path.
“So I guess that leaves you and me.”
She laughed. He crowded her against the wall.
“I don’t think that’s very likely,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because you said it yourself,” she answered. “You’re a desk clerk.”
“And he’s a cheap gunman.”
“There’s nothing cheap about Clint Adams.”
She tried to spin away from him, but he put his hand on her arm.
“If you don’t move that hand, you’ll lose it.”
“I’m not used to having girls tell me to take my hands off them,” he said.
Her hand came around from behind her back and she shoved the barrel of the Colt Paterson underneath his chin. “This woman is telling you to move your hand.”
He removed it.
“Now you better go back to work while you still can.” She could see that he wanted to say something, but in the end he just turned and stormed away.
When Clint came up to the room, Molly had made herself comfortable. She was sitting in an overstuffed armchair, drinking brandy from a snifter.
“This is better than any room I ever saw in a Washington hotel,” she said.
“Glad you like it.”
He sat in the other chair.
“Did you get anything from your friend?”
“Not much.”
“So what’s our next step?”
“I’m stuck.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what to do next.”
“So we just wait for the senator to arrive next Tuesday?”
“I suppose.”
“That’ll be your first look at him, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll be able to tell whether or not he’s Wirz?” she asked.
