by Lisa Henry
The whore drew him on to the end of the hallway and knocked on the door. “Harlan!”
The door opened and there he was.
Harlan Crane. The owner of the Empire, two different cardrooms, and part stakes in a good number of claims around South Pass City. He was a rich man, and maybe a dangerous man. The things that were said about Harlan Crane should have scared Elijah, but they didn’t. Not enough to look away.
Crane was in his forties. He wore a beard and mustache, the usually clean edges blunted with late-night stubble. His face had begun to weather. He had fine lines across his forehead and crinkles at the corners of his dark, clever eyes. A few pockmarks pitted one cheek, and Elijah had found his gaze drawn there. The tiny imperfections made Crane seem more handsome.
“Well now,” Crane said, buttoning up his waistcoat. He slid his hand across the front of his trousers, and Elijah was mortified to discover his gaze following it. He barely looked up in time to catch what Crane said next. “Good evening, young Elijah.”
The fact that Harlan Crane knew his name, and the way that his narrow mouth curled as he said it, made his stomach clench. He dropped his gaze and watched Crane’s dexterous fingers manipulate the buttons of his waistcoat.
Good evening, young Elijah. Everyday words. Banal pleasantries backed by a smile so fucking knowing that it turned Elijah’s word upside down. All of Elijah’s worst, most sinful thoughts laid bare in a heartbeat. Laid bare in that smile. But thoughts weren’t deeds. Weren’t.
Could be.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Crane stepped back, holding the door open.
Elijah hesitated, and the whore pushed him gently inside.
Crane closed the door behind him.
It was a large room. A bed, a writing desk, a tallboy with one door partly open. A mirror tacked to the wall above a sideboard. A washstand, with a folded razor sitting beside a jug and basin. A leather strop hanging from a hook beside the mirror.
French doors opened out onto a balcony that overlooked the street. The doors were latched open. The curtains shifted in the breeze, and Elijah wondered what South Pass City looked like from Harlan Crane’s balcony—as the king of the castle—but he didn’t want to look, too afraid to be seen.
There was a rug on the floor, a proper Turkish carpet with swirls of faded color. It looked like the one from Dr. Carter’s copy of Arabian Nights. Elijah followed the pattern with his gaze. He wanted to touch the carpet and see if it was as soft as it looked. He was imagining the feel of the fibers against his fingertips, and thinking of princes and djinns, when he realized Crane was speaking to him.
“What’s your business here, boy?”
He held up the envelope. His hand shook. “From Mr. Dawson, sir.”
Crane smiled, and Elijah couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or not. Maybe he’d spoken too quietly, too loudly, or carelessly run his words together. Or maybe it was just a smile.
Crane took the envelope. Without even checking its contents, he tossed it onto the writing desk. “I take it that Mr. Dawson was satisfied with the assistance I gave him.”
Elijah didn’t know how to respond. Dawson didn’t tell him shit. He looked down at the carpet again. Frowned at it and tried not to hunch over. It took him a moment to realize that Crane was speaking again.
“Don’t just stand there, boy.”
He flushed. From the tone of his voice, it was obvious Crane was repeating himself. “Sir?”
“Your deafness, Elijah,” Dr. Carter always said, “is very much exacerbated by your lack of attention.”
Elijah looked worriedly at Crane.
Crane crooked a finger at him.
He looked from Crane’s lips to his eyes and worried about what he’d missed. There must have been some words spoken, some order given apart from that curt nod. Understanding didn’t pass in a glance, not like this. It couldn’t be what he thought. Feared. Wanted.
Heat coiled in his belly. Then lower.
Cold dread followed it.
No. He didn’t want it.
This was a precipice he was balanced on. Elijah couldn’t articulate why, but it had something to do with the way he couldn’t read Crane’s smile. He felt a sudden rush of fear and was afraid he was trembling with the strange, sick want that welled up inside him. Almost whimpering because Crane could see it. Wanting to run because he was so very afraid of the unknowable thing that was expected of him here.
Elijah crossed the room, the soles of his boots gliding over the carpet.
Crane held up his hand. A narrow leather strap, thin as a lace, dangled from his fist. “That your only business here?”
He didn’t know what was happening. Elijah felt as panicked as the yearling. He could still smell its blood. Could still feel the shuddering vibrations of its fearful bellows in his bones. It didn’t stop him from continuing to move toward Crane, though. Didn’t stop him from standing right in front of the man, close enough to touch, and wondering, marveling, at how this moment felt so different than any other he’d ever felt in his life.
“You listening to me, boy?”
No.
“Sorry, sir.”
“You oughta look a man in the eye when you speak.”
Elijah lifted his gaze from Crane’s crooked mouth. “Yes, sir.”
Crane smiled and curled his fingers around the back of Elijah’s neck. “You’re not as dumb as folks say, are you?”
His flesh prickled under the man’s touch. He looked down at the narrow leather strap that hung from Crane’s other hand and wondered again what it meant. Wondered what Crane saw when he looked at Elijah. Wondered why standing in this room with this man made it feel like the entire world had tilted. In a second, he’d fall right off.
He was already breathless.
“Give me your hands,” Crane said.
Elijah—God help me—obeyed.
Crane turned him and bound his wrists. Turned him back again.
The leather was tight against Elijah’s skin. It dug in. He stood there, breathless, not understanding how he had allowed this to happen, wriggling his fingers against the small of his back. He thought again of the yearlings, how some panicked and struggled when they were roped and some just went quiet. Whatever was happening here, now, Elijah didn’t understand it any better than a dumb beast. Whatever it was, it felt as certain as death.
“How much do you hear?” Crane asked him. “You hear me now?”
The roar in Elijah’s skull almost drowned him out, and Elijah struggled to answer. “Yes, sir, I hear you. If it’s noisy, I don’t hear. I-I gotta read lips then, sir.”
“Hmm.” Crane’s mouth quirked, a smile as brief as any Elijah had ever seen. “You ain’t stupid, are you?”
“No, sir,” Elijah croaked.
“Sound it though,” Crane said.
Elijah’s face burned, as though that was the biggest indignity here. As though Harlan Crane hadn’t bound his wrists for some unknown purpose.
Unknown, but dreamed of.
Unthinkable, but necessary.
Crane reached out and ran his fingers through Elijah’s hair. Tugged his head back. “I’ve seen you watching me, boy. Nothing wrong with your eyes, is there?”
“No, sir,” Elijah breathed, his heart stammering.
Crane smiled again, wrinkles appearing in the corners of his dark eyes. He crossed to the bureau and picked up a bottle. Poured himself a drink while Elijah stood and stared and fidgeted.
He had watched Harlan Crane. Couldn’t help it. Because he was dangerous, and because he was handsome. Because he strode down the streets of South Pass City like he was a king and didn’t care about the whispers that followed him. Elijah had envied that. But it was more than envy too. Elijah had known that from the start. Envy shouldn’t make his face burn when he thought of it. Shouldn’t knot his belly the way it did. Shouldn’t make his cock hard.
His deafness wasn’t his only deficiency.
And Crane had seen Elijah’s shamef
ul secret. Seen it and understood it.
Crane was a dangerous man, and Elijah knew it. He was afraid of Crane, but not afraid enough to run.
Crane leaned against the bureau and unbuckled his belt. “Get on the bed. On your knees.”
No.
The word didn’t come. Wouldn’t.
Fear coiled in Elijah’s gut, but he was here now. His hands were bound, fixed; he wished his resolve were too.
Crane’s expression was knowing. “I don’t like to repeat myself, boy.”
Even as his fear spiked, even as he shuffled toward the bed, a part of Elijah was relieved. Yes, he’d believe that was a threat. He’d believe that he couldn’t free his hands, either. He’d believe that this wasn’t his choice at all, that whatever happened, he was blameless.
It was a lie, but he’d believe it for as long as he could.
Elijah knelt on the bed, finding his balance awkwardly.
Crane moved behind him, his body large and warm. His stubble scraped Elijah’s ear. “Do you know why I tied your hands, Elijah?”
He swallowed, shaking now. “No, sir.”
“Because this will hurt.” Crane reached around him and unfastened Elijah’s belt. Yanked his trousers and drawers down. Elijah flinched, and Crane ran a hand over the curve of his ass. “You’ve never been fucked, have you?”
“N-no, sir.”
Crane’s laughter was low in his ear. “I ain’t got much patience for virgins. You just grit your teeth and mind you don’t scream too loud.”
Oh God.
It was fear that had drawn him here and held him here, and now that same fear was screaming at Elijah to get away. He twisted, but Crane pushed him forward onto the bed, forcing him to spread his legs and take his weight. Elijah let out a sound that began as a sob in the back of his throat, and was swallowed by the mattress as Crane shoved his face down.
A thumb ran down the crease of his ass, wet with something. Hair oil, Elijah realized. The scent of it filled the room.
And then—Elijah couldn’t see, but he knew what it had to be—the hot, wide head of Crane’s cock pressed up against his hole. Elijah froze in this terrible, wonderful, unthinkable moment, and Crane pushed in.
Pain. Elijah shuddered and moaned like the dying yearling. He whimpered, his cheek rubbing back and forth against the sheet. Squeezing his eyes shut only made it worse. Nowhere to go with his eyes closed. Nothing to do except feel, and it hurt. It fucking hurt, but something in the rhythm, maybe the friction, made his cock hard.
“Tight,” Crane grunted. “Tight little bitch.”
Wasn’t supposed to be like this: on his knees, his back bowed, his face pressed into sheets that smelled of sweat. His bound hands opening and closing against the small of his back. Crane’s fist in his hair.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
It hurt, but somehow Elijah came harder in Crane’s bed than he ever had before under the furtive, urgent attention of his own hand. Something about the pain, something about the fear. Something about the way Harlan Crane saw him.
It took his breath away.
Grady had seen the kid before. The butcher’s boy. He’d first seen him months ago and couldn’t get him out of his head after that.
Elijah Carter, Lovell had told him while wearing a frown like he couldn’t quite figure why Grady was asking. Grady wasn’t sure himself. Elijah was young. Young enough that he looked a little unfinished around the edges, like clay that hadn’t properly hardened yet. Not his usual sort. There was something about him though, something about the way he held himself, silent and watchful. Like he was keeping himself apart.
Mostly deaf, Lovell had added, and Grady had understood then. The kid wasn’t aloof, wasn’t proud. He was just wrapped in silence was all, and not through any choice of his own. Grady had watched Elijah a little more closely after that, every time they came into town to deliver their stolen cattle to Dawson. Saw enough that he’d guessed the kid wasn’t stupid. Just afflicted, and overlooked.
Grady sure as hell hadn’t expected to see him in the Empire, getting led up the steps by one of the whores. The kid’s eyes were as big as an owl’s. Grady could almost see his heart hammering out of his chest. Something about it didn’t sit right.
“Special delivery for Mr. Crane!” the whore laughed, and then they’d climbed the stairs.
Grady burned a little with jealousy. There was no shame in admitting that. He’d had his eye on the kid for months now. It felt a little like he’d been sitting on a decent hand of cards for the whole night, and then some asshole pulled out the aces. There was no use getting sore over it. Plenty of other asses to fuck, if you knew where to look. It had been a while, though, which was the only reason he’d felt angry.
Not because he was actually worried for the kid.
Not because he knew Harlan Crane’s reputation.
He’d just been beaten to the mark was all.
Besides, it was Elijah Carter’s business who he fucked.
Grady watched the stairs for a moment, then turned his attention back to his plate. The Empire did a good meal: beef stew and bread with a whiskey on the side for thirty cents. This late at night it was the scrapings from around the edge of the pot, but Grady was too hungry to care.
“I’m going back to the hotel after this,” he said. “See if I can’t get a bath.”
“You can get a bath here,” Cody said, his eyes dancing.
“Not really my interest.”
Dale snorted.
Not that Grady minded a girl scrubbing his back and giving him a shave. But what he really wanted was to relax and let the hot water soak out his aches and pains from the trail. He didn’t want to close his eyes and have his peace broken by the sounds of miners and townsmen fucking whores through paper-thin walls. Or be disturbed by whatever noise Elijah was making, either.
That sat sour in his gut.
Plenty of other asses to fuck, but something about Elijah wouldn’t let him go.
“I’ll come with you, I guess,” Matt said.
Grady looked at him in surprise. “You sure?”
Matt was the youngest of his cousins. Twenty-four now, and there was something restless about him that had been growing for about a year or more. Maybe, like Grady, he was just getting tired of stealing cattle. Maybe he couldn’t see the picture of their future that Dale painted, either.
“Yeah, I finish my book tonight and I can buy another one tomorrow before we head back,” Matt said.
Cody rolled his eyes. “Hell, Matty, we’re surrounded by women who’ll suck you off for a half dollar and you want to read a book?”
“Jesus, Cody,” Matt said, flushing. “Don’t say that.”
Cody scraped his bread over his plate, soaking up the remains of the stew. “Why the hell not? You go along with Grady then. I’m getting my bath, and anything else I want, right here.”
Grady shoved his plate away. “C’mon.”
Matt stood, and together they shouldered their way out of the Empire and onto the street. They headed toward the Liberty Hotel by the Exchange Bank. South Pass City was busy tonight, even at this late hour. The saloons and cardrooms were full as the miners rushed to spend whatever they’d dug out of the dirt during the week.
It took a dollar to convince the man on the desk at the Liberty that they wanted a bath made ready, and it took another thirty minutes or so until there was enough hot water in the tub to make it worthwhile.
They tossed a coin for it.
“Fine,” Matt grizzled. “You go first, but I ain’t scrubbing your back.”
Grady settled in the bath, watching the water turn cloudy as he ran the washcloth over his skin. Matt sat cross-legged on the floor and read his latest dime novel in the lamplight.
Grady relinquished the tub reluctantly.
Matt set his book aside and stripped. Sloshed water onto the floor as he sat in the tub. “Aw, hell.”
“You want a shave?” Grady asked him, pulling on his cleanest u
nderwear and hunting for his razor and strop.
“Okay.”
Matt leaned back and closed his eyes.
Grady knelt beside him. “Can remember doing this for you the first time. Wasn’t that long ago.”
“It was years,” Matt said, opening his eyes far enough to squint at him. “I’m not a kid.”
“I know that.” Grady scraped the razor over his cousin’s jaw. “Makes me wonder why you’re not spending your money at the Empire, I guess.”
Matt tightened his grip on the edge of the tub. “Not my interest, either, I guess.” He flushed. “I mean I ain’t—you know, same as you.”
Grady snorted, but his stomach clenched a little. His cousins didn’t talk about this. They knew—had known ever since Grady had been careless one night a few years back—but they kept his secret quiet, even among themselves. “I know.”
“Just don’t want to spend my money on that, is all,” Matt said.
Grady regarded him curiously. “You holding a torch for someone special?”
“No,” Matt said, but the denial was too sharp to ring entirely true.
“Mmm.” Grady tilted his chin back with two fingers and worked the blade of the razor against his throat. “Careful.”
The warning wasn’t for the razor.
Matt’s gaze darted to his.
Grady had seen the way Matt looked at Kate—Mrs. Bannister, rather. Dale was married to Bertram Bannister’s sister Janet, which made them a tenuous kind of family, Grady guessed, although Bannister was always making comments about how Janet had married beneath herself. Grady didn’t suppose he’d think any more kindly of the Mullins clan if he figured Matt was sweet on his wife.
Bannister was an asshole.
“Yeah,” Matt said. His gaze slid away again.
Grady finished shaving him and stood up. He wiped the razor clean and stowed it back with his gear, then climbed under the bedcovers. “Don’t fall asleep in the tub, Matt.”
“I won’t.” Matt was already engrossed in his book again, holding it awkwardly over the side of the bath so he didn’t get it wet.
Grady closed his eyes and tried not to think about the butcher’s boy. Couldn’t help picturing that face, though, and wondering what it looked like when it was screwed up with pleasure.
