Bounty Hunter

The man walked in the saloon, the wooden doors swinging heavily behind him. Gravel crackled under his boots as he was welcomed by the reek of cheap alcohol and gin sweat. The handful of drunken men barely spared him a glance. Someone was singing a crooked, out of tune, love song. Worn out cards slapped on wooden tabletops, the tired clinking of glass against glass as someone poured a drink.

William Hunt didn't pay attention to any of it.

He had the best part of a whiskey flask in him, a gun heavy at his side, the stubble of four days on his face, and a sure lead. A lead he might have dragged out of a whimpering man, pressing the barrel of his gun hard into his cheek and wondering out loud whether at this particular angle the man's eye would explode as the bullet tore through it before it blew up his brain. The man couldn't speak fast enough to tell William what he wanted to know.

William hadn't shot the man, of course. He hadn't even intended to. He was just good at knowing what it would take to make a man talk; it came with the job after all. This one you could scare into spilling, that one you had to beat up, that one would crack after you broke a couple of fingers.

Whatever it took to get information.

William knew where James Campbell was holed up, and that was all he needed.

Worn steps creaked under his boots as he climbed the stairs. He bumped shoulders with a pudgy man coming down, wobbling, drunk off his ass, still trying to shove his shirt back into his trousers. He was escorted by a giggling woman whose hand was discreetly rummaging in the man's pockets, relieving him of various possessions. William just walked on. He had business. Plus, truth be told, his sympathies went to the woman.

The lights were off, but there was still enough dusty sunlight coming in through the dirty window to see. The corridor was narrow, all the doors closed, scratched wood too thin to stifle the noises coming from inside the rooms: grunts and creaks and the choreographed high pitched moans of the whores. The third door to the left, the whimpering man had said, so William walked to it, stopped, and listened.

It seemed Campbell was having fun. It was no different from the sounds coming from the other rooms. It looked like William had gotten there at the best moment, too. He lifted his hand, placed it on the scraped wooden door, and heard the slamming of the headboard against the wall increase in speed and the woman's wails rise in volume. They sounded oddly authentic and, despite himself, William found himself listening closely, trying to catch a hint of James' voice. He remembered James' low, guttural sounds, the harsh quality of his voice as he moaned in William's ear, the broken words that started slipping from his lips in an uncontrolled litany when he was about to come. And more than his voice, his body—the span of tanned skin and taut vibrating muscle under William's hands, his muscular chest heaving as he gasped, coated in a sheen of sweat. His blond hair ruffled and wild around his face as he looked up at William with glazed blue eyes, his strong legs tight around William's hips as he pulled him in, strong and demanding and wild.

William could hear deep moans coming from inside the room, in a rich voice that made his skin prickle. He pressed his fingertips to the door, feeling splinters graze his skin, and swallowed.