The dress was a mishmash of different pieces, but somehow it all worked together. The damn thing was uncomfortable beyond belief. It had too many darn frills, lace and tassels, and it made her feel like a lampshade. The lace was itchy and too revealing, leaving little to the imagination. Coyote wasn’t a particularly bashful woman, but she felt ridiculous in the get-up, and very unlike herself. She had to admit, though, the girls had put together the perfect dress for the part.
“I make a fine-looking prostitute.” Coyote turned in front of the mirror to admire all angles. It wasn’t modest or humble, but she didn’t care. The girls appreciated her candor and laughed loudly.
Coyote bit her lip and tried to decide what to make of the new her. The soft fabrics were light against her skin, and with the exception of the painful corset, she felt almost nude.
“It’s a good thing I’m not demure.” She turned around to see Caesar make his way toward her. He looked rather flustered, and was trying his best not to bump into the scantily clad ladies. When he saw Coyote, Caesar stopped in his tracks and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath before he looked at her again. Coyote smirked and met Caesar’s uncomfortable stare with a crooked smile. “I see this dress meets your approval,” she laughed, hoisting the chafing corset into a more pleasant position.
Caesar rolled his eyes in response.
“That guy you’re doing this for . . . ,” Carrie, one of the more outspoken prostitutes, said, “Mr. Westwood’s friend? He won’t be able to keep his eyes off you.”
“Let me fix your outfit,” Maria said, pushing Carrie aside. The short, plump prostitute pulled the cords of the corset so tight that Coyote had to hold her breath. The constrictive material made it difficult to inhale, and she fought against the black spots that danced in front of her eyes.
Coyote realized that she had hit men for causing her less pain than this, and she marveled again at what women were willing to go through to look good. She adjusted the garter belts that held up her stockings. Even they were getting on her nerves. Everything pinched and poked her skin.
“You ladies really earn your money,” she complained, struggling to get her stockings in a less awkward position. “I tip my hat at you.” She made a movement to grab her derby, and her fingers swished at air. “If I were wearing one,” she muttered.
“Well, I wouldn’t want your job,” Maria retorted, “I’d rather make my money with my legs spread than staring into the barrel of a gun.” She primped her copper curls and looked coquettishly at the blond bounty hunter.
“If I’m doing my job right, I’ll be looking along the barrel of a gun. Not into one,” Coyote quipped. “And speaking of jobs, you know what your part is in this one, right?”
Coyote looked over her shoulder at Maria. The prostitute pulled the red curls out of her eyes and smiled the way only a loose woman could smile.
“Give James Westwood such a good time that he’ll forget what day it is?” The woman let out an almost childlike giggle and hid her mouth behind her hand. Maria was a pretty little Irish girl with copper red hair and light brown freckles. What Coyote liked best about her was that she was James Westwood’s favorite girl in the brothel, and she didn’t mind being bribed. It hadn’t been too difficult for Coyote to find her. It was common knowledge that Westwood visited Maria more than the other girls. The man had a strange sense of loyalty, and the prostitutes seemed to admire him for it.
There had been an instant chemistry between the short, redheaded lady of leisure, and the tall, blond bounty hunter with her long hair and impish smile. Sometimes women bond quickly, and Coyote was grateful for Maria’s help. Her plan to disguise herself as a prostitute had amused Maria, who’d taken it as a personal challenge to make Coyote look the part, guiding the other girls in what to do.
Maria placed her hands on her hips and smiled. “You leave Mr. James Westwood up to me,” she giggled, hiding her mouth.
Coyote noticed that the girl was a lot more insecure than she wanted to let on. The hand that hid her smile was a telltale sign. Like the other girls in the brothel, Maria was playing a part. Coyote wondered what it had to be like, living here and selling your body. It was better than some of the other jobs she could think of, and even better than having no job at all . . . but Coyote appreciated her freedom, and she couldn’t imagine having to play a part to please men.
More faces appeared in the door, and girls screamed with joy when they saw Coyote in her costume. Everyone had seen her now, and the chatting females pulled at bits of her ensemble, making lewd remarks. Coyote just smiled and let them have their fun until she felt it had lasted long enough. With a soft touch, she pushed the girls off her and put her hands on her hips.
“Well, okay then, if everyone knows what to do . . . ,” Coyote said to her smirking audience. She shot a wink at Maria. “Let’s go kill us a baby-eating Outlander.”
The prostitutes gave an appreciative cry in unison, and one or two clapped their hands with an expression of glee. There was something about these ladies that made them seem very young. Their manners were notably juvenile. The way they coquettishly batted their eyelashes and hid their smiles behind gloved hands reminded Coyote of young schoolgirls.
With a determined look, Coyote hoisted the lacy fabric a little further over her ample bosom and stuck a cloth rose in her primped up hair. She couldn’t help but feel a little comical.
WESTWOOD
Coyote decided this was the worst job she’d ever had. The evening had been an absolute nightmare. It even topped the one back in Elkhart, when she had to hide in a cart full of lukewarm manure for several hours. That stunk, but at least the smell washed off. She wondered if she could ever wash off the greasy paw prints from the patrons of Sassy Sally’s. It took all her effort not to punch any of them in the face or break a few fingers. If she had one more horny customer puff his hot, alcoholic breath on her, Coyote couldn’t guarantee any form of self-control. She wondered how the ladies of the brothel put up with the drunks and the intolerably stupid.
She was grateful for the girls who kept the punters away from her by some very persuasive means. Coyote—whom the girls dubbed as Blonde Betty—was new, according to her colleagues, and still learning. Not all men were easily put off, but a hand in the right place and a carefully exposed part of flesh could do wonders for an eager gentleman. The prostitutes tittered with excitement whenever they got near Coyote. Sally had been bribed for about twenty dollars—but that just seemed to be good form, as Coyote suspected the old madam had a soft spot for her—and from a distance she kept a sharp eye on her girls. Work had to be done, and though Sally wanted to help her out, the “new girl” was not allowed to be a distraction. And, of course, no one was to know that Sally’s girls aided a bounty hunter in any way. It would be bad for business.
After another leery-eyed, sweaty, fat man placed his hand on her behind and tried to slip his finger under her silk undergarments, Coyote had endured enough. Fighting the temptation to put a well-deserved bullet in the man’s private parts, she fled upstairs. There, she stood on the balcony, leaning on the balustrade, where she could watch the customers from a safe distance. The smell of the man and the sight of the thick circles of sweat around his armpits was almost forgotten when she saw Westwood and three of his men enter the brothel. One of them was Alfonso Martine.
Gotcha, Coyote thought. You bugger.
The sight of Westwood made her heart jump. She hadn’t seen him in a long time. The man was devilishly good looking, and for some reason that bothered her.
Bad men should look like the monsters they are, she decided, not enjoy life by being worshipped by women and admired by men. The world was a funny old place that way. Westwood was handsome, rich, very well liked, and lived a life of luxury. On top of it all, he was charming, the very quality she hated in him most. No one seemed to see through his gregarious exterior and into his black heart. His sycophants did not seem to realize the danger of him surrounding himself with Outlanders.
She looked at the people down below, and her face darkened.
The girls gathered around Westwood, giggling and flirting. It was obvious that they all wanted to be near him, and Coyote held her breath. She realized that if the girls didn’t act the way they normally did, Westwood would get suspicious. There was no guarantee the prostitutes could put up a good performance. Westwood would have to choose Maria as his companion for the night. If he didn’t, her plan might not work. Everything was so perfectly laid out, another girl could ruin things entirely. She tried to read her target’s body language.
Westwood’s arms were outstretched, and he accepted the hugs and affections of all the girls around him. A large blonde, almost as tall as Coyote herself, pressed her soft curves against him, and whispered something in his ear. Westwood nodded and smiled at her.
When he took the blonde by the hand and led her toward one of his men, a portly fellow with a large moustache, she thought this plan might not be the best she ever had. But then Westwood left the girl in the arms of the other man and turned his attention back to Maria, and Coyote exhaled with a sense of relief.
The two chatted a little, and then Westwood spoke briefly to Sally, to whom he handed what looked like a stack of dollar bills. Sally smiled, the money disappearing into her ample cleavage, and she squeezed his arm. Westwood tipped his hat at her and grabbed Maria by the waist. He and his chosen lady walked toward the staircase. Coyote stepped back into the corridor and hid in an empty room. It was dark inside, and she leaned against the door to listen.
She could hear the footsteps pass her door, and she heard Westwood’s deep voice. He must have said something very funny because the high, shrill tone of Maria’s laughter followed. They stopped near her door, and Coyote could see the shadow of their feet block out some of the light that shone through the crack below. Her heart almost stopped, and she held her breath.
Coyote sprang into action when the handle turned and the door opened about an inch. She jumped and pushed her weight into the wooden door, forcing it to close.
“We’s really busy in here,” she said in a contrived, drawling southern accent. “Git yer own room.” Coyote bit her lip and waited.
“Terribly sorry, Miss,” Westwood’s deep voice sounded from the other side of the door. Maria giggled again, and his laughter echoed through the hall. Coyote felt her dinner threatening to make its way back out of her stomach. Outside, the voices faded away. Only when she heard another door open and close did she lean her back against the wood, taking a moment to compose herself.
Quietly, she opened the door and peeped around the corner. Westwood and Maria were gone, and Coyote walked quietly back to the balcony. Down below, Alfonso Martine sat in a corner on a large, plush chair. He looked like a normal man. Ugly, but normal. The girls flirted with him, but not in the same way they flirted with Westwood. They were more distant and less eager, which was understandable, because sleeping with Martine would be a challenge for anyone with eyes.
Coyote crouched down and pressed her head against the bars of the balcony, where the wood felt cool and solid against her skin. She wondered if her plan would work. Martine did not seem particularly interested in the women that surrounded him, or in anyone else for that matter. It would be difficult to lure him away. His body language was mildly hostile, and he did not seem to enjoy being touched or talked to.
From where she sat, Coyote could have easily shot the Outlander, but the weapon she had to do the job was too dangerous to use in the middle of a brothel. The bounty hunter could not risk hitting any of the bystanders; the particle beam pistol was too unpredictable. Plus, because of the nature of the Outlander gun, it was better to have as few witnesses as possible. Stories of a gun that could make people dematerialize into a pile of black pudding were stories Coyote would rather not have too many people telling, and she had a sneaky suspicion this one wouldn’t go away as easily as the rampaging carriage, seeing the nature of the clientele. In an establishment like this, it would be almost impossible not to have any witnesses, but she still preferred to be as inconspicuous as possible about the whole thing.
Avoided drama was her favorite kind of drama, Coyote decided, and she had a different kind of plan. A risky kind of plan. It would be a challenge getting Alfonso Martine alone. He was always surrounded by Westwood’s men. Their only hope was to distract all of them—they had the prostitutes to aid with this—get close to Martine, and lure him away with a good excuse. At least right now, he wasn’t near Westwood himself, and that already made things a bit simpler.
There was a familiar sound of a click behind her. Coyote tensed, and slowly turned around to stare straight into the barrel of a gun.
“Damn,” she said.
Her eyes moved past the barrel, past the hand that was holding it, and looked at the man standing behind. It was James Westwood, and he was smiling like a fox.
“Miss Webb, what a pleasure to see you here, and in such delightful circumstances,” he said with a warmth in his voice that made her roll her eyes.
Coyote sighed and put up her hands.
“Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me?”
Her hands remaining in the air, Coyote struggled to stand up straight. The dress constricted her movements. Her bosom threatened to pour out of the top, and Coyote decided to risk her life by lowering one hand and hoisting up the corset. Then she saw something new in Westwood’s eyes. Lust.
He motioned with the gun, indicating where she had to go. Another sigh escaped her lips as she walked ahead of him. He grabbed her arm and steered her forward with the cold steel of the gun poking into the soft flesh of her back. She could feel his breath on her neck, and the sensation opened the gate for old memories to flood back into her mind. Gently, he led her to the room he had hired for the night.
Maria looked at her apologetically, eyes wide and wild, like that of a small, furry animal. She could see the prostitute’s ample bosom move up and down rapidly and realized the girl was more afraid than she was. She was sure Maria hadn’t given her away, not on purpose anyway, but she could see the girl still felt guilty. Coyote shot her a reassuring smile to let Maria know that she wasn’t angry. The plump redhead grabbed her negligee and scurried out, her pretty curls bouncing out with her. Coyote could smell the sweet scent of the prostitute’s flowery perfume as she ran by.
Westwood released his grip and walked around to face her. His whole demeanor showed his triumph, and Coyote fantasized about pistol-whipping him in the face.
“Please, sit.” He pointed the gun at a plain wooden chair.
After a long moment’s hesitation, she obeyed. When she sat down, he tied her hands behind her back and to the seat. The rope wasn’t so tight as to sting, but tight enough to keep her restrained.
This is just grand, she thought.
The chair felt cold against her bare back and through the thin stockings on her legs.
Over his shoulder, she stared at the rest of the room. It was a nice room with a big, four-poster bed, complete with pink and red silk sheets. A lovely flowery scent hung thick in the air—Maria must have sprayed some of her perfume to make it more alluring. Everything was perfectly arranged to be as romantic as possible. Being a prisoner in a prostitute’s boudoir was definitely disconcerting. She was more aware of her own femininity, and felt like the “weaker sex” for the first time in many years. Everything about this situation bothered her. She was too stubborn to be “weak,” but when around Westwood . . . it was always around Westwood when she fell out of her comfort zone; she changed when he was near.
“I have to admit, this was not the place I would have expected to meet you,” Westwood said, smirking. “But I like your choice.” As he pulled back, he let the gun slide ever so softly over the uncovered skin of her leg.
The metal felt cold against her flesh, and the unexpected touch shot pangs of electricity through her abdomen. Then Westwood stood back and took his time to look at her. She struggled to keep her breathing even and her face impa
ssive.
Coyote felt exposed. The revealing dress wasn’t helping her feel any better, but even if she would have been fully dressed, she would have still felt naked. Maybe slightly less naked though. Westwood’s hungry green eyes, sizing her up as if she were an appetizer, certainly didn’t help her confidence.
“That is an interesting costume, Miss Webb,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Something in his voice, in his eyes, unsettled her.
“It is a costume, am I correct? You are still a bounty hunter and have not decided to change your profession?” He smiled wickedly, and Coyote knew he was toying with her. She rolled her eyes at him, but said nothing.
“I didn’t think so.” His hand rubbed through his neatly groomed black hair, and he stared at her as if he were expecting her to say something. A thought crossed his mind, and his expression changed; somehow it became almost fragile.
Coyote watched him, amazed that her silence unsettled him. He paced back and forth, shaking off his discomfort. His green eyes met hers, then he took a spot on the bed in front of her.
The mattress was soft, and he sank into the sheets as he sat, staring at her in mute interest. Faint tunes from a piano, boisterous voices, and laughter sounded from downstairs. Coyote pictured the patrons who celebrated their night in ignorant bliss. Hidden in their midst was Caesar, and she wondered how he was doing.
Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) Page 16
