𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 1) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺
playlist pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7 pt. 8 (10/24)
𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳
𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧
𝘸𝘤 — 17.7𝘬 (crying TT)
𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵
𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯
note: the year is circa 1908 and 10 years after the spanish-american war (1898). reader has long hair bc i felt like that was historically accurate... hope that's ok <3
header gunslinger ghost render by @ave661
you had heard the whispers on the horizon.
the whole town buzzed with a sort of energy—a swirling mass of dusty brown and gurgling in your stomach.
anxiety. you saw it on passerby faces through Daddy’s saloon, the bouncing knee of your mama under the table while you said grace at dinner. she never bounced her knee. it was a strict habit she trained you out of from a young age. claimed that it wasn’t proper for a young, unmarried lady like yourself.
that morning, when you stood over the wash bin in front of the dusty mirror, you wiped at your face with an old washcloth and smoothed the lines of your face like your mama taught you.
Ghost was coming to town.
no matter how you brushed your hair, the dust climbing through the desert coated it in a thin, particulate grime. Mama tightened your corset as you shoved your toes into leather heeled boots.
“remember yourself, girl,” she spoke lowly. “remember your manners. behave for once and don’t embarrass your daddy.”
you only rolled your eyes at her hissed warnings. you had met with Daddy’s business partners over several dinners where you put on your best show to pour them a glass of Daddy’s fancy bourbon all the way from kentucky.
these were the rules: you don’t speak to them unless spoken to, and you let them touch you however they please.
you shuddered, stomach curling at the thought of the last dinner. Mr. Turner’s wrinkled hand had slid up your thigh and you twisted away in reflex, accidentally knocking a bottle of bourbon onto the floor that shattered and soaked the hem of his wife’s fancy dress.
she had screamed at you and your daddy’s face had gone red, sending you a look of warning. Mama barely spared you a glance as she pulled you down to the floor to clean it up, pinching the skin of your arm in frustration.
you couldn’t tell if it felt worse to have Mr. Turner’s hand squeezing at your thigh or to be at your knees in front of him.
the strings of your corset pulled tight and you bit back a gasp as Mama tied it deftly with the practiced curl of her rough hands. you put on your best blouse and tucked it into a navy skirt that flowed into a blue, watery circle round your ankles. looking into the mirror, you thought your mama looked so much more poised and ready than you.
with a shaky exhale, you turned to her and she slapped at your face. you winced at the sting it left on your cheek.
“you’ll be fine.”
you felt far from it, trailing after her as the orange sun bled through the grimey windows, a blanket of dust settling on them in the windy evening. you had scrubbed them only yesterday.
settling yourself behind the expanse of Daddy’s bar, you smoothed over the dark wood. the saloon was eerily empty and quiet, a silent omen of Ghost’s arrival approaching. he had sent word only a few days ago. he had urgent business with Daddy and he was coming. now.
as you shuffled through Daddy’s whiskey collection, rearranging and wiping bottles down, you remembered the legends that alcoholics brought in every other week. another story on Ghost—the masked iron harbinger of death and justice. he wasn’t a sheriff, a good and honorable christian, or a vigilante. he was a bounty hunter, a cold-hearted gunslinger with a nasty sore spot for bourbon, money, and women. someone who disappeared without a trace, shooting out runaway criminals, bringing back carcasses for an extra dime.
he wasn’t even human.
a ghost. or so you heard.
you combed through the alcoholic contents, anxiously placing them and replacing them. your mama would be calling you to dinner any second and lead you to the table, Daddy at the head and Ghost at the other, right next to your spot where his hand would be on your thigh, eyes burning into the curve of your cheek.
swallowing, you leaned against the bar top. you wanted to run away. you didn’t know how much longer you could go—how many more business partners Daddy would work with to expand his saloon chain. how much longer until he would be selling his daughter’s honor for a bigger investment…
the familiar click and chime of the saloon doors swinging open came from behind. you crossed your arms and didn’t turn to see who it was. you knew Mama would’ve had your head for being so rude.
“saloon’s closed,” you called out, “Daddy’s got business with—”
“Ghost.”
you stiffened and uncrossed your arms to peer over your shoulder.
there, at the entrance of the saloon, stood a broad and tall figure, hips thick and laden with a gun holster. he hooked his fingers on his belt, embroidered silver buckle glimmering in the red hours of the evenings. his backlit silhouette stark against the sunset made it hard to make out anything else, but you were sure when you saw the shine of his red mask and the wide berth of his black Stetson, a silver skull and crossbones clasped to its brim.
Daddy’s got business with Ghost.
you were frozen. the casual way his thick gloved hand settled on his revolver sent tremors through you.
“you’re supposed to be at dinner with Daddy,” you said, throat tight, and he trudged forward, boots heavy on the wood floorboards. he walked with a heady weight, and as he neared, you could make out the darkness of his eyes piercing through his skull mask.
“wanted bourbon.”
you stared at him for a long moment. he sat at a barstool, all his weight and broadness settled over the bartop. whatever trance you were in broke when he tipped his head at you in question—or impatience, you couldn’t discern. probably the latter.
you fumbled for a kentucky bourbon. you had done this a million times over at the saloon, but the crackle of the air and his gaze following your every move had your hands wobbling. the shaky clink of the bourbon bottle against the glass grappled with the silence of the room. suddenly, you felt hyper aware of the looseness of your blouse when you bent to pour his bourbon. you didn’t dare look up into his gaze.
“you scared of me?” his accent was foreign and grating and sent shivers down your spine. you should’ve been hollering for your mama at this point, but you felt rooted to the spot.
shakily, you exhaled. “no.”
when you pulled back, you watched in amazement as he pulled up the bottom of his black mask, revealing a canvas of pale skin, dark stubble, and a strong jawline that pulled into a tight frown on his lips. a litter of scars shone silver in the light when he tipped back to drain the glass of bourbon.
when he placed the empty glass back on the table, he reached into the inner pocket of his black trench coat and pulled out a cigarette. you flinched when his heavy gaze ran over you.
“light me up, lovely?”
you nodded dumbly, reaching for the lighter under the countertop and held it out to him. he looked up at you, unmoving, and you blinked in confusion before his gloved hand gripped your wrist with a tightness.
he moved your hand with his own, thumbing over the sparkwheel till the flame jumped to life and leaned his mouth forward to tip his cigarette into the flame.
your whole body felt light and fiery—like you were floating a bit off the ground, shoulders drawn with a tightness. a sharp exhale left you when he finally released you, the skin of your wrist tingling in the memory of his leather grip.
smoke clouded your eyes in a haze and you blinked rapidly, quickly wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. he huffed, corners of his lips twitching, a dark gleam in his eye. his rested his hand against the countertop, smoke trailing up in the room and you watched his lips part like he was about to say something—
Mama strode into the room, freezing at the entrance of the back door behind the counter. you had never seen her so tense, her eyes moving from you, to the hulking man smoking a cigarette.
“welcome, sir,” she greeted and he only nodded, pulling his mask back down as he snuffed out his cigarette in an ashtray.
it was like you remembered yourself in that moment, that the man across from you was Ghost, the bounty hunter, the murderer, and the devil. you shuffled away into her side when Ghost stood. her arm was tight when it circled your waist, and you mustered all your strength not to shake. Mama’s gaze was on him but Ghost was only staring at you.
you stared at the floor instead.
“this way, sir,” she said, gate polite and posture poised as she led you and Ghost to the dining room through the back of the saloon’s supply and storage to the other side of the building where he was supposed to enter.
his footsteps were heavy behind you and the hair on your neck prickled. you scurried forward but it was like you could feel his warm breath down your back.
when you found Daddy, it was almost a crushing relief to see the sweeping calm on his half-lidded face at the dinner table. he was so charming, you were sure he could use his business skills to weasel out of this. like he had a million times before.
Mama’s steaming food was laid out over the table—buttered chicken, thick mashed potatoes, greasy green beans with bacon bits. you tried to move to sit on the opposite side of the table, far away from Ghost, but your daddy’s eyes pinned you with a warning and you grimaced, sitting carefully next to him. Ghost’s gaze burned your face.
“Ghost,” Daddy greeted, “pleasure to see you again.”
he only grunted, mask pulled tight over his features. you couldn’t see anything but the dark swirl of his eyes. he didn’t even take off his hat at the table.
you glanced at your mother’s face by Daddy but her eyes were intent, focused on Ghost. she didn’t seem to care at all. you shifted in your seat. you knew Ghost was a very special guest, but not even special guests were above Mama’s rules.
“what brings you to our small town?”
Mama nudged you under the table with her foot, and you kept yourself from rolling your eyes, standing to serve Ghost food. you carefully dished it on his plate neatly, just like Mama taught you, but he didn’t even spare the food a glance.
“i was at your saloon in jackson county.” you froze briefly. jackson county is a long way from the west. he must’ve traveled day and night to reach your small town embedded in tumbleweeds and dust.
his head tipped thoughtfully so you couldn’t see his eyes anymore under the width of his hat. “it’s a nice place. good kentucky bourbon.”
Daddy smiled but his eyes narrowed. you were about to dump a spoonful of mashed potatoes on Ghost’s plate but he gripped your wrist lightly.
“i’m alright,” he said low, and your spine prickled. there was a warning in it, so you sat back in your seat, leaning to the furthest edge away from him. you dreaded the moment his gloved palm would glide up your thigh.
“why are you here, Ghost?” Daddy asked again, his hand reaching down below the table. you imagined it resting on the holster, revolver lodged against his hip.
Ghost leaned forward.
“first, you tell me why I saw Turner’s boys loitering around jackson county.”
Daddy went pale in a way you’ve never seen before and Mama shifted uncomfortably. her knee was bouncing again.
“nearly got my head shot off. had to comb my way through texas to lose ‘em.” Ghost’s eyes narrowed in the dimness of the dining room.
“you know how i feel about the Turner boys, Henry.”
you shivered at his low tone. what the hell was going on?
there was a calculated thickness in Daddy’s voice. it blanketed all the desperation in his clenched jaw. “i needed investors, Ghost. Turner was the highest bidder.”
“do you need a reminder of who built your business from scratch in the first place?”
your brows raised. Daddy did business with Ghost?
“no i remember. i also remember how you high-tailed it out of here when the Turner boys showed up five years ago.”
you jumped in your seat when Daddy stood and placed his revolver on the dinner table. Mama gasped and murmured something like disapproval that Daddy ignored. it gleamed in the low light and your jaw clamped.
“i’m not afraid of you, Ghost. Turner’s protecting me now.”
Ghost’s silence was deadly, his hulking form too relaxed, but you could see his hand twitch where it lay on his holster. was this going to lead to a shootout?
you tried to convey your silent question in the way that you peered into the curve of his mask but his eyes were dead set on Daddy.
“Turner is protecting you now?”
“yes.”
Ghost stared up at your daddy for a long time before his gaze traveled to you. you reached deep inside you to muster the courage and stare unflinchingly back.
“i want my money back, Henry.” it was a low deadly whisper, his eyes never leaving you. Daddy balked.
“you know i can’t do that.”
“but you can. and i want my money back or i can take something much more precious.”
his gloved hand came up to stroke at your cheek and you bit back a hiss, biting down on your lower lip. Mama stood now, clutching at Daddy’s arm.
“you won’t, you devil!” she cried and Ghost gripped firmly at your jaw, razor eyes digging into you. a tight hand around his wrist, you tried to pry him off but he was too strong. he wouldn’t budge. a traitorous tear spilled from the corner of your eye. Ghost brushed it away with his thumb.
“you have no honor,” your Daddy whispered and Ghost went lax. you pushed his hand away and pressed yourself to the back of your chair in a ball.
a new boiling anger built in you. you were being used again as another part in Daddy’s business transactions.
“you sell your daughter to investors for a buck. do you really want to talk about honor?” he chewed out the words and you shuddered, holding your breath to keep down the sobs that threatened to push up into your lungs.
“i protected you. this was my territory. i had men in your town and i made sure no bandits came near your saloons and i made sure none left alive. then, you went to work with Turner instead.” Ghost stood at the table, revolver in hand. he cocked the gun and Mama shrieked.
“this is a fair trade. give me my investment back or i’ll take her instead.” the barrel of his revolver slowly swung from Daddy to you. in his black suit in bloody mask, Ghost truly did look like the devil. you wanted to shake, to cry and scream and sob, but only a venomous anger spread through you.
what did Ghost know about fairness?
“if i go it’s on my terms,” you hissed under your breath and Ghost’s eyes swiveled to you. Mama began to shout in protest but he pointed the revolver dead above her browline and your Daddy hissed, picking up his own revolver and cocking it.
“what’re your terms, lovely?” he asked in a low tone.
“you leave my Mama and Daddy alone.” with a harsh swallow, you wiped at the tears on your cheeks. “i can ride a horse. i can shoot well ‘cause Daddy taught me. i know how to pour a glass and tend a bar. i can read and write. i know good manners and i can talk smart when i need it.
Ghost’s eyes were half-lidded as he looked down on you, sitting as straight as you possibly could at the dinner table. your Daddy’s revolver was trained on Ghost now.
“i won’t get in the way. take me instead of the money.”
Ghost blinked. “what’re my terms?”
you hesitated, voice cracked wide open. “you…you’ll own me.”
his eyes narrowed. “body and soul?”
you nodded slowly, feeling your anger deflate as your mama began to sob.
“body and soul.” you screwed your eyes shut, head dipping forward. the devil.
“Henry?”
your Daddy looked weakly at Ghost, his shoulders falling. he looked meek and small and not even half the smart man you thought he was. his revolver clattered to the dinner table in defeat and you didn’t spare him a glance when you stood from the dinner table to trudge up the stairs and pack your things, the food sprawled across the dinner table cold and forgotten.
you didn’t have time to think about what you needed or what to say goodbye to. the stuffed bear your daddy got you for your tenth birthday lay discarded among your bedsheets. old letters from the girls in town were strewn off your desk as you dug for stationary. you stopped midway when you realized there was no way Ghost would let you write your parents on the move through the west.
was this your new life? confined to bounty hunting and running from foes? living as a ghost?
you shivered, shoving blouses and skirts and a canteen on your nightstand into a knapsack. you pulled out the drawer of your dresser and dug under more clothes to find a revolver and pack of ammo. Mama would beat you if she ever knew it was there and that’s why you always kept it hidden.
you loaded up the cylinder, pushing the bullets into each chamber and ramming the cylinder back in place.
“gearing up to kill me?”
you froze and looked over your shoulder to find Ghost crowding your doorway. for someone of his stature, he moved too quietly. usually, you would be embarrassed at the mess dispersed across the floor, your undergarments at a pile by his dusty boots.
but you just narrowed your eyes, ignoring him as you carded through your room, collecting random essentials. matches, money, your sharpest letter opener, and in a last second grab, your journal.
he watched all your movements with an eerie silence.
“i’m not planning on keeping you forever.” he stepped forward till he was just a short arm length from your back. his voice was cold.
“your daddy’ll try and kill me first, then he’ll cough up the money eventually. it’s a temporary trade off.”
“i’m not one of your business transactions,” you snapped, and he blinked at you.
“‘course not.”
his words weren’t convincing. you tried to squeeze past him but his outstretched arm blocked your path. you almost snapped at him again but shrunk back when his steady eyes pinned you down. he crowded you back until you blindly hit the dresser.
your neck craned up. he was so much bigger than you.
the swell of his chest with each breath almost brushed against you, and you squirmed under his intense gaze.
“you offered yourself up to me,” he said, calculated. “why?”
you swallowed down the anxious gurgling in your stomach. “you wouldn’t believe me.”
“tell me anyway.”
“i hate it here.”
he cocked his head at you. “the rich girl wants to become a bounty hunter?”
you frowned, raising the revolver and digging it into his stomach. “don’t think that i could?”
he gave you a long look before tipping his hat and stepping back. “didn’t say that, lovely.”
you whispered it under your breath. “devil.”
the grip on his holster tightened. “maybe. but i know how to be a gentleman.”
he picked up the knapsack on your bed, despite your grumble of protest, and slung it over his shoulder.
“don’t worry. i’ll take real good care of you, princess.”
you could only imagine a smug smirk hidden by the shroud of his mask as he walked out your bedroom.
it was surreal watching the tears stream down Mama’s face as she cupped your face in her hands. facing them now, you searched your daddy’s eyes for an ounce of anger or fight.
just give him the money, you wanted to scream at your daddy, but he stared straight through you and the hands that clutched at your face.
Ghost watched from a distance, arms curled over his chest, leaning against a fence post that his black stallion was tied to, leisurely grazing at the dry tufts of grass. your horse, Sugar, stamped in the dirt nearby, kicking up dust. Ghost’s dark gaze pierced you even at a distance.
Daddy could never out gun Ghost even if he tried.
you startled when Mama pulled you into a tight hug. she hissed low and angry, “you wait till he falls asleep and you kill him, you hear me?” she pinched at the skin of your arm. “you put three bullets in that devil’s heart and you run back to us.”
she brushed hair away from your face, sweeping away the dust on the crown of your head. “okay?”
you nodded, swallowing, throat bone dry.
“you’ll be fine.”
those were her final words when your daddy led you to your horse and let you clamber up into your saddle. Ghost looked at you expectantly from over his shoulder as your daddy patted your knee.
“i’m sorry, sweetheart.”
no you’re not.
you looked into his charming face, a twisted look on his lips. his eyes were tired.
“goodbye, Daddy.”
you took one look over the small town and the dust that blew through it. Ghost turned his horse into the dying light of the day and you dug the heel of your boot into the flank of your mare, tightening the reins, and took off after Ghost. soon, your mama and daddy become a dot in the horizon, and you almost suppressed a smile.
you weren’t sure how long you rode. it felt like hours, dust kicking up in a big cloud after the pair of you into the dark night. you only stopped every hour or so to let the horses rest up, drink, feed and you were off again. you should’ve been tired but you were so high with exhilaration, lungs burning with exertion from the long ride, that you almost didn’t catch Ghost’s call to rest drifting over the wind rushing in your ears.
your chest was put through the wringer, panting as you slid off your horse.
“good girl, Sugar.” you slapped at her dapple gray shoulder. she snorted, tossing her mane anxiously.
as you traveled further into…wherever you were, the cacti and low brush built up into bushes and weedy looking trees. into a forest.
Ghost lit the lantern strung up on his saddle bags and gave you a sharp, wordless look before leading his horse by the reins further into the woods. you followed him, head on a swivel at the unfamiliar surroundings.
you were used to the big, brown, orange flat canvas of your small town. the green grass underfoot was unusual and the trees cast long, distorting shadows. you startled, stopping short when you heard an foreign call from the woods. Sugar huffed nervously, big nostrils twitching as she stamped her hoof.
“it’s a coyote,” Ghost grumbled, not stopping for your shenanigans. you scurried after him, hyper aware of the encompassing darkness around you and what may be lurking beyond it.
soon, a big structure obstructing the woods came into view and Ghost lifted his lantern to reveal a small wooden cabin. by the side, he tied up his black stallion on a fence post next to a hay feeder and water bin. when he stared at you, unmoving, you quickly followed suit and fumbled to unsaddle Sugar, carrying your knapsack inside and following after his heavy footsteps.
you’re like a lost puppy, a voice grumbled in annoyance. he’s always ten steps in front of you.
you shook away the thought and stepped into the cabin, watching Ghost as he lit the oil lamps littered around the room. there was a miniscule kitchen pressed in the corner, a desk by your side, and a bed on the other. the bed was small. very small.
you cleared your throat. “where are we?”
Ghost didn’t pause to acknowledge you, shucking his trench coat and rolling up the sleeves of his black suit, exposing the skin of his forearms. for a long moment, as he rummaged through a bag, you thought he would ignore you. but your silent stare was relentless.
“border of southern california.”
your brows rose. you weren’t sure how far that was from home, or how you could possibly find your way back.
“and this cabin…?”
he paused to give you a brief look. “you ask a lot of questions.” his voice was pinched with annoyance.
“you don’t talk enough,” you shot back, tensing up. if you were going to be dragged around by this man for months, you thought you at least deserved to know where you were. or what the hell was going on.
he grumbled under his breath. “s’my safe house. we’re stayin’ for the night.”
the night. you nodded, feeling meek, remembering what Mama said. smoothing a hand over your chest, you shifted between feet in the doorway.
you can do this.
Ghost had his back turned to you, pouring his canteen of water into a pot and pouring a bag of something else in it that came out in a pebbled rush. for the devil himself, at least he knew how to cook.
“you gonna sit?”
feeling embarrassed, you moved to sit on the bed, the old mattress sagging under your weight. you kept smooth a hand over your blouse, carding a hand through your hair, till you got tired of it and wove them into messy braids and undid them again.
Ghost huffed, moving from the kitchen to the desk, putting his hat down. you stared.
“relax. no need to be so worked up.”
you nodded. “right.”
his eyes bore holes into you, and you took that as your que, swallowing as you began to unbutton the clasp at the top of your blouse. you paused when Ghost’s breath tapered, turning sharply away.
his accent thickened. “what are you doing?”
“i-i thought—”
“you thought wrong.” his words were cutting.
maybe you should’ve felt relief but you only squirmed in confusion. “body and soul?” you mumbled weakly, and he slowly turned back to you.
you fumbled with your hands awkwardly.
“i don’t bed rich, prissy girls,” he grinded out and you almost balked in defense, but you thought better of it from the way his grip tightened on his holster.
but you couldn’t hold your tongue long enough—
“who do you bed then? whores?” your brow arched against your will as you tilted your head. his eyes narrowed beneath the mask.
“careful, princess.” he grabbed something from a cabinet in the kitchen. “i’m the one who’s keeping you alive.”
a gloved hand held out a plate of some dried fruit and biscuits. a piece of jerky as well. you held your stomach.
you hadn’t touched a morsel of your mama’s food over that tense dinner, which seemed like years ago, and you were too nervous for Ghost’s arrival to eat lunch either. swallowing, you reached a hand out and Ghost pulled the plate back from your grasp.
you almost hissed at him.
“i thought you said you knew manners?”
biting your lip, you sat up straighter and politely crossed an ankle over the other, smoothing your hands over your lap.
“may i please have some food, sir?”
his voice sounded uncharacteristically smug. “you’re a good listener.”
you snatched the plate from him, his words thrumming low in your stomach. kicking off your boots and neatly lining them up by the nightstand, you politely curled your legs to the side and smoothed down your skirt to eat. Mama never let you eat on the bed, but you had snuck up meals some late nights. you almost felt giddy—as if you were breaking the rules when you were eight years old again.
Ghost watched you eat in silence before getting his own plate. the same thrill from that evening soared in your stomach when he tugged up his black mask to reveal his strong jawline and pinkish mouth. you noticed a silvery scar on his upper lip.
“did your father make you do that stuff?” you paused mid-bite of your biscuit, slowly chewing.
you swallowed. “what stuff?”
the twist of his lips seemed like exasperation. “going to bed with strangers.”
you flinched, and it was like an icy cold reminder that Ghost was a stranger—just as much as your daddy’s business partners.
“no.”
Ghost cocked his head. “that so?”
you nodded. “Daddy just had touchy customers.”
you quickly rephrased, putting down the plate on your lap. “but i can if you need me to. for your customers, you know.”
you knew you would need to be of use to Ghost in the coming months, if tonight didn’t go according to plan. the thought spurred on your heart, a looming dread clambering up your spine.
Ghost mouth twisted. “i don’t need you in that way.”
you blinked, frowning. “how do you need me then?”
“just….” he was frowning deeply now. “just do what you’re doing now.”
“what’s that?”
“bein’ polite.” he shrugged, putting down his empty plate. you felt disappointed when he tugged back down the mask. “bein’ a good girl.”
the funny thing is, being polite and a good girl was probably one of the things you were worst at in Mama’s eyes, but looking at Ghost, and the way he brandished his gun over the dinner table like a toy… your manners weren’t too bad at all.
you wondered when was the last time he stepped in a church.
finishing the last bits of dinner, Ghost excused himself to disappear into the woods, and you took the moment of privacy to quickly change into a nightgown, conscious of the way it exposed your collarbones and chest.
you also took the moment to plan out the night, searching into your knapsack to find the familiar handle of your revolver. you tested the weight of it in your hand, before putting it back into the sack. if Ghost was a gentleman, as he attested, he would let you sleep on the bed. that means he would, most likely, sleep on the floor. and if he didn’t… you would just have to convince him that he needed to.
you closed your eyes to imagine leaning over your bed at night, the slow swell of his chest as you aimed the revolver right at his heart and pulled the trigger. three times.
you shivered violently, a chill passing over you.
“cold?”
you stiffened when Ghost stepped back into the cabin, pulling the door shut behind him. you nodded, but the movement felt restrained, fists balled as you crossed them over your chest.
“mhmm.”
he jerked his head to the bed.
“take the bed. i’ll be sleepin’ outside.”
you balked, fist clenching and unclenching.
“but…what about Mr. Turner’s men?”
he turned still, hand twitching at his holster.
“they won’t find us for days. don’t worry about them.”
“but…” Ghost moved to grab his saddlebag.
“i’m scared,” you whispered, and he paused, peering at you through the mask. you gave him a meek look. it’s wasn’t a complete lie. you’ve been half-scared since he walked into Daddy’s saloon unannounced.
he sighed, long and hard. “alright, princess.” he pulled out a balled up blanket from his saddlebag and laid it on the floor, and you went lax with relief, lifting the covers of the bed to slide into them.
you stiffened again when you realized the sheets smelled of him—sweet bourbon, cigarettes, and an earthy musk like mud and woods. cheek nestled into the pillow, you watched him unbutton his vest, pull off his holster, and undo his bolo tie, placing them on the desk neatly.
you half-expected him to take off his mask, too, but he made no move towards it as turned off the oil lamps in the room. a bit disappointed, you turned to the wall once the room was shrouded with darkness.
quiet shuffling ensued, until there was a complete silence and his even breaths in the dark. it would’ve been easy to let sleep overtake you if the spike of your heavy heart wasn’t thrumming in your throat and a biting fear wasn’t corded in the back of your brain.
it took a conscious reminder to remember the large lump of man on the floor was a murderer. a cold-blooded one, too. he was a rich bounty hunter and hunting was his sport. he was a killer. he wasn’t here to feed you or take care of you. he was as sinful as they came.
you slowly shifted in the bed, reaching down into the knapsack on the floor by the bed. you groped until you felt a familiar cold, embroidered handle.
you wait till he falls asleep and you kill him, you hear me?
your mama’s voice rang in your ears as you sat up on the edge of the bed. Ghost was flat on the ground, a blanket drawn up to his waist, arms crossed over his chest. your breath hitched in the dark.
you put three bullets in that devil’s heart and you run back to us.
you stopped short at that, poisonous questions blooming in your head. it was dangerous, hesitating in the dark like this, looming over one of the most dangerous men in the west who had just, essentially, stolen you, with a loaded gun in your hand.
but your head was running away from you—how would you get home from here? did you have the supplies needed? you didn’t have the tracking skills Ghost evidently showed on your ride to the cabin, nor expertise in medical emergencies. did you even want to go home?
you stared at the side of Ghost’s mask, its red a cool blue gleam in the dark.
you could live the life of a gunslinger like Ghost—a merciless bounty hunter who murdered for money. you could imagine it, even now. shootouts with outlaws and playing friends with sheriffs to get big payouts. but… it would be under the pretense of being Ghost’s property.
you shuddered at the thought. as long as you were by Ghost’s side, you would be his captive. a precious pawn in a trade off—a hostage to use against your daddy and Turner. just another business transaction and you to take advantage of.
a small click in the dark seized you from your thoughts. Ghost’s black eyes peered up at you. cursing in surprise, your clammy hands dropped the revolver, and it clattered to the floor. you fumbled around for it and hugged it to your stomach, heart beating out of your throat.
he rested the revolver in his hand leisurely against his chest. too leisurely.
a bead of sweat slid down your temple when you realized he just cocked his gun. you didn’t remember him taking it out of his holster when he placed it on the desk.
always ten steps ahead of you.
“gearing up to kill me?”
your mouth opened and closed, failing to shape out words. his gaze narrowed.
“m’scared remember?” was all you could choke out, a shiver gripping you intensely. you tried to play it off with a careless shrug, but you knew he couldn’t possibly fall for that.
your skin felt cold but his stare was hot.
“scared of what? the dark? the coyotes outside, Tuner’s boys?” his voice was dangerously soft. “...or me?”
you almost whimpered. “i’m not scared of you.”
the fabric of his mask stretched and the crumple at his eyes let you know he was smiling. it was more threatening than anything.
“let’s say you’re not scared of me…” he rested his revolver on the floor and he shifted onto his side to face you fully. “...and let’s say you didn’t just try to kill me.”
you grimaced under his piercing stare. “put down the gun, lovely.”
you complied and he practically purred. “you still scared?”
shaking your head slowly, your knee betrayed you and began to bounce.
“let’s say you’re not scared of me, and you didn’t try to kill me, but you’re scared of the dark and the coyotes…” you balked when he opened the covers of his makeshift bed to you. “come here.”
you stayed rooted to the spot, knee freezing mid-bounce. his arms were open, mask twinkling in the moonlight, but you knew in his unflinching gaze that he was being very serious.
“come here,” he commanded, and you stood stiffly, shuffling forward to crawl into the blankets. his strong arm hooked around your waist and you muffled a squeak when he pulled you down.
you were pulled into his broad chest, warm and strong at your back and you almost melted if it weren’t for the fact that the man behind you was a cold-blooded murderer and the devil reincarnated.
his gloved hands crept beneath your shoulders around to your throat and pressed to the flying pulse of your neck. he hummed low in your ear, mask brushing the shell of it. the smell of smoke, woody musk, and bourbon filled your nose.
“sure you’re not scared, lovely?”
your jaw clenched. “yes.”
“really?”
his hand crept down from your throat to your collarbone and a loud gasp escaped you when he firmly pressed a palm to the flesh just above your breast. you knew he felt your heart’s fast thrum through the cotton of your nightgown.
“why’s your heart beatin’ so fast then?”
when the silence permitted, he offered you, “nervous?” his voice dropped an octave, low and throaty. “ever lie like this with a man before?”
you were as stiff as a board, a foreign warmth brewing in you that made your skin prickle and crawl, spluttering unintelligible sounds, when suddenly, he released you and you scrambled out of the sheets back onto the bed, pressing yourself to the wall.
he huffed a series of breaths that sounded like quiet laughter. you were just about to kill him. what was so funny about that?
like he heard your thoughts, he turned onto his back and crossed his arms again.
“would be concerned if you didn’t at least try to kill me.” Ghost closed his eyes. “you gonna try and run if i sleep?”
you stared at the side of his face. “no.”
he nodded. “good. there’s a lot more dangerous things in the desert than coyotes, princess.”
like you, you thought weakly, burrowing yourself back into the covers, face heating up when the smell of him against the pillow filled your head again.
your plans had just gone more than horribly wrong. with a heartfelt apology to your mama ringing heavy in your mind, twisting in the sheets, you tried to let sleep take you.
you barely slept that night. tossing and turning in the sheets, you listened for the sinister calls of wildlife just beyond the cabin, and the slow breaths from the floor. though a primal sense inside you let you know that Ghost probably wasn’t sleeping.
but you don’t remember when the sun came up, its first burning embers casting a thin glow in the room. you must’ve fallen asleep at some point because Ghost is gone in the morning, room eerily quiet and empty.
you take the moment to redress in your corset, loose white button up, a buckskin split skirt with fringe, pulling on your boots as you shove everything back into your knapsack. groping around for a familiar embroidered handle, you pause when you realize your revolver has gone amiss.
you sling the knapsack over your shoulder and find Ghost perched down by a fire outside, stoking at its flames. he’s back in his expensive full attire, black suit fresh in the morning light. he only spares you a glance over his shoulder before continuing to stir something in a pot hung up over the fire.
you dropped your knapsack to the ground.
“where’s my revolver?”
he scooped up a spoonful of the stuff into two bowls and grabs something from his bag. he waves your revolver in the air with one hand wordlessly.
“revolver privileges revoked.”
“why?” you knew why, but you wanted to hear it nonetheless.
standing to his full height, he turned and gave you a look under the mask that you could only imagine as disapproval. he didn’t give you an answer.
“eat,” he commanded, handing a bowl to you.
you looked into the bowl to find a watery soup of beans and a dry biscuit half soaked in the liquid. not your finest meal but you were grateful for it.
you eyed Ghost’s broad stature sitting on a log by the fire. he must’ve soaked the beans last night in that pot of water. if you, after last night’s events, weren’t going to try and kill him, or run away, you could at least play nice. for your revolver mostly.
you politely sat next to him on the log, curling your legs to the side and hooking one ankle over the other. taking small bites, you ate with the best manners you could muster without a table in front of you.
you felt Ghost’s gaze burning a question into your cheek, but you ignored it, feigning innocence.
you cleared your throat, nodding. “thank you for the food.”
he scoffed. “it’ll take a lot more to get your revolver back than that.”
you glared at him as he stood to resaddle his horse and tie his saddlebag down. finishing your food in a couple more quick bites, you moved to do the same, but stopped short when Ghost untied the reins of Sugar to bind her to his stallion.
“what’re you doing?”
Ghost gave you a meaningful look but said nothing, heaving himself up onto the stallion. huffing with frustration, you grabbed the bridle of his horse who whinied in surprise.
“what are you doing with my horse?”
Ghost cocked his head at you. “you’re stayin’ here, princess.”
what?
“what?”
“food’s in the pantry. take what you want. don’t wander more than a quarter of a mile from the cabin, you’ll get lost. i’ll be back before sunset.”
he began to turn his stallion away from you, but you held fast on the bridle, jerking its head back towards you. the horse huffed and stomped in retaliation.
“where are you going?”
Ghost just stared at you. “into town.”
you took a sharp breath, racking in your head. “i’ll run away.”
his tone was cold. “on foot? you’re not that stupid.”
“i will. i don’t care. you’ll never get your money if i’m dead of starvation… or…” you shuddered, “coyotes.”
he took you in for a long moment. “these were your terms, lovely.”
you ignored him. “i’m useful. i am. i’m useful for…” you trailed off. “business.”
“i know what you’re useful for.” his eyes narrowed. “you’re most useful right here, in this camp, far away from my business.”
that blow landed right in your gut. “i’ll build a big fire,” you whispered, “and it’ll alert Turner’s men. they’ll find me and bring me back to my daddy.”
he turned away. “do you really want them to find you? when they’ll do lord knows what to a young lady like you?”
every bit of the fight burning in you deflated, snuffed by his sharp words and harrowing logic. you felt small and defeated as you watched Ghost spur his horse on, Sugar trailing after them. a miserable feeling bloomed in your stomach.
is this what your daddy felt like last night at the dinner table?
“i’ll be back before sunset,” he called over his shoulder and took off into the early morning light in a cloud of dust.
time alone went slower than you could possibly imagine. you don’t remember the last time you were alone like this—your mama always hovering over your shoulder, or the girls in town spurring you to embroider and scrapbook with them, or maybe go shopping, even when you’d rather tend to the saloon and make an extra buck when you sang an a pretty song for the alcoholics.
your hands ached to do something, so you laid back in the afternoon sun and whittled at a branch with your letter opener.
once you got tired of that, you began writing aimless entries in your journal with Ghost’s quill and ink on the desk, then, addressing your daddy and mama in a futile letter, vented that Ghost had run off into town for business. what business, you itched to know.
later, you stretched back on the bed in your full attire and boots, which Mama would sorely disapprove of, and blinked away the sun that streamed through the greasy window panes. lids drooping, you found yourself falling into a deep slumber.
you awoke with a start, sweat pooling under your back, blouse sticking to your skin. the sun was settling lazily into the horizon, far into the hours after noon. it was darker than before, a blue tinge across the sky like it was on the verge of storming.
with a lazy sweep of your vision across the cabin, everything untouched, you knew Ghost was still out doing business. of which you, apparently, had no use.
you stretched out over your head and froze when you heard something—a clicking rustle outside the cabin. you strained your hearing, going completely still.
then, you heard distant voices chattering.
dropping to the floor with a silent thud, you peered out the front of the window by the edge of the bed. four men stood by their horses, poking at the pot of beans outside with his boot. you silently cursed when one overturned the watery beans over the dying embers.
a man looked up at the cabin and you immediately ducked, panicking when you heard quick, heavy footsteps nail up the steps to the cabin. you scrambled backwards under the bed and pressed yourself into a ball into the furthest corner of the cabin.
one man stepped inside carefully, and you watched his feet slowly pan across the room in a circle. the warmth drained from your face when you heard the cock of a safety.
who were these people? you racked your brain for answers. Ghost said Turner’s men wouldn’t find you for days. maybe weary travelers looking for a place to stay for the night? good samaritans who could help you escape Ghost?
and never return to your family, a voice in your head added quietly. you silenced it.
he stood by the desk and listened to him rummage over it. you winced—all your letters and writings were still strewn across the desk.
“Charles!” he called. then, abruptly, he neared the bed and reached down for your knapsack on the floor. you clasped a hand to your mouth. he pulled away, your knapsack going with him.
“she was here.”
your blood ran cold. Turner’s men had arrived earlier than Ghost expected.
a second man, Charles, you presumed, stepped into the cabin. more rummaging—probably the first man holding up the letters and your belongings for Charles to see.
“they went to town. says so in the letters.”
Charles huffed and turned on his heel back out the cabin.
“let’s move quick. Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.”
an icy drip went down your back.
low, raucous laughter and hoots ensued, and you heard more shuffling and the snorts of horses and the stamping of hooves that slowly faded into silence again. only the leaves rustling in the wind and pitched bird calls filled the cabin.
your heart was still beating out of your chest.
Turner said the first man to lay hands on the girl gets dibs.
that shook you to your core. you wanted to run after them, to beg them to bring you back to your parents without harm, maybe bribing them with an extra sum your daddy could give them, but you knew it was futile.
you weren’t ever going back home, and you sure as hell weren’t letting Turner’s men lay their hands on you.
heaving yourself out from under the bed, you looked up at the darkening sky. a gray film was growing over it, blanketing the sun from view. a boom of thunder roiled in the distance.
you needed to move fast, somehow, to warn Ghost about Turner’s men coming for him in town. you cursed yourself for writing those letters in the first place—now, Ghost could be in danger because of you.
not that you cared much. but that devil was the closest thing to protection right now against your parents and Turner. except maybe yourself.
you picked up the knapsack that was thrown haphazardly on the floor and pulled out all your extra clothing and baggage. with only a canteen of water, and the leftover food from the pantry, the letter opener, and a box of matches, you trailed after the hoofprints left by Turner’s men, hurrying as the storm approached quickly overhead.
you were dripping with sweat by the time you reached the edge of town. buckling over to clasp at your knees, you held your chest as you leaned against a tree.
you did it. you tracked those men through low brush and the deep, muddy hoofprints they left behind, some bushes snagged by charging through the forest at an alarming rate.
you did it. you only hoped that Turner’s men hadn’t found Ghost before you did.
the sky was still a murky gray—you had no idea what time it was, no idea if the sun had begun setting yet. you paled at the thought of Ghost riding back to find the cabin empty, your belongings strewn across the place, cabinets empty of supplies. you felt more sick at the thought of finding the devil in a dim alleyway, three bullets in his heart.
pushing forward, you entered the busy throng of the town, its twinkling lights and loud raucous contenting with the brewing storm overhead. men had holsters strung with guns, ammo slung over their torsos like a fancy sash.
some tipped their stetson to you as you walked the cobble streets, wiping the sweat and humidity from your brow. you ignored them to the best of your ability, shuffling along faster when a group of drunks meandered close to you.
sweetheart, they called, and you, in a dizzying panic, pushed into the nearest building, its doors swinging open to a rowdy, rowdy crowd of even more drunks. some smiled at your entrance, but most were too enthralled in their card games, betting, and bourbon to care.
you took the moment to search the snaking crowd for a familiar red mask, but you found nothing. this didn’t feel much like Ghost’s scene anyway.
shoulders sinking, you were about to step back out onto the crowded streets, where a light drizzle was pooling, when a redhead with braids rushed passed you in a tizzy.
she almost dumped a tray full of bourbons onto you. squeaking, she steadied herself against you, and apologized in a thick drawl.
“sorry, sweetheart! didn’t see you there—” she paused, narrowing her eyes at you. immediately, you reeled back.
you really wished you had a revolver slung in your holster in that moment, because you didn’t think to realize that anybody could be one of Turner’s men.
“you…” she cocked her head and you stiffened. “you’re the new hire, aren't ‘cha!”
you blinked in shock, voice cracking. “what?”
“glad you showed up early.” she gave you an approving nod and nudged you with her shoulder. “extra trays of bourbon are in the back. you wouldn’t mind passing them out would you?”
“i-” she was gone in a flash, disappearing into the messy crowd.
you should’ve left at that moment, taking the opportunity to disappear yourself, but instead, you thought this an opportunity to get close and personal with each customer. perhaps Ghost took off his mask for business—you knew you could recognize him by his expensive black suit and the stature he carried. the low timber of his voice, and the dark swirl in his eyes.
shivering, a drift came through and you rubbed at your bare neck. you quickly moved to man the bar. an easiness settled over you at the familiarity of it, grabbing bottles of bourbon and whiskey, pouring them neatly into bar glasses on black trays. you teetered from person to person, tray balanced in your palm as you peered into the face of each man, and even woman, hunkered down at a table to get a glimpse of their profile.
tray after empty tray, you couldn’t find the man you were looking for, no matter how many more entered. soon enough, you bumped into the redhead with braids again and she gave you a cocksure smile.
“sure you’re a new hire?” she laughed loud, cheeks red, slapping at your back. “why don’t you go help across the way at our quieter location? you know where business—” she winked, “—gets done.”
you just nodded aimlessly, too overwhelmed to question it, and she beamed. “don’t worry. it’s more beginner friendly.”
you exited the saloon with the point of her hand to a quainter location on the other side of the street. a thick rain was coming down now. rushing into the parallel saloon, it was half as loud as the other, which your ears thanked, and a thick smoke hazed the room. groups of men donned in fancy suits sat at tables strewn across the room, discussing in low voices with fat cigars between their lips.
your eyes swiveled around the room, craning your neck to peer into the furthest corner of the saloon, but still, no red mask. deflating, you jolted when a barmaid gripped at your shoulder.
“new hire?” she looked disgruntled, eyes narrowing in judgment. you took note of her attire, eerily similar to your own, with a fine cotton blouse and buckskin skirt. now, you understood who the redhead may have confused you for: a fancy barmaid for the gentleman’s club across the way.
she appeared frustrated at your lackluster response. “can you sing?”
you balked at that but said yes nonetheless. your mother had taught you, much to your chagrin.
she nodded. “good. men were asking for a performance. i know it’s your first night, but could you give them a bone to chew on?”
“i guess so,” you spluttered, and she barely batted an eye, already pushing you to the raised platform by the bar. a man already sat with a guitar, peering at you expectantly when you stepped onto the platform.
turning to face the audience, you felt the blood drain from your cheeks. you hadn’t sung in front of an audience this big since your school’s talent show. clearing your throat, you flashed the crowd your prettiest smile, and clasped your hands in front of you politely. the establishment quieted, save for a few low whistles, and you began to sing along for a softer rendition of the fast-paced song to the slow strum of the guitarist.
my love is a rider, wild bronchos he breaks,
though he’s promised to quit it, just for my sake.
he ties up one foot, the saddle puts on,
with a swing and a jump he is mounted and gone.
it was the only song you could remember in the moment—one the girls and you would sing wildly in the evenings after church over loud laughter and iced tea.
my love has a gun, and that gun he can use,
but he’s quit his gun fighting as well as his booze;
and he’s sold him his saddle, his spurs, and his rope,
and there’s no more cow punching, and that’s what I hope.
your eyes searched the crowd and you held back a gasp when you met eyes with a familiar red mask. he stood near the back of the club, bracing his forearm against a wooden beam. swallowing hard, you continued.
my love has a gun that has gone to the bad,
which makes poor old Jimmy feel pretty damn sad;
for the gun it shoots high and the gun it shoots low,
and it wobbles about like a bucking broncho.
his eyes pierced you, and you couldn’t suppress the slithering shiver that crawled down your spine. you wished he was closer—right at the edge of the platform so you could look down into his brown eyes, and maybe, try to discern what he was thinking under that blood red mask.
now all you young maidens, where’er you reside,
beware of the cowboy who swings the raw-hide;
he’ll court you and pet you and leave you and go
in the spring up the trail on his bucking broncho.
the room clapped and hollered when you finished, and you couldn’t suppress the smile that stretched your cheeks as you curtsied clumsily, gaze on Ghost. he tipped his hat to you, and a loud laugh clambered into your throat. it morphed into a blood curdling scream when a revolver fired and Ghost crumpled to the floor.
the club scrambled in a panic with loud wails, the assailant disappearing into the throng as you clawed your way to the man. he was clutching at his stomach, half-fallen against the wooden beam.
“Ghost!”
a strangled noise strained against your throat. falling to your knees beside him, you pulled away his hand from his stomach, and you paled at the sight of the dark red coating his glove, sleeve, suit. it pooled underneath him.
quickly, you grabbed his bloodied arm and pulled it around your shoulder. there was no way you could heft his weight but you were going to try anyway.
“c’mon,” you coaxed impatiently, as he scrambled up the side of the wooden pole, trying to support his weight. a string of curses left his lips.
“you’ve got a pretty voice,” he rasped, and you almost wanted to drop his weight entirely.
“not important,” you groaned, taking slow steps out the saloon with his body strung over yours. with every step, you grimaced with effort, huffing heavily.
there was an even greater panic in the streets than in the club—a heavy, pouring onslaught coming down like a beating drum. across the way, the other saloon was being ripped apart by several men, upturning tables and firing their guns at the ceiling to clear out the place. Turner’s men.
you pulled Ghost in the opposite direction, appreciative of his black attire in the dark night, the debilitating rain, and the ensuing chaos. you tipped his hat further over that tell-tale mask. he grumbled something by your ear.
“what?” you shouted over the mix of shouts and rush of rain, stumbling when a man hurrying past clipped your shoulder.
his voice lifted. “don’t need your help.”
you rolled your eyes, head on a swivel. lodged between two buildings was an alleyway. a throng of Turner’s men overturned more establishments ahead. you made a beeline for the cramped space.
“you’ll die.”
he huffed when you pressed him against the wall, clutching at the blood seeping from his stomach.
“no i won’t.”
you shot him a glare.
“ghosts can’t die,” he said, sounding high and delirious. he slid further down the wall, a pitched laugh escaping him.
now you knew he was really at his last wits. you racked your brain for answers. you didn’t know medical knowledge, you didn’t see an infirmary on the way here, and even if you did, you wouldn’t put it past them to turn you over to Turner’s men in an instant.
you almost screamed in frustration, tearing off the sleeve of your blouse to wrap around his middle. your hands fumbled clumsily, and Ghost must’ve at least come back to half his senses because he pushed your hands away and expertly knotted the thing despite his thick gloves. his head slumped forward into your shoulder, as if the action was so taxing, breath growing shallow against your exposed collarbone.
you slapped at the side of his face.
“do you know anyone who can get help?” you probed, unable to conceal the desperation in your voice, “anyone at all?”
he sounded smug. “people can’t help ghosts.”
you groaned, pushing his head back against the wall. he peered at you lazily, eyes half-lidded.
“if you don’t tell me something, i will rip that mask clean off your face.” that must’ve stirred something in him because his eyes flashed.
“i did not track Turner’s men for miles to find you just for you to die.” you pressed on. “they found the cabin and these stupid journal entries where i wrote that you were in the town. they didn’t know i was there and went after you. i had to warn you so i tracked them and—” he hissed when you pressed your fingers into his wound to make sure he was still conscious. “—this happened.
he huffed. “stupid girl.”
you could only nod pitifully, before squeaking in surprise when Ghost used your shoulders and the wall as leverage to lift himself.
“take me down this alleyway, then turn left.”
you immediately obeyed and half-dragged him in the direction of his rasped instructions, ending up in front of the back door of a leather crafts store. the streets were slowly emptying by the minute and every second outside in the line of gunfire felt a gaping vulnerability on your back, so you didn’t question his command to open the back door unannounced.
you also weren’t surprised to see the long snout of a rifle stuck in your face the second the door swung open. a woman in a checkered blouse and loose breeches squared her shoulders and jabbed the gun forward so it almost hit your chin where rain coalesced in a steam, falling to your boots.
“who in the devil are you?” she spat, low and deadly. she carefully eyed the man slumping against you.
a strangled warble left Ghost’s mouth, and he lifted a hand to toss off his hat. the mask must’ve been a point of recognition for her because she gasped and lurched forward, hefting up the other side of his body.
“what the hell are you doin’ here, Ghost?” she demanded, helping you carry him behind the counter of the store into the back room. she pushed off all the strewn materials at the table in the center of the room with one strong sweep, and you laid back Ghost on the surface, his eyes closed.
muffling a cry, you pressed your fingers to the pulse point in his neck. to your relief, it was throbbing, albeit weakly.
“business,” was all he mumbled in response and the woman shooed you from his side with an impatient wave of her hand.
you stepped back to the edge of the room, feeling your senses clouded with panic. you looked down to the blood covering your hands. out the window, there was more shouting, gunshots, and a building far down the street went up in flames. your breath hitched till suddenly you couldn’t breathe anymore. clawing at your throat, you slid down the wall, fighting the strain in your chest that seemed to close your airway.
you watched the woman cut through his vest and make quick work on the bullet wound, pliers in hand.
“you.”
she might’ve been shouting at you but it barely registered in your mind.
“get your useless behind off the ground and help me for god’s sake!”
you just stared at her and she groaned in frustration. “some girl you have here, Ghost,” she grumbled and the weak grunt that left him brought you back to life.
you stood, steeling yourself, wiping the blood against your front. you felt calm. dangerously calm as you neared Ghost’s side. his eyes were screwed shut and you resisted gagging at the sight of her pliers fishing through his gaping wound for a bullet.
“what do you need?” your voice was weak and quiet. it didn’t even sound like your own. she shot you an impatient look.
“water. from the tap over there. and a needle and thread in that cabinet.”
you moved like you were floating off the ground, light and airy. like you weren’t really there, but you found your hands filling a bowl with water at the kitchen sink and grabbing a case of needles and a spool of black thread from a cabinet overhead.
by her side again, she unclasped the red mask from Ghost’s face and you stared unflinchingly with a hitch of breath. before pulling it from his face, she cocked her head at you.
“look away,” she snarled and you just nodded, stepping back from the table till you couldn’t see Ghost’s profile anymore. couldn’t even see the slow swell of his chest to let you know he was still alive.
you had to escape the room. you walked back out into the main storeroom and grated your hands through your hair, pacing. you picked up the rifle left on the glass casing over a showcase of different leather crafts, cocking it, just in case Turner’s men came barreling through the door.
when you put back down the rifle, you gasped at the sticky, bloody imprint it left on the handle. looking into a mirror by the entrance of the store, you shuddered at your image.
blood crusted your arms, like you had dipped your arms into a vat of it, and red fingerprints littered your throat and tinged your frayed hair. the front of your half-torn blouse was smeared in it too.
your hands shook uncontrollably, so you picked up the rifle’s heaviness again to still you, and sat, leaning against the glass showcase, muzzle aimed at the front door. you sat there for a long time, breath shallow and grating, till the shouts and gunshots outside subsided, and the billiard parlor down the street crumbled under the weight of flames.
you awoke for a second time with a start, the woman’s hand shaking your shoulder lightly. you rolled your shoulders, neck impossibly stiff from your weird sleeping position on the floor. it was no longer dark outside, the lightest tones of pink and blood-soaked orange rising with dawn.
had you really only been napping in Ghost’s cabin half a day prior?
the woman sat beside you, pushing a warm mug into your hand. she didn’t pull her rifle from you, which you were endlessly grateful for, because you just hugged it closer to your chest, its cold metal and cured wood easing your nerves.
“tea.” she nodded to the steaming cup.
“is Ghost okay?” your voice cracked from disuse and she gave you a weak look.
“for now.”
you just nodded, taking a sip of the stuff and wincing when it burned your tongue. chamomile. Mama used to make it too.
the woman cleared her throat, drawing up her blonde hair into a messy bun. “sorry about the shouting. i’m not used to foreign company.”
you shrugged, itching at the dried blood on your neck as you took another sip of tea.
“i’m Kate.” she held out a hand to you. “Kate Laswell.”
you shook her hand slowly, grateful she didn’t cringe away from the blood staining your own. you gave her your name in return and her brow raised.
“Ghost’s girl, huh?”
you felt too tired to be confused. “i guess so.”
“well i just know the boys would love to meet ‘ya.”
you allowed yourself a sliver of confusion. “the boys?”
“‘course,” she said with a smile, “one-four-one.”
you almost dropped the mug in your hand. “one-four-one?” you repeated weakly and she gave you a cheery nod.
you’d heard of them before. you heard too much about them before. she rubbed your shoulder comfortingly.
“they should be here any minute now.”
great. you were soaked with blood, clothes and hair tattered with sweat. as if she read your thoughts, Kate stood and outstretched a hand to you, pointing to the back room.
“i’ve got a tub filled in the back for you. and some extra clothes.”
you took her outstretched hand gratefully, allowing her to pull you up and lead you through the storage space where Ghost lay stretched out, half-naked, and maskless. you noticed her rush to flank your side and obscure the view of his bare, sleeping face from you. deciding not to fight it, the gentle hand on your back led you down a narrow hallway to an even narrower bathroom with a tub about as big as a barrel.
you didn’t mind it after the events of the night, Kate politely closing the door behind you, as you stripped yourself bare and scrubbed the blood away in the tub. slowly, you settled in its lukewarm water in a ball and rocked there, choking back sobs in the privacy of the tight room.
once all your tears were wrung dry, you emerged from the tub, drying yourself and your hair before redressing in your corset, drawers, chemise, and a linen bell sleeve blouse Kate lent you. tucking them into your unruined item—the fringed buckskin split skirt—you pulled your boots on and smoothed the lines of your face in the mirror. like your mama taught you.
when you opened the door of the bathroom, low murmurs and new voices floated down the narrow hall.
“she isn’t supposed to be here, cap’.”
a low husky voice grunted back, “i know that.”
a third man with an even stranger accent than the first two chimed in loudly, “she risked ‘er life for Ghost! Simon said she tracked ‘em for two and a half miles just to warn him about the Turner boys.”
you assumed it was Kate shushing him.
the low, husky voice returned. “it’s not up to us, Soap. she’s Ghost’s now.”
you crept slowly up the hallway, searching for Ghost’s body stretched out on the table, but he wasn’t there. in his place were three men, leaning against the table, deep in conversation with Kate.
you stopped short in the entrance till one of the men, a stout one, thickly corded with muscle, and an unusual looking hairstyle—like the ones you saw in the school books about iroquois from the east—beamed at you.
he shushed a bronze-skinned man at his shoulder, who turned his gaze to you. the third bearded man with thick chops and broad shoulders fell silent, as did Kate, and suddenly, the whole room’s attention was trained on you.
you slowly walked into the room, discomforted by the thick silence. you resisted fumbling at your skirt nervously. the man with a mohawk let out a low whistle and the bearded man swatted at his face while the youngest man stepped forward to politely offer his hand, taking off his hat to press to his chest.
his face was pinched with a stoic look. “i’m Kyle Garrick. pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
your lips parted in surprise when he touched his lips to the back of your extended hand, and you politely curtsied in response, a blush touching your cheeks.
the man with a mohawk stepped in behind him to give you a smug look.
“i’m Soap,” was all he offered. he clapped Kyle on the shoulder. “and this is Gaz. no one calls him Kyle.”
Kyle rolled his eyes in retaliation and released your hand, looking apologetic. you couldn’t help but softly smile as they began to quarrel and the bearded man reached out his hand this time to shake it firmly.
“John Price,” he said with a nod, voice husky. he jerked his head in Soap’s direction. “that’s Johnny Mactavish.”
you murmured a quiet thank you as Kate comfortingly patted your back.
“so this is one-four-one?” you mumbled aloud with raised brows. Soap and Gaz stopped mid-quarrel to peer at you. John shrugged.
“more or less.”
manners be damned, you fidgeted with your skirt. one-four-one was a legendary gunslinger group—on the run from the scarce law of the west, gambling, bounty hunting, and dueling for riches. you had no idea Ghost had friendly ties with them.
“where’s Ghost?”
John smirked at you, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “out.”
nodding, you felt an anxiety roll through you. out could mean anything with Ghost, you learned in your short time with him.
where are you, Ghost? a meek voice in you called out. smoothing a hand over your chest, you steadied yourself as Kate offered you a small plate of breakfast. a piece of cornbread on the side of a bowl of chili that you kept down easily, despite the nervous gurgling of your stomach.
“Turner’s men,” you began softly to Kate, putting down the empty plate, but you still drew in the attention of the other three men, “they’re gone?”
she nodded sullenly, and Soap added, “not without a fight. upturned half the town with them…” his eyes went dark, voice tinged with something violent. “...and left a couple dozen dead bodies.”
John knuckled his shoulder gently. “we’ll get ‘em back, Soap.” he said it like it should be comforting, but there was a deadliness in it that made you shudder.
Soap winked at you. “aye. we’ll kill all those Turner boys if we have to. we already took down half of ‘em yesterday.”
undoubtedly, you knew it was a promise. Kate said quietly, “neighbors said they gunned down a couple of ‘em before they fled town.”
your brows rose. “there were others fighting?”
Kyle shrugged. “it’s the west, ma’am. people’re itchin’ to break the law.”
you thought back to the assailant last night—how he high-tailed it after popping a shot.
“so the man who shot Ghost last night?”
Kyle shrugged again. “probably a drunk lookin’ for trouble. happens all the time in these parts.”
you tried to hide the look of horror curling into your face, something akin to disgust, but Soap, ever-observant, took amusement in it immediately.
“that scare ye, princess?” he leaned against the table, closer to your face, and your frown deepened.
“don’t call me that.” it sounded wrong coming from him.
John grabbed the scruff of his neck and Soap twisted, complaining loudly in his hold. “knock it off, would you? poor girl’s had a rough night.”
you gave John a grateful look. still, you were relieved to know Ghost was only shot by a drunk rather than found and almost killed by one of Turner’s boys. you assumed you got real lucky last night. or maybe unlucky since the drunk’s poor shot happened to pick out Ghost of all people at the club.
“what was Ghost doing in the town last night?” you piqued, and Soap went quiet. the whole room did. sheepish, you watched their gazes slide across the room, avoiding your own.
Soap shot out, “do we tell her?”
Kate hissed in response, scolding him with a tight grip on his ear, and Kyle smacked at the back of his head. you assumed Soap just let a vital piece of information slip from the way John’s mouth twisted.
“tell me what?” you pressed and Kate shooed you out the room, taking your arm in hers.
“help me out with somethin’ else, girlie, and i’ll answer half the questions you ask.”
half the questions, you ruminated with a bitter taste in your mouth. she led you out the door of the leather crafts shop before a word of protest could leave your mouth, and into the bright mid-morning light. shops littered down the street had owners stationed out in front, sweeping up debris, shattered glass, and shoving trash into sacks. Kate tipped her stetson to each one as you passed, and they would nod back in a way that forebode something ominous.
“these are the neighbors,” Kate explained in a low, smart tone. “and this is our town.”
you remembered what Ghost said to your daddy over dinner two nights ago.
i protected you. this was my territory. i had men in your town and i made sure no bandits came near your saloons and i made sure none left alive. then, you went to work with Turner instead.
“and you protect them for a price?” you asked.
she smiled lightly. “a small one.”
your daddy must’ve had an unlucky price to pay if his daughter was the bargaining chip.
“is this the only town you protect?”
Kate laughed at that, patting your hand on her arm gently. “heavens, no. Ghost’s got all kinds of investments from the west to east. he isn’t home much lately because of it.”
your brows raised. “that’s a lot of land to cover.”
“we’ve got a lot of friends from down south to help.”
you cocked your head at her as you turned the corner, making your way past the saloon from last night. the redhead with braids was mopping up the floor of the torn-up saloon, and when you caught her eye, her gaze sliding from you to the woman beside you, she paled.
“friends?”
Kate winked at you. “mexicans. a blessing from the spanish-american war.” when you just blinked at her, she elaborated.
“the boys enlisted in the british regiment to fight the spanish alongside patriots and texan mexicans. i played dress-up as a man to fight in the war.”
your brows raised and she gave you a sly look. “even had a female companion to play the part.”
she continued on. “when the war ended, one-four-one just never left—made friends with lots of boys down in texas. now, they do all sorts of work with us.”
“who?”
“los vaqueros.” the cowboys. you had heard of them too.
you should’ve been scared, connecting the dots, the blood-ties and relationships fused on the battlefield that didn’t break even ten years after the war. these people were dangerous. but in a way, you contemplated, your daddy was too. working with one-four-one, protected by los vaqueros, and bargaining with an enemy, Turner.
and you didn’t even know it.
you wondered if your mama did. thinking of the hardness in her face, and the back-breaking rigidness of her lifestyle, you assumed she carried that weight too.
Kate peered at the edge of your face, catching your eye. “you gonna run away yet?”
you gave her a long look, answering her as truthfully as you could. “no.”
she nodded. “good. because if you do, we may just have to kill you.”
eerily, you were reminded of Ghost two nights ago in the cabin, his arms crossed over his chest and half-asleep despite your attempt to kill him.
good. there’s a lot more dangerous things in the desert than coyotes, princess.
“you sound like Ghost,” you remarked with a grimace, and the long laugh that left Kate was airy and full of menace.
apparently helping out Kate meant running errands, restocking on preserves, fresh foods, and medical supplies. she kindly let you pick out your own stetson hat—a gus style, with three sloping dimples, cream-colored, and a leather brown cord tied round the base in a fashionable bow. your mama would’ve had your head for wearing something so manly, but turning it in your hands, the smooth velvet soft against your palms, your heart swelled at the thought of it being your own.
you would’ve paid for it if you didn’t carelessly lose your knapsack in the chaos last night, tending saloons and singing for drunkards. sighing at the cash register, you deeply lamented its loss and tugged the snug hat onto your head.
one-four-one wasn’t there when you returned to the leather crafts shop. Kate had given you a soft smile, saying they were out on business again. you had a sneaking suspicion that business meant shoot outs over encroached territory and fixing worsening investments.
as you prepared for dinner, it was uncanny to think that you were laying food out over the table where Ghost almost bled out the night before.
sure enough, just before the red crinkles of sunset, one-four-one meandered into the room for dinner, hats left by the hook at the door. you waited expectantly for a tall, broad, black suit and red mask to enter the room, but only deflated with disappointment. Soap shot you a knowing look that you pointedly ignored as the table joined hands to murmur a quick grace before digging in.
you could barely touch the food on your plate. any method you used to get under the boy’s skin about what business meant was quickly parried in clever ways that frustrated you more than your conversations with Kate. it was especially frustrating because you were beginning to think that business may circle around topics about you.
you couldn’t weasel any more information out of them except that John, Gaz, and Soap had rode north to a nearby town they had business in.
you were beginning to hate that word, you thought decidedly, trudging down the narrow hall to a spare bedroom Kate provided to you for the night. one-four-one would descend into the cool basement space with the preserves to their own quarters. you wanted to follow them, to peek down and see what was in there, but Kate was hot on your trail, and you knew they were probably hiding something else about business down there. especially since Kate would be sleeping down there as well.
that left you on the upper floor—which you contemplated with a frown because running away now would be easier than ever. except for the fact that you didn’t have a horse, gun, money, your knapsack, or anything at all in fact. unless you could scrounge around the kitchen a bit.
creeping from your designated room down the hall, you bit back any morsel of regret bleeding into your mouth as you entered the back room. one-four-one had shown you kindness, but technically, they had also kidnapped you and were forcing you to stay in their home. albeit, on your terms, according to Ghost. but you didn’t value the word of a kidnapper very much. even if, in the moment of your capture, you had wanted to leave home and never return again.
oh—and you were being used as a hostage in a business transaction.
that thought spurred you forward blindly, and you rummaged around the kitchen as quietly as you possibly could, pocketing matches, a box of ammo, and a small bunch of rope beneath the kitchen sink. sliding the knife drawer open, you inspected each one carefully, watching the blade glint in the moonlight, before picking up a small one you hoped would go missing without notice.
“stealing my things again?”
you jumped out of your skin with a shriek, and mindlessly turned to the source of sound, brandishing your knife at the intruding form shrouded in shadow. he caught your wrist easily, stepping forward to press you back against the kitchen counter and your heart dropped to your stomach.
dark eyes and a red mask. his hat was off and the black fabric beneath his mask was pulled up enough so you could see his jaw, the soft pink of his mouth and the silvery scar on his upper lip.
“Ghost?” you whispered out, dropping the knife. it clattered to the floor and he tilted his head almost curiously.
for a long moment you just stared in silence, his knee firm between your thighs and broad stature lingering over you, gloved hand tight on your wrist. you searched his eyes, reaching up a hand to brush at his jaw, but he immediately stepped out of your proximity.
“brought you something.” he nodded outside and you looked out the kitchen window to see your dappled gray mare, Sugar, tied to the fence post at the front of the leather crafts store by his black stallion. breath hitching, you pressed your hand to the glass.
“thank you,” you whispered, looking back at him. wordlessly, he turned from you to peel off his black trench coat.
when you noticed him wince, you immediately moved forward to help him out of his coat, laying it out over the table. mumbling a word of gratitude, he sat gingerly in a seat and leaned down to undo his boots. watching him struggle from the tenderness of his wound, you sighed, pushing his hands away to neatly kneel in front of him and smooth over your skirt. then, you carefully helped him pull them off.
“don’t need your help,” he grumbled from above, and you suppressed a smirk. you almost missed his grumpy remarks.
“that so?”
putting down his second boot by his feet, you looked up at him, heart jumping to your throat from the half-lidded look behind his mask. the gloved hand that rested on his thigh by your cheek twitched. you remembered its appearance yesterday—soaked in blood. his blood.
closing your eyes, you nuzzled your cheek into the hand, his palm cupping your face gently before moving down to stroke at your braid. he let out a low throaty sound when you looked up at him from where you kneeled, cheek pressed against his thigh, the fine worsted wool of his dress pants velvet on your skin.
“do you know what you do to a man?” he asked, voice soft. you only hummed back in sing-song question, eyes half-lidded, content where you leaned against the strength of his thigh.
“i searched half the plain for your horse. she got lost in the fray when i got shot.” his hand moved from your braid to your throat, stroking in time with the lulling pulse of your heart, leather cool on your hot skin.
“found her back at the cabin, sniffing around for you. the place was totally upturned, and all the food in my cabinets was gone.” he snickered lightly. “you thief.”
you smiled at that, gripping his wrist weakly.
“i like it when you talk,” you admitted, mesmerized by the slow way his soft lips shaped deep, grating words in that thick foreign accent.
you watched the bob of his bare throat swallow with a hunger pooling in your stomach.
“you should be afraid of me,” he whispered, gently pressing his thumb to your lower lip, “you were afraid of me.”
you couldn’t remember a time when you were afraid of Ghost—only a nervous anticipation crawling across your skin at his proximity. maybe you were never afraid in the first place. maybe you told yourself that you were afraid of him, out of your own unease, when the fear was something that you actually craved.
“i am afraid,” you said. his grip on your chin tightened. “but not of you.”
“who then?” he demanded, voice silky.
“Turner. his men.” an invulnerable shiver went through you. “they said the first man to lay hands on me gets dibs.”
you felt his thigh stiffen beneath you. “i won't let them touch you.”
you swallowed thickly, peering up at him. a dark, sinister voice inside you purred out.
i want you to touch me.
he cocked his head at you, asking a silent question.
i want only you to touch me.
he voiced it. “what do you want?” his hand moved to stroke at your cheek, your brow, your hair.
you never had the luxury of pondering the question. your path was always laid out before you by your mama and daddy. there was no choice. only lingering, bitter feelings of resentment as you fought yourself to believe that tending Daddy’s saloon and entertaining businessmen was the life you wanted.
“i dont know.”
“tell me.”
your face heated with shame. “i want you.”
Ghost went very still. you couldn’t even hear his breaths in the darkness. “you’re sure?”
you nodded against his thigh. “mhmm. want you.”
“i’m the devil,” he murmured, sounding sullen, but you just shook your head.
“you’re Simon,” you corrected, and he flinched beneath you.
letting out a low curse, you didn’t even fight it when he scooped you up in his arms, and pressed you back against the kitchen counters, mask pressed to your hair, warm body against yours. your hand trailed up to press gently at the bullet wound buried beneath his black vest and button up. his hissed at the pressure but didn’t stop you as you moved to unbutton his vest.
“i want to see,” you explained softly, unfastening the thing completely. he tossed the vest onto the table, his holster following it, as you began unbuttoning his dress shirt, splaying out a hand over his warm chest.
he was littered with scars—big and small, and you desperately tried to memorize the placement of each one as you revealed more of his pale skin, inch by inch, till his shirt hung loose at his waist. your eyes swept over the naked expanse of his toned torso and the white bandage soaked through with blood that clutched at the right side of his stomach.
slowly, you unwrapped it till the old dressings fell from his skin and a long line of puckered pink skin punctured through with a dark thread was revealed. you steadied your breath, brushing a hand over it. Ghost shifted overhead, leaning his weight onto the counter behind you.
“does it hurt?”
you couldn’t see his face, but his voice was wrung through in your ear. “no.”
the corner of your mouth twitched. “didn’t take you for a liar, Ghost.”
he just grunted in response. you smoothed your hands over the warmth of his torso.
“let me take care of you?” you offered, and his breath went shallow. you didn’t even know how to take care of someone. you had no idea what you were doing. but you offered anyway.
you could feel him smile into your hair, nose pressed to your ear. “always so polite, princess.”
you felt him tug your hair loose of its braid, and you took in a sharp breath as it fell in waves around your shoulders. he pulled off his gloves quickly, taking a handful of it, pressing the softness of your hair to his cheek. you shuddered.
“you won’t do a thing tonight, lovely,” he commanded lowly, and you nodded, hands clutching at his chest as he circled his strong arms around you. forehead pressed to yours, you looked up through his mask to find his rich brown eyes on you. his warm breath hit your lips.
he tilted his head in a gesture down the hall. “want you on that bed now.”
you complied immediately, taking him in your hand, going down the hall with one of his hands burning straight through the fabric at where he tightly gripped at your hip. crowding you into the room, and the door sealed tight behind you, he turned you by your hips, and gently pulled back your hair to expose your neck to him. you gasped when the soft wetness of his mouth kissed over it gently, his arm curling around you to pull you flush together.
a steady heat pooled in your stomach, and you squirmed in his hold.
“Ghost…” you begged, not even knowing what you were begging for. he hummed against your skin, undoing the clasp of your holster, then your skirt. you felt embarrassed by your clunky attire, kicking off your boots, hiding your face into his bare chest as he slid the article off your legs.
“don’t hide,” he warned in a light tone, expertly taking apart the back of your blouse to leave you only in your undergarments. the look behind his mask was dark and domineering, leaving you shaking in his hold. he smoothed a bare hand over your shoulder and arm, lifting the inside of your wrist to press a kiss there, before he was kissing up your arm in a hot trail.
when he reached your jaw, a foreign and breathy noise left your throat. his eyes snapped back up to yours, pausing his ministrations as you blushed deeply. you didn’t know what those sounds meant—only that they left you feeling utterly sinful for being so exposed to an older man, unmarried, and so innocent.
you swallowed when Ghost’s hands went to the back of your corset, undoing its clasps blindly as he pressed more kisses to your neck, your cheek, and the corner of your lips. you squeaked, screwing your eyes shut and found yourself disappointed when he paused again.
panting, your brows pinched in confusion. Ghost was leaning a bit back now, looking down at you with an imperceptible expression.
“what? why’d you stop?” you whispered, scared to break the moment, but he unabashedly cut through the quiet of the room. “How much do you know about going to bed with someone?”
you squeaked again, stupidly looking around the room as if your mama may have been hiding in the wardrobe. the look on Ghost’s face twisted into pure amusement, much to your chagrin, and you cursed yourself for the complete absence of confidence in you—like it had all run dry with your cheek pressed to his thigh under the dinner table.
“i know…” you fumbled for a word, “...a lot. so much.”
Ghost huffed, taking one of your hands pressed to your chest and sliding it down, past his belt, to the front of his pants. you yelped when he closed your hand around something hard, something throbbing.
“you know what this is then?”
you nodded dumbly.
“really?” you had no idea.
you nodded again, and he laughed lowly, cupping a hand around the back of your neck to kiss your cheek softly, his cool mask brushing your skin.
he unclasped the top of your corset, and you jolted when pulled it slowly from your torso. the cold air of the room bit at your skin and you wrapped your arms over your chest. grumbling in disapproval, he let the thing clatter to the floor and untangled your arms from your chest, pushing you back onto the bed.
“don’t worry, lovely,” he slew sloppy, wet kisses over your breast and stomach, lightly nipping at the chub there, and a loud sound flew from your mouth from the ministration, your back arching in response. “i can teach you everything.”
a large palm slid over your stomach, keeping you pinned there with a dark look, black eyes pitched in a silver from the moonlight. “would you like that, lovely?”
you nodded wildly, clutching at his hand splayed over your tummy.
“please, Simon,” you called softly, and a guttural sound left the back of his throat as he hooked a thumb beneath the waist of your lacey drawers and pulled them down, letting them pool around your knees for a moment as he leaned down over you to placing a comforting kiss to your shoulder.
then, you were bare, splayed out in the moonlight beneath his muscled stature. you squirmed in his hold, pressing your thighs together around his arm, but he pried them apart easily, baring your most sensitive parts to him. your whole body flushed when his eyes honed in on the throbbing between your legs, humming deeply. you yelped as he greedily tugged you to the edge of the bed, gingerly settling on his knees on the floor in front of you.
“your wound—” you cried out in surprise, but you were cut short when he buried his nose between your legs and breathed in deeply.
“Simon,” you called, voice breathy and panting, like you’d just run a far distance, and your hips jolting up against your will. there was a strange deep coiling in your stomach—a growing ache you felt like you needed to relieve with a crazy thirst.
he wrapped two strong arms round your thighs to pin your squirming hips down, nosing around the soft folds and plushness of your inner thighs.
“patience,” he said, voice soft, and you keened, unsure what to do with your hands clenching and fumbling around the sheets. catching your wrists, he pinned them down to the bed along with your thighs.
you felt the strange primal need to beg—to plead for his forgiveness, your whole body alight from the way he held your body in a bind, baring yourself to him.
“please,” you whimpered, unsatisfied with the way he continued to kiss and bite at your thighs, licking over them and periodically sucking the skin into his mouth. you canted your hips up, moaning when you found a delicious bout of friction against his turned jaw.
with a grunt of disapproval, he pinned you roughly back down to the bed.
“greedy are we, pretty thing?”
biting your lip, you didn’t feel an ounce of shame as you nodded. you needed that friction again. you didn’t know why, but you felt like you needed to grind against something desperately, just to relieve that sore aching inside you.
humming, Ghost lowered his mouth between your legs, eyes on yours as he gently blew cold air over the throbbing heat of you. you whined at that, hips trying to buck up, but he was just too strong.
“hurts,” you admitted in a whimper, and his eyes darkened.
“what hurts?”
you squirmed, whimpering helplessly, face flushing. “there.”
“where?” he asked, his lips twisted in a smug way.
you threw your head back, chest pushing up into the air with a frustrated whine.
“here?” he offered, his tongue coming out to lap over the throbbing thing between your legs. at that you gasped with a jolt, chasing his tongue. “this pretty little cunt aching?”
“yes,” you gasped, his tongue coming down to caress your core again and again, till it was lapping at it, almost playing with it.
the feeling was intense, nothing like you’d ever felt before. it bloomed like a fire in your throat, quenching the intense ache in your stomach, but every time he pulled away, the ache only grew stronger and stronger, like you needed to chase the pleasure with even more pleasure.
it was torture. you didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him closer.
the sight of him between your legs was so sinful, so wrong for a man to be lapping at you in such a forbidden place. but that intense feeling hung over everything in a foggy haze, blanketing any sense of foreboding shame that rang in the back of your brain.
there was only Ghost now—pinning your wrists and thighs to the bed, tongue rubbing strong circles into your fleshy pink skin.
when he pulled back, you almost cried out in frustration but he pinned you with a dark look of warning, releasing your wrists to bring a thumb to your cunt. he rubbed at in fast circles and a breathy moan escaped you, arching against the sheets.
he cooed. “so sensitive. you never touch yourself before, pretty thing?”
you choked out a reply. “no—it’s,” you gasped when his tongue came down to lap at your entrance, drawing teasing patterns over it, hooking inside then drawing out.
“sinful.” you finished with a drawl and he pushed his tongue inside, fucking you out of your wits with the wet muscle.
he hummed inside you, the tremors traveling all the way up to the place where he was rubbing with his thumb. you clutched at his hand, willing it to move faster, and he complied immediately. your body lost a fiber of control with every passing second.
“you look like you’re enjoying it, though,” he spoke against you with a smug look. you barely heard him, a foreign sensation building in you so fast, the words of warning died in your throat.
“you like getting fucked out with my tongue? my thumb on your clit?”
“you like being my good little whore, pretty thing?”
“say my name, princess.”
his low, gruff words went straight to the blooming heat in your stomach, traveling straight to your cunt, and exploding out to your swollen clit as you chanted his name.
Simon, Simon, Simon.
every throbbing wave gripped you with an intensity, clenching around his tongue in delicious rolls of pleasure that had you squirming in the sheets, unable to keep still as he pulled you through a slew of ecstasy.
Simon.
colors exploded behind your eyelids, jaw slack, you slowly laxed into the bed, melting as the sweet noises in your throat eventually subsided.
there was a lulling stillness in the room as your senses slowly came back to you, and you realized Ghost was speaking in a throaty, cracked murmur to you, voice raw and overused.
“good girl,” he praised, and you looked up at him, leaning into his palm as he affectionately rubbed at your cheek, clambering over you to press a kiss to your ear, the tip of your nose.
his warm breath against your lips had you jolting to life, slapping a hand over his mouth with a gasp. he jolted against you and you scrambled up straighter, seized by what you had just done.
you, naked and bare on the bed, and he, shirt unbuttoned and jaw splashed with your slick. a question burned in the dark eyes behind his mask but you just made haste to cover your body with the sheets, scurrying out of his hold.
he called your name out, voice dark and pinched. he reached for you, but you held up a hand.
“don’t,” you warned, gripped with such a burning shame that tears filled your eyes. you quickly wiped at them relentlessly, but more reappeared in their stead, and you drew the covers around your shoulders, unable to contain the shaking that wracked your body.
burying your face in your hands, thoughts convulsed wildly in your head. what have you done? what would your mama think? your daddy?
you whimpered. what would the lord think?
you shook so hard you barely noticed the black button up sleeve that Ghost wrapped around your shoulders, taking the sleeves to loosely tie them around your neck. he settled a fair distance from you, eyes full and glinting.
“alright, pretty girl?” he asked gingerly when your sobbing subsided.
you sniffled, voice strained and throaty. “no.”
you gave him a miserable look. “we’re not married.”
he tilted his head, mouth opening and closing. his hand clenched at the sheets then relaxed again.
“i don’t wanna be a whore,” you cried, feeling dumb as you wiped at the tears coming down your cheeks in an onslaught.
Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “is this because i called you a—”
“no!” you shouted immediately, then lowered your voice with a quick apology.
he slid to your side, flush against you and warm through the sheets. he pressed his mask to your hair.
“no one’ll think you’re a whore,” he mumbled, playing with your hair in his fingers, “you’re mine already.”
there was a deadpanned simplicity in his voice that made it easy to believe.
he took your tear-stained face in his hands. “besides, you’re too polite, princess. even in all that cowboy get-up.”
staring into his masked face, you nodded, chewing what he was feeding you slowly. he angled your face gently. when his lips made a slow descent to yours, you squeaked with a jolt and tried to scurry out of his hold, but he held fast, grunting with effort.
“what now?” he asked, exasperation flitting through his eyes, clenching at his jaw.
“i don’t kiss before a date—s’not proper!” you shot back with twice as much ire, and his eyes went wide before a huff of laughter escaped him.
“that so?”
you rolled your eyes. “yes.”
he hummed low, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “so proper, princess.”
you suppressed a laugh, trying to conceal your giggle with a frustrated huff, but Ghost didn’t fall for it as he drew you into arms, easily man-handling you into his desired position beneath the sheets before he slid into them behind you, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.
you were pulled into a soft wall of warmth and bowing strength, curling around you in a sleepy hold. you couldn’t fight it even if you tried. he shifted against you, and you gasped when you felt something hard digging into the fleshy curve of your backside.
shooting a curious look over your shoulder, Ghost only offered you a lazy blink.
“don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” he mumbled, drawing you in closer.
“but—”
“i don’t talk about those kinds of things before a date,” he said under his breath, and you could only laugh, relishing the way his lips curled into a smile against your hair.
an easy silence filtered into the room and you reached back behind you to grip at his shoulder, his neck, his skin. you took a deep breath. he was real. he was alive.
he slid his arms around your sides as a bind over your stomach, and you clutched weakly at the muscle of his arms smothering you.
“i thought you were going to die,” you ruminated softly, feeling a natural force pulling down on your eyelids.
“ghosts don’t die,” he reminded you, his lips against your neck.
“devils don’t either,” you said, and he grunted in disapproval.
“you think i’m the devil, lovely?” his fingers stroked at your cheek. you leaned into his touch thoughtfully.
“maybe,” you answered in a truthful nod. “i don’t mind it though. i can make you good.”
his laugh was mirthless. “doubt you can, princess.”
you swallowed hard and closed your eyes. “you won’t ransom me back to my daddy, will you?”
you took his silence as a warning, an uneasy toil rolling through you. shifting in his arms, you turned to face him, the fabric of his mask pulled back down over his jaw, heavy gaze bearing down on you, half-lidded and sleepy. he just pulled you flush against his chest so you couldn’t see his masked face anymore, only the sounds of his deep, steady breaths in your ear that dragged you into a restless sleep.
p.s.: to any history buffs out there, i know that technically there was no actual british regiment in the spanish-american war but let's pretend that there was for the sake of plot holessss
...also imagining Gaz talk in a thick southern drawl was so funny to me he's so adorable
anyways hoped you enjoyed this long, self-indulgent chapter! more coming soon :]
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Vampire Waltz - ch 1
Max Phillips x female reader
Co-written with @absurdthirst
A mysterious inheritance, sprawling mansion, eccentric roommates, friendly bat, and coven of New England witches are the newest chapter of your life after being unceremoniously dumped and kicked out by your boyfriend. For Max, the biggest change in his life is you, and what exactly he's going to do about the fact that he is stuck living with you as long as his sire continues to punish him for that incident at his last office...
Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+
Word Count: 9.4k
Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: deceased parents, cursing, food, blood and blood drinking, depictions and references to abusive relationships.* Abusive relationship, getting *out* of an abusive relationship, alcoholism, alcohol, mention of sleeping in a car.
Summary: One of the worst days of your life takes a sharp right turn into the unexpected when you learn of the death of a long-lost relative.
Notes: It's heeeere! Spooky season has officially arrived and with it comes our annual spooky-themed soulmate story! Bringing our two canonical vampires together is going to be endless shenanigans. 🧛♂️🧡 Since this story is mostly set inside one of the mansions that I work in, we're planning on using photos of the house as chapter headers some of the time. Visual reference fun!
"Hurry up and get your shit." The drunken bellow from downstairs is followed up by a loud crash, another curse and a thump as your boyfriend – ex-boyfriend – continues to throw the equivalent of a temper tantrum. It hadn't been the first time you've fought, or that the asshole had threatened to throw you out on your ass, but the fist sized hole in the wall that had only been an inch from your face was new, escalating violence.
"Lazy, good for nothing cunt! I work all goddamn day and you couldn't even fucking do what I asked!"
It's not that you don't work. Or that you didn't work. But after getting fired four days ago following yet another day calling out of work to clean up some mess caused by your boyfriend, your manager had said it was the final straw and sent you packing. Since then you had tried to clean up the house, get the back-log of laundry out of the way, and at least make a nice dinner while you applied for new jobs. It isn't your fault that the neighbor's dog got into your yard and ripped a hole in one of his shirts on the clothesline. There is absolutely no way you could have done anything about it. But it is the thing that sent him over the deep end this time and has him screaming at you yet again.
Running upstairs was the best thing you could do to get away from his fist, and now you're just praying that you have enough trash bags in the house to cram your stuff into before he decides to come after you again. You'll be sleeping in your car tonight, but at least all the locks on the doors work. You can manage a few nights in a securely locked car. It's just...that you're not quite sure where you'll go after that.
The sound of the top to a Natural Light beer being cracked open sounds from the base of the stairwell and he takes several loud gulps. Belching from drinking too fast and hitting the wall with the flat of his hand. "Come on, bitch!" He calls out. "I ain't got all night!"
Wiping the tears from your eyes, you pace back to the top of the stairwell and lean down so you can actually see him. Ten goddamn years with this man and this is how it ends. "I'll be gone by the time you get home," you promise him, the resignation obvious in your voice. He'll go to the bar to see his friends like he does after he eats dinner almost every night. You've never been the kind of girlfriend to stop him from seeing his friends, so they have had a routine for almost as many years as you've been together.
"Good." He glares up at you and points a finger. "You better not take any of my shit either." He warns you. "Tired of taking care of your stupid ass. You're in for a rude wake up call. Shit's not easy out there." He burps again and turns around to stumble down the hall. "You are such a disappointment." He yells out before opening the front door and letting it slam behind him, rattling the windows.
"Yeah." You sigh, shaking your head with one of those cheap fleece throw blankets in your hand. It has ballet slippers on it, a relic of a childhood long dream long forgotten. "I know I am." Holding up the blanket to look at it more closely, you debate throwing the damn thing out entirely, but it will keep you warm in the car tonight. It will go into a trash bag along with everything else.
As soon as the blanket is shoved in with your two miniature throw pillows, your phone goes off in your pocket. Expecting it to be Derek, ready to yell at you some more, you're surprised to see Private splashed across the screen instead. If you don't answer it and it is him for any reason, there will be hell to pay. "Hello?"
The smooth, cultured voice on the other end of the line is slightly raspy. As if the person has spent a lifetime swallowing brandy and smoking cigars, or had spent all day talking. In actuality, both of those things are true. Your name is spoken in the form of a question. Asking if he had reached the right person.
"Speaking." The automatic answer doesn't make you feel any less confused, but at least they aren't yelling at you. "Can I ask who's calling, please?"
"Antonio Colette," He tells you quickly. "With Colette and Dupree. I am calling about your late, great aunt, Etienne Brown." He shuffles through the papers to bring up the will that had been laid out, along with the investigators report on you. It was how he had found your current number. "I am executing her estate and quite frankly, it has been a search to find you."
"I'm sorry," you shake your head against the phone as though the man could possibly see you. "I don't know anyone by that name. My, um...I don't know a lot of my family. But that isn't a name I recognize. Maybe you have the wrong person?" There is no reason that any family member you've never heard of would have left you anything in a will, so he must have the wrong number. That's the only explanation you can think of.
"No, ma'am." He tells you. "I don't think I have the wrong person. Is this not a good time to talk?" He can hear something in your voice, and while most were always happy to inherit something, you might have pressing matters to attend to.
Hesitating for a reason you can't quite put your finger on, you glance out the window in the corner of your now former bedroom, the one that overlooks the driveway. Derek's truck is gone, and your shoulders slump a little. You have hours until he comes home now. Usually it's not until after last call. "No...no it's okay. I'm just...not having a great day. What did you want to speak to me about?"
"Ms. Brown was very particular about her will. As executor of the estate, it is my duty to make sure that her last wishes are carried out. As there is no other living relative on your mother's side, she decided that you would be the sole heir of her estate." He explains. "This includes the eight-bedroom mansion and the trust that has been established to pay for the manor. Her private accounts. The total combined monetary worth of twelve point two million dollars."
The crash that he hears from your side of the phone call is you falling over – a product of your legs giving out the second he said the word mansion and then losing your balance all over again at the sum total of the estate. "Wh—what?" You manage to breathe, barely managing not to break down in tears all over again. For an entirely different reason, this time.
"Of course, there is one issue that you must be made aware of." He's used to people being surprised, so he doesn't try to explain. You will soon be holding paperwork that you can read again and again if needed. "There are two tenants in the mansion. Ms. Brown has given them a lifetime estate on the rooms they occupy." He tells you. "Meaning they live there for as long as they wish."
"O—okay..." As fast as your mind can possibly turn, you still feel like you can't quite keep up with it, and you end up curled up at the foot of your bed hugging the throw blanket that was still in your hands when your phone rang. "So...I just...get a mansion? And twe—twelve million dollars? And the only caveat is that I have two tenants?" None of it makes any sense, but you'll be damned if it doesn't sound like the perfect way out of the hell that you've found yourself in.
“Pretty much.” Antonio agrees. “When would you be available to tour the property and sign some paperwork?” He asks, flipping over to his calendar to pencil you in.
"I—" Stumbling again, your forehead drops onto the pillow clutched against your chest before you tip your head back and stare up at the mottled ceiling. "I guess...as soon as I can get there?" It's not as though you have anything else to do at the moment. Or even anyone to tell where you're going. "But, can I ask? Um...where exactly is this house?"
“Newport, Rhode Island.” He supplies. “I must confess that I could not find a current address for you, just this phone number, so I am not quite sure where you are traveling from.
"Dandridge, Tennessee." Six years you've lived in this town and it never felt like home, but maybe now that's for the best. With a sigh, you try to think if you've ever even heard of Newport, Rhode Island and come up entirely blank other than knowing that Rhode Island is in New England. Which is a pretty decent drive away. "It might take me a few days to drive up there. Maybe two days? Depending on how late into the night I drive."
“That’s fine.” Colette agrees. “I will give you my number. If you find yourself here quicker than you anticipate, give me a call and I can meet you with the keys.”
"Okay." For a second the brief fear that your car might not even last a two-day drive flashes through your mind but you push it aside and let out a sigh in favor of sitting up to grab the pen off your nearby desk so you can take down the lawyer's phone number. "I...um...thank you, Mr. Colette. This is..." It's insane. It's completely insane and you can't even wrap your head around it. "It's life changing."
“I will see you in two days.” Mr. Colette responds and then ends the call before he sighs. Dropping his head into his hand, he rubs his temple. Whoever you are, he feels sorry for you. No way you know what the hell you are getting into.
******
The first night you're honestly exhausted, and you end up sleeping in your packed-full car behind the twenty-four-hour diner with the really nice waitresses that don't get upset that you need a safe place to park for one night. Telling them that you're moving had done the trick, and the extremely kind pair of women had gotten their line cook to whip you up a sandwich for dinner and one more to take with you when you left town in the morning.
The gps on your phone – thank god the bill is in your name – says that it will take thirteen hours and thirty-seven minutes of driving. Deciding to go, go, go as best you can, you leave town at sunrise and end up crossing the border into Rhode Island at almost eleven that same night. Stopping for bathroom breaks and to gas up the car – plus traffic, of course – has cost some time, but you made it. Now all you had to do was make the last leg of the journey out to Newport. Surprised to find that Newport is actually on an island (didn't you learn at one point that Rhode Island isn't an island?) you pull into a truck stop to finally sleep for the night. You'll do the last forty-five minutes of the drive in the morning.
******
Feeling and probably looking like shit the next morning is the price you pay for getting here quickly, but you call the lawyer at nine in the morning when his office's website says it opens and arrange to meet him at the address he gives you. Bellevue Avenue just sounds fancy, and when you get to the island you realize why. This entire town seems filled to the brim with mansions, expensive shops, and swanky restaurants.
Antonio had been surprised that you had driven through the night, but perhaps he shouldn't have been. He gives you the address to his offices and tells his secretary to make sure that there is a good selection of bagels and muffins out this morning in case you would like something while you go over the paperwork. You are a very important client, and he would like to keep you if possible.
Tired and more than a little ragged, you pull your car up to the office on Thames Street and cut the engine with a sigh. There’s a lot of touristy stuff around, especially on this part of the island, and that means you haven’t seen a single dingy diner or fast food drive-up since you got here. Everything is expensive cafes and fancy restaurants. The thought that you might have to skip breakfast is discouraging until you walk into the lawyer’s office tentatively and smell coffee.
"Good morning." Raquel stands from behind her desk and smooths her pencil skirt down before she walks around the desk. Antonio and his partner prefer that she personally greet each client and she doesn't let her facial expression change from one of welcome when she sees the tired, beaten down appearance of the woman who walked into the door. Her heart clenches at the sight and even if you are not the client that he had been expecting, she will invite you to have some coffee and pastries while she waits for someone to work you into their calendar. "May I help you?" She asks as she offers her manicured hand to shake.
“I—I’m here to see Mr. Colette.” You give her your name along with the handshake she obviously expects, and try to shake the feeling that that smile of hers is probably plastered on. Of course it is. It’s first thing in the morning and she works in a law office.
"Of course." You are the important client, so she immediately waves you to the glass doors. "Please follow me." She tells you. "Mr. Colette is getting all the necessary documents together, but we have tea, coffee, bagels, and some delicious pastries available while you wait?" She wants you to feel comfortable as she walks you down the short hall to the smaller conference room where she had set everything up for the meeting.
“Thank you.” It doesn’t make one single bit of sense to you that they’ve gone through all this trouble, but this long-lost great aunt of yours must have been an important client. Maybe they think you’re important too? Well – they’ll be disabused of that idea pretty soon.
"Please let me know if there is anything I can get you." She senses that you aren't comfortable and she doesn't want to crowd you or do anything to upset you. "I'll let Mr. Colette know you are here."
There are a few minutes to wait, sitting in that conference room surrounded by food that you don’t dare touch, and you end up staring blankly at a photograph on the wall of a yacht on the ocean. It’s almost trance-like, how you sit there and stare, and you end up nearly jumping out of your seat when the heavy wooden doors open again and an elegant looking, well-dressed man walks through flanked by the woman who greeted you.
“Good morning.” Antonio smiles as he assesses the woman who had inherited a fortune and more. He is aware of the details of the will and the history behind it, so he feels like this is personal. “We will have quite a few things to go through, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to make myself a plate.” He chuckles. “No breakfast yet and I’m hungry.”
“Of course.” It’s a little bit like permission, and you feel comfortable enough pouring a cup of black coffee and putting a croissant on a plate for yourself when Mr. Colette motions for you to join him. In a few mere moments the three of you are sitting down at the conference table and Raquel presents her boss with a thick folder of paperwork in a leather sleeve and takes out her own notebook in turn.
“Now.” Antonio looks down at the paperwork and then back up at you. “Thank you for coming so quickly.” He starts off with. “Hopefully this transition will be seamless for you and perhaps after this I can show you around your new home?”
“It still doesn’t feel very real,” you admit, carefully sipping your hot coffee and looking down at the papers in front of him. “And you said there’s two other people…already living there?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Family friends of Ms. Brown.” He tells you vaguely.
“Alright.” Already you’ve made up your mind not to bother them, these people who live in a house that you’re inheriting out of nowhere. Who are you to intrude in their lives? “I assume there’s a lot of paperwork? I’ve never owned a house before so this is all new to me.”
“The taxes and the maintenance for the home are paid out of the trust. So you do not need to worry about that. If anything happens, call and we will take care of getting the bill paid.” He explains. “I’ve already taken the liberty of ordering you debit cards and credit cards.” He pulls out an envelope and slides it over to you. “All of them are active and ready to use.”
So people really live like this, huh? is all you can think to yourself as the lawyer’s secretary also sets a card down in front of you that has a man’s name and phone number with the title of caretaker listed on it. That along with the cards already has your head spinning, but then a set of keys is set down on the table as well. Front door. Kitchen door. Terrace doors. Each antique key is labeled carefully with a tag in elegant handwriting. Closets. Attic storage. Utility closet. It’s so much to take in — too much, arguably — and then a set of car keys is added to the pile. “What’s this?” You ask, already starting to feel your head spin a little.
“This is the car.” Antonio tells you. “The 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray that Ms. Brown also willed to you.” He hums. “I have all the maintenance records for the car here as well. Her other cars were sold or given away before she died, but this one conveyed with her other belongings to you. I believe she said, ‘it goes with the house’.”
“I—um—wow…” Not that you know much about cars, but it sounds impressive and you’re momentarily thankful that you’ve been driving stick for the last few years, since your broken-down third-hand Volvo came into your life. “Are there any more surprises I should be aware of?”
“I’m not exactly sure what you will consider surprises.” The lawyer chuckles and slides a scrap of paper towards you. “The combination to the safe. It’s where the collection of Ms. Brown’s jewelry is.”
A safe full of jewels, a presumably fancy vintage car, a mansion, and a literal fortune? Frankly, it’s all a surprise. “If this house comes with servants I might black out,” you warn jokingly, staring at the slip of paper with the safe combination like it’s a foreign language.
“Well, the staff is paid from the trust.” He tells you seriously. “If you wish to make changes, please let me know. Right now….” He shuffles some papers. “There is the housekeeper and her assistant, the gardener, the pool company, and the window washer.” He looks up. “The pool company and window washer come by once a week. The gardener, the housekeeper and her assistant are all full time employees.”
The dead pan stare you have for the man is completely slack, and it takes far longer than you’re proud of to shake off the embarrassment of staring at him like an imbecile. “You’re serious?” You ask in equal parts confusion and awe. “I was kidding.”
“I assure you, the help is needed.” He tells you seriously. “A house of this size could not possibly be managed by one person alone.”
“Right.” The best you can do is nod vaguely and try not to have a panic attack over the responsibility landing in your lap, and you look between the lawyer and his clerk again. “You said it’s…eight bedrooms?” That place must be a palace…
“That is…the main bedrooms.” Antonio admits. “That doesn’t include the old servants’ quarters, although they are not occupied now.”
“Fuuuuck…” Even mumbling under your breath is obvious, and the paper that is slid in front of you is a clearly labeled blueprint of the house. Four floors, distinctly marked 38,000 square feet, and with more doorways, closets, and stairwells than you can shake a stick at.
“I can understand that it is overwhelming, but the staff is prepared for your arrival.” You look panicked and he doesn’t think that’s a good thing. It’s almost as if you feel…guilty.
“Can I ask…?” Swallowing down the dear at how daunting all of this feels, you abandon your small breakfast and sit back in the uncomfortable padded chair you’re seated in. “Anything about Ms. Brown? What did she do? How did she pass?” Where did all her money come from? The fact is, you had never even heard of her, but she left you an entire life.
“Ms. Brown died at 91.” He’s a little surprised that you are curious, but you don’t seem to be the type of person that is overly greedy. “Complications of old age.”
“I see.” Jittery fingers curl the edge of one page and you bite your lip, trying to see if anything doesn’t fit. But it all seems to knit together properly, in a way that just accidentally benefits you in the craziest way possible. “And she was just…independently wealthy?” It seems unlikely considering your family has so little, but who knows? Anything is possible.
“Some of it was leftover from her wealthy soulmate.” He admits. “They never had children. Some of it was from investments. She was a smart lady.”
“She must have been.” It’s easy to just waste money, you’ve seen that firsthand too many times. “Well…I assume I need to sign things? Make the ownership…official?”
“Absolutely.” He cracks a small smile. “Sign your life away, is the saying.”
Raquel slides a stack of papers over towards you. “All the places for you to sigh are indicated with a tab.”
A dozen different signatures and initials go by like lightning and before you know it, Raquel is excusing herself with the stack of papers to make copies and file things away. “Is there…anything else?” You ask, tentative about what else there could even be.
“Nothing that I can think of.” Mr. Colette hums. “I had the housekeeper stock the pantry and kitchen with basic items.” He tells you.
“That was very kind of you.” Since you aren’t really sure what else to say, you take a determined look at the pile of keys in front of you and muster a smile. “Would you mind showing me the house? The drive was long and it would be nice to settle in.” The further you get from Derek and his reach, the better off you know you will be. Even if you had loved him as best as you could — it had never been enough. Maybe these next people won’t be too disappointed in you. Not the way he was, at least.
“Of course.” He would make sure that you are comfortable before he turns you loose on the house. Or perhaps abandoning you to it would be a more apt phrasing. “Whenever you wish to leave here. I’ve cleared my schedule for the morning.”
“There’s no time like the present, I guess? I can follow you in my car.” You have half a mind to ask if the other occupants will be there, but you can’t see how he would possibly know that so you put the question aside in your mind.
“Of course.” He can’t think of anything else that needs to be address. “We will file all of the paperwork with the probate court and you will be receiving new registration for the car and a title to the house in four to six weeks. Sometimes it does take a few months.” He warns.
“I can’t imagine I’ll need them with any kind of speed.” After all, you have no plans to do anything of importance. In fact, if you never do anything besides sit in your little corner of this town for the rest of your life and remain unnoticed by everyone, you’ll be happier for it.
“Well.” He hands off the papers to the assistant and stands. “Shall we?” He asks, motioning towards the door.
******
Even with the heavy traffic of downtown Newport, the drive from the Law Offices of Colette & Dupree over to Bellevue Avenue takes under ten minutes. You drive by a grocery store and a drug store on the way – both good things to know the location of – as well as numerous high end shops, restaurants, and cafes. There is a bustling town here and it looks like students, too. Young adults with stuffed-full backpacks wearing all manner of paraphernalia that reads Salve Regina University seem to dominate certain areas.
After what seems like dozens of affluent homes, Mr. Colette’s blinker turns on before one of many stone walls and turns left into a driveway. When you follow suit and drive through the front gate, you’re glad to be alone because the gasp you let out is audible. Chateau-sur-Mer rises up and peeks out from behind trees like a monument. More massive than you ever would have dreamed of, the stone-faced house points north with a beautiful, multifaceted landscape surrounding it in every direction. Three stories, with a beautiful back porch, and spires and a tower to boot, the house is offset by a gigantic weeping tree that you don’t recognize and an otherwise reasonably sized house in one corner of the property that seems utterly dwarfed by the mansion it otherwise guards. Caretaker, you remember after a second. There is a caretaker…and presumably that is where he lives? It’s just…you had already had trouble wrapping your head around it. But now that you see it? It’s just…beautiful.
The sleek Jaguar comes to a stop and Antonio steps out and turns towards the older, slightly perilous looking Volvo. He hopes that you will get rid of it, or replace it now that you have the means. He had watched it seemingly buck several times while stopped at traffic lights.
“This is it?” If your question sounds dubious, it isn’t meant to. Honestly you’re almost too flabbergasted to really wrap your head around everything. There are a few cars parked under a structure to the left of the house that you assume used to be stables, from the look of it. Now the small windows that show you inside give a peak at bumpers and break lights instead of manes and carriages. There are a half dozen cars inside that you assume must belong to the other occupants and the staff, with more empty spaces standing open before the gorgeous black and chrome sports car that you now hold the keys to. “I mean it’s…it’s so much room. I’m almost glad there’s other people who will be around a lot.”
“The property is safe.” He assures you. “There’s a surveillance system that you can access and a security system that nothing in the world can rival.” He chuckles at his own joke and motions towards the house. “Shall we go inside?”
“Sure.” Not that you understand why one little old lady would need such a hardcore security system, but you nod anyway and let the lawyer – your lawyer? – lead the way. The house looms, almost daring you to come inside, but you are faced with an ordinary carved wooden door when you actually get close.
"It was built in 1852. Or completed in that year." Mr. Colette tells you as he takes the large keyring from you to unlock the front door and hands the keys back to you with a small grin. "It was once considered a ‘cottage’." He scoffs. "Although I tend to think of something a little smaller as a cottage."
“This is about four cottages all stacked on top of each other.” Walking through the front door cloaks you in near-darkness immediately. When your eyes adjust you stumble up a half-dozen wide marble steps into a front hall that grows up and up and up into an atrium taller than any you’ve ever seen before. The staircase behind you looks like it belongs to the set of a BBC drama and the thick red velvet curtains hanging in the entryway feel more like an old proscenium theater than a house. But the warm carved wood everywhere and colorfully painted forest scenes on the walls are immediately cozy in their own right. “Oh wow…” Your eyes are wide as you look around. It’s…it’s stunning.”
“Any changes you want to make, you are perfectly able to.” The lawyer reminds you, although he couldn’t imagine wanting to change anything about this estate. The mixture of Victorian and Gilded age architecture is a perfect combination to make a gorgeous house.
“I really don’t think that will be necessary.” After all, people already live here. The last thing you want to do is intrude on other people’s lives. “So this is the Great Hall, I guess?” The floor plan that Raquel gave you at the lawyer’s office is going to end up being invaluable, you think, as you pull it out and inspect the drawing of the first floor.
“Yes.” While he’s happy you don’t want to change anything, your tone makes it sound like it would be rude to do so. “The kitchens have been completely remodeled, modern appliances, but they still kept the charm of the rest of the house.”
“And that’s…” You consult the floor plan when there isn’t an obvious appliance anywhere in sight. “In the basement?”
“It is on the lower level.” Guiding you into the house, he explains. “Heat caused by the kitchens was unwanted so after the kitchens being in a different building fell out of fashion, they decided to make sure the kitchen was in the basement to keep the rest of the house cooler during the summer months. There’s the elevator over here, if you wish to use that instead of taking the stairs?”
Mr. Colette motions to the left of the main stairwell, to a portion of the first floor with red and black patterned flooring, and down a hallway. Curious enough to be led around by the suggestion and also noting that the floor plan in your hands says Servants’ Hall for this portion of the house, you follow him tentatively and watch him open what appeared to be a regular closet door. Instead there is a metal grating behind it, which is also opened, and a carved dark wood elevator car stands waiting for you. The kind of thing that would absolutely get you killed in a horror movie, it’s surprisingly sturdy when you step into it and Colette closes the door and gate easily. He presses the ‘B’ button before you can even ask about stairs and the antique elevator jolts to life, headed downstairs.
“Don’t worry,” he sends you a reassuring smile. “The elevator is safe.” He listens to the clanking and feels the carriage start to slow down.
The basement of this house is not like any basement you’ve ever been in before. The enormously long hallway with red and black flooring identical to the hall upstairs seems to stretch and stretch, and there are more doors down here than you could ever fathom needing. But there are voices coming from a room just a few yards away and that is both comforting and nerve-wracking at once. Other people means you won’t be lonely, but it also means new needs, new demands, and potentially new people to disappoint.
“Mr. Colette?” A woman’s voice sounds, loud and clear with a thick Rhode Island accent, from the room and only half a second later a tall, slim woman with gray and silver peppered through her brown hair and glasses attached to a beaded chain appears in the hall. “We weren’t sure when to expect you,” she says with a thin smile. “And this must be the new owner.”
“Yes.” The lawyer who has spent many hours in this house smiles at the housekeeper and waves your forward. Introducing you by your first and last name. “This is Marjorie Taylor and Renee Green. They are the ones who keep the house sparkling and the linens fresh.” He explains. “Mrs. Taylor would also cook for you if you would like.”
“I insist on it,” Mrs. Taylor informs you, smiling in a sort of polite-but-curious way and she shakes your hand when you offer it. “It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am.” When you falter and repeat your first name, thinking that maybe she had forgotten it or something, she shakes her head and gives you that same amused, thin-lipped smile. “There are a couple of things we stay old fashioned about here,” she tells you. But leaves out that the contract she signed with the rather suave gentleman who hired her specified it. “I’m Mrs. Taylor. This is Renee. The caretaker is Mr. Taylor, and the gardener is Mr. Finchley. The whole staff live in the caretaker’s cottage on the grounds and we are always reachable except for our day off each week. The schedule is written out for you. I left it on the desk in the library along with the necessary phone numbers and other important information.
“You’re very thorough, Mrs. Taylor.” It comes out with a note of surprise and you drop your eyes to the floor, embarrassed. “I mean — thank you. It is very much appreciated.”
“It is my pleasure.” She assures you with a soft smile. “It will be good to have people in the home again.” The others that were here kept to themselves and were often not around.
“I’m just one person,” you assure her, as if to say that you won’t cause trouble or get in the way. Those were things that Derek accused you of far too often. Even if it is the job that these people have taken on — the job not cleaning and cooking and taking care — you would never want to be a burden or a strain on them. “And…I tend to be fairly low key.”
“Well, I hope that you will let us take care of you.” Mrs. Taylor hums. “We have been delighted to hear that you had been located and were coming. I am sure that we will find a way to rub along together.”
“I’m sure.” You say, trying to smile and be reassuring. These people seem to be expecting a boss, not a wallflower, and that isn’t what you are. “I’m very glad to have gotten the call.” That, at least, is true.
“Would you like breakfast after the tour?” She asks. “I can have a tray brought up to whatever room you choose, and Mr. Taylor would be happy to bring up any luggage and boxes you have.”
Renee nods. “I would be happy to help you unpack.” She offers.
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” You protest immediately, but both women give you such placid, polite smiles that you swallow your anxiety about butting into the house and replace it with fear of being rude. “I—I mean…thank you. That actually sounds very nice.”
“Our pleasure.” The elder woman assures you. “Perhaps later on, once you have settled in, we can go over your preferences.” She tilts her head. “For now, do you have any food allergies I should make note of?”
“None.” Just as soon as you shake your head though, something in your gut churns and the smell of Derek’s cheap beer somehow overtakes you out of nowhere. It’s like a sense memory you never needed, and you stammer inelegantly. “But I—I, um…I don’t drink. Alcohol, I mean.” You did before. A long time ago. But seeing what it did to the man you thought you were going to spend your life with has ruined it for you. Soulmate or not, you had really thought Derek was the one. But his one comes in a can.
“Yes ma’am.” If it sounds odd to her, she doesn’t make it visible, just nodding politely. “I will make sure you have a nice tray sent up, I know you will be tired from travel.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.” “I’ll show our new resident The call buttons after she chooses a bedroom, so you’ll know where to bring her tray.” Colette assures the housekeeper with a smile. “We’ll just head back upstairs.”
“Perfect.” She smiles at the lawyer. “Oh, Max and Eddie aren’t here right now, so if you show her their rooms, just go right in.”
You thank both women again and follow Mr. Colette back upstairs, where he motions to the left of the hallway where the elevator is hidden and you end up in a room that is wall-to-wall cabinets. There are beautiful serving pieces and sets of China in those cases, as well as stunning crystal and glassware. If you ever throw a Victorian themed dinner party, it looks like you’ll be all set for dishes.
“The preservation society on the island has been itching to get their hands on this estate.” Antonio muses as he slows down to let you take in the vastness of the collection. “Ms. Brown always enjoyed thumbing her nose at them.” He chuckles quietly. “I believe that you would have liked her. She was a firecracker.”
“She had great taste.” There is a set of China in the cases that you keep coming back to — the intricate gilding and beautifully painted flowers utterly mesmerizing you for a few moments. There seem to be three different full sets of China here and two full sets of glassware. Every different size dish or glass you can think of is here.
“Now it is yours to keep and use however you wish.” He reminds you as he moves towards the display of real silverware.
“I think it’s actually harder to wrap my head around that now that I’m in the house,” you admit, trying for a laugh and just sort of letting out a huffed breath instead. On the floor plan, the door to the left of you is marked Butler’s Pantry and that seems like someplace you shouldn’t go. To the right, though, the plan says Dining Room. “This way next?” You guess? The door looks innocuous enough — it’s just a dining room. It can’t be that crazy.
“Wherever you would like to go.” Antonio insists as he pushes open the swinging double doors silently. The large dining room table with the massive set of three chandeliers dominates the room.
The gasp from your lips has you pretty sure that you’re going to be saying “Wow” a hell of a lot in this house, and every room just makes the feeling grow. From the forest green walls of the dining room outfitted with ornate carvings in dark wood – to the silver painted walls of the ballroom with its six foot high mirrors and gilt relief work on every wall panel. A parlor room off one end of the ballroom is all decorated in green silk fabric – even the walls – with clean white accents. Beyond that is a hallway with a stained-glass ceiling and a white marble floor that is decked in red leather sofas and contains huge white marble statues and paintings on the walls that are nearly life sized. The library is the most ornate yet, with carvings on every single wooden surface, lush carpeting and sitting space, and even a hidden door built into one bookcase. “Where does that go?” You ask immediately, too tentative to open it yourself.
“This, I believe, goes to the morning room.” He tells you, cocking his head as he thinks. “It has been some time since I have completely gone through the house.” He admits.
“Is it okay to go through? I mean the house is old but it’s not so old that it’s unsafe, right?” The idea of a door in a book axe is too good for anyone to pass up, especially you.
“Absolutely.” Antonio pulls the leaver to open the door. “Ms. Brown and her soulmate would spend quite I bit of time in this room. I believe it was her favorite.”
The middle section of the bookcase pulls toward you smoothly, allowing you and Mr. Colette to pass into a large corner room with enormous picture windows on two sides and built in bookcases on every other wall. Like an extension of the library there are books everywhere, a red leather windows seat that matches the sofas in the marble hall, and even intricate wooden shutters that close over the windows in sections to regulate how much light is let in. One side of the room is dominated by a large fireplace with yet one more large mirror set in the wall above it, and there are small statues all along the mantle. A billiard table takes up most of the space in the middle of the room, but a table and chairs and a desk also fit neatly with plenty of room to move.
“This house goes on forever,” you observe with a laugh of disbelief.
“It is one of the larger cottages.” He agrees. “In fact, it was the largest house until the Vanderbilts built the Breakers.” He imparts that little fact with a smirk as he looks around the room. “But I’ve always been fond of this estate.”
“It’s beautiful.” Having seen it up close and personal, you can imagine that photos don’t do it justice. It must seem crowded or busy in pictures. But in person? It’s like the house is hugging you. After another minute looking around the morning room, you follow Colette back out to the entryway and head upstairs. There is fabric, not wallpaper, hanging on the walls around the master staircase and it is painted with a forest scene that seems reminiscent of folk tales. Like magic could be lurking behind any corner or a satyr just might come out from behind a bush. There is a tree painted on the underside of the enormous staircase, trunk and branches extending upward to sprout leaves and welcome birds, and it crawls all the way up the stairwell to extend out to the ceiling of the second-floor landing and atrium. Dozens of little painted songbirds light on branches everywhere to make you feel like you have climbed into the forest that is painted on the walls.
“Every room has its own theme.” He explains at the top of the stairwell looking down the hallway at the doors. “If you don’t mind. I will step away to make a call.”
"Of course." Far be it from you to stop him from attending to his business, and you follow along the railing in the hallway to make your way into a different hall. This one is just a rectangular room with the now familiar built-in cases along the walls, paintings and intricate light fixtures above the cases, and six doors to choose from. To open them one by one seems like a massive intrusion, but you can't figure out any other way to see what else is up here. The floor plan marks four bedrooms on this floor as well as a sitting room and a nursery, though you can't understand why there is a nursery if there were never any children living here. Maybe your great-aunt and her soulmate wanted children but just could never have them? That's a far sadder thought than you can muster at the moment.
Hoping that you're facing the right direction, you open the door on the opposite wall from where you are standing and – yes, you had it right – the sitting room is full of plush chairs and love seats with a petite fireplace that has a huge flatscreen television over it where you assume a mirror once stood. The fireplace has a small stand inside it that obviously prevents fires from ever being laid, but more importantly seems to be the storage rack for multiple video game systems. Whoever Max and Eddie are, these other occupants of the house seem to thoroughly enjoy video games.
To the right of that room is a beautifully laid bedroom with honey colored furniture and homey gray and white pinstripe wallpaper. A writing desk stands at the ready between a window trimmed in lace curtains and a white marble fireplace, and it feels like exactly the kind of room that you would love to be brought to if you were a guest in someone's house. As much as it is sweet, inviting, and unexpectedly friendly, it feels…spoken for somehow. It’s nothing you can describe fully, but it makes you think that you shouldn’t disturb the room. Like whoever had claimed it originally might still come back one day to curl up in that bed or sit down at that desk.
There are two more bedrooms – one with furniture made of a wood that is somehow remarkably the same shade as roasted butternut squash and the other with a luxurious, if slightly gothic, yellow velvet and dark walnut loveseat and red upholstered chairs in it that all beg to be read in – but both rooms very obviously are occupied. These must be the rooms that Max and Eddie claimed whenever it was that they arrived. The next door to the left of Max's room yields a large, airy bedroom decorated in all sorts of shades and textures of blue with dark wood furniture and soft pink silk and lace curtains over the windows. A painting of a smiling young woman hangs above the fireplace with two lamps in the shapes of cherubs holding the light source aloft. Two cream-colored chairs sit by a small table and two more blue velvet chairs flank another. You could have a whole party in this spick-and-span room without any effort whatsoever.
“This is the one, I see.” Antonio has returned. Lingering in the doorway as he watches you move from Knick knack to knick knack with an almost dreamy expression on your face. “Let me show you the call system.” He gives you an apologetic look. “I’m afraid that I am needed in court.”
A set of buttons by the door to what you very accidentally have apparently selected as your room will summon a member of the house's small staff, Mr. Colette tells you, and there is a similar button on a handle by your bed, almost like the call button for a nurse in the hospital. "Don't let me keep you," you murmur, waving off another apology from the man who has literally swept into your life and changed everything about it. The last thing you want is to stand in the way of anything he has to do. "I'll, um...I guess I'll unpack."
As if on a secret cue, the door to the elevator opens on the other side of the hall and an ornate rolling cart, much like the ones at the posh hotels, rolls out. Your trash bags are all neatly stacked with the few boxes and the one bag you had managed to take from your ex's house. The older, stately looking man pushing it does not judge, his sharp eyes looking for the room where the new owner has decided to take up residence so he can help in any way possible. Renee is behind him, a fully ladened tray on another rolling cart.
You can hear them rolling down the hallway before you see them, and Mr. Colette smiles in satisfaction. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, looking toward the doorway as the source of the noise comes into view. “If you need anything, you have your staff here, and my number. Please don’t hesitate.”
“Right. Thank you, Mr. Colette.” As soon as you say his name he disappears from view, and you’re left face-to-face with the embarrassing sight of your trash bags in this gorgeous home.
“I took the liberty of moving your car into the carriage house.” Mr. Taylor tells you. In addition to being the caretaker, he also maintains all the vehicles here. Your car is in sore need of some TLC and he is already itching to get to it.
“That’s very kind of you. You really don’t have to go through any extra trouble.” The sight of garbage bags just feels wrong in a house this old and grand, and it just makes you feel like apologizing for that, too. “As you can see it…it really shouldn’t take me too long to get settled in.”
“It just means you can rest.” Renee offers with a smile as she rolls the tray over to the couches and table. “Here, ma’am?” She asks politely.
"Hopefully it won't take too long to find a new job." The offhanded and automatic thought doesn't even phase you, although you don't enjoy the fact that you'll have to explain why your last place let you go. At least you can assure them that it won't happen anymore – since Derek isn't in your life there won't be any erratic or unexpected phone calls to have to respond to immediately. "Thank you, Renee. It...it all looks wonderful." Laden with a steaming silver coffeepot and fresh pastries with butter, jam, and fruit, the delicate China on the tray looks like it has been laid for a queen.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” Mr. Taylor quietly excuses himself, and Renee turns towards the cart with an eagerness to begin. “Do you have some specific organization for your things?” She asks, hoping to know how you would like things. “Or shall I organize them for you?”
Even if you had specific organization, it would no longer apply to this house. The feeling that everything should be in a specific place and that rooms have specific functions is very different from how you were living before. "I'm sure you'll know just where things are supposed to go," you tell her, with a definite air of 'because I don't have any clue'.
“Yes ma’am.” She nods and immediately whirls around to start wheeling the cart into the dressing room just off to the side of the bathroom.
"Renee?" Following her just a few steps and sticking your head into the dressing room, you have to swallow yet another sigh over how beautiful this house is and how grand everything seems at first blush. You shake it away, though, when her head pops up expectantly. "I don't suppose I could ask any of you to call me by my name, could I? Mrs. Taylor seemed rather set on using a title..."
“It— it’s not done.” Renee admits with a bashful smile. “Although Mrs. Taylor did call Ms. Brown by her nickname at Ms. Brown’s insistence.”
"She had a nickname?" For some reason that intrigues you, even though she had an unusual name to begin with. You've never heard of a woman named Etienne before.
“Cookie.” Renee smiles fondly. “She went by Cookie for as long as she could remember.”
"That's very sweet." And actually makes you smile too, though you can't quite figure out why it warms you through the way it does.
“Do you have a nickname, ma’am?” She asks curiously. “I am sure that Mrs. Taylor would have no issue using a nickname for you.”
"I—" About to protest that you really don't, or at least that you can't think of one, a long-lost memory gets dredged up from the bottom of your mind that you haven't given any thought to in a long time. "I used to like being called Dolly. Quite a lot."
“Yes Ms. Dolly.” The nickname is no more unusual than ‘Cookie’ and the smile that thinking of your nickname is soft and real as it makes you light up.
"Thank you, Renee." It actually relaxes you measurably just to have a little bit less formality, and you offer the girl another genuine, if small, smile.
"My pleasure." She turns back to the bag that is opened and starts to carefully remove all of the clothes to sort and organize into piles before she can fold or hang them. "I should have all of this sorted in just an hour or so."
"Please don't feel like you need to rush. It isn't like I have anywhere to go." The fact that someone else is doing your laundry makes you more than a little embarrassed but you try to remember that it's literally her job. "But...again...thank you."
She doesn't bother to remind you that it's her job, just humming quietly as she continues to make note of what you have that needs pressing.
"Renee?" Even after you've walked away, you double back to look into the dressing room where she is sorting through the things you brought from Tennessee. "Was, this...um...was this Ms. Brown's room?"
"It was, Dolly." She stands up and moves towards the door. "Does that upset you?"
"I...don't really know," you admit after a moment of thinking about it. "I think it's more that...I don't want to disturb it? Like if she had a favourite chair, or painting, or lamp or something, then I wouldn't ever want to move it." Saying it out loud makes you sigh, and you huff a laugh at yourself. "That probably sounds silly."
Her own laugh is slightly ironic. "Please don't worry about that." She assures you. "Ms. Brown loved to rearrange her furniture based off of how she was feeling that week." She tells you. "It drove Mrs. Taylor up the wall, but she would almost insist on moving most of it herself. Even up until a few years ago."
"Wasn't she in her 90s?" You ask, surprised to hear anything so active about the old woman who had lived here.
"She was spry." Renee can sense that you are eager for information about the older lady that had lived in this house. "She did love to pull the chaise in front of the windows and read." She tells you. "Especially on rainy days where the storm raged outside. She would sit with a pot of tea or hot chocolate for hours."
"God, that sounds so relaxing." And in a house full of books, who could blame her? You can't even imagine actually having the time to read every book you saw in the house while you were walking around. " I might have to follow suit for a little while. Just...until I find a new job."
Renee frowns slightly and tilts her head. "A job?" She asks. "Are you someone who likes to keep busy?"
"I guess—" It hadn't occurred to you that you could just not have a job, and that makes you frown far deeper than Renee is at the moment. "I guess so? I didn't really think...I've just always had a job. I didn't really think I'd ever be able to not have one..."
"Perhaps you have something you enjoy doing?" She asks. "Forgive me for being so forward, but you have the means to do whatever you wish now, Dolly."
"I guess I haven't really given it a lot of thought." That makes you frown again, this one considerably more confused, and you shrug your shoulders. "I won't bother you anymore. Thank you, Renee." It's a heady thought to chew over while you eat your breakfast, but it's something that you're going to have to think about. What did you dream about when you used to dream of growing up? You can barely remember anymore.
She doesn't want to pry, so she nods again and turns back towards the dressing room again. It's obvious that you are kind of lost and her heart goes out to you. Hopefully being here will make the sadness in your eyes disappear.
______
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