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Every rose has its thorns |
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Every rose has its thorns |
Vin slowly mounted the stairs. It was late -- past midnight -- too late, or maybe it was too early. He didn't know. And he didn't care. He'd been drinking too much, more than usual. How could he not? It happened after gun fights, always. But tonight, it happened after he'd been cornered and drawn on.He'd had his mare's leg, strapped to his side, as usual, but it was little use to him in an ambush, a quick draw, like he'd found himself, just stepping from the outhouse after dinner. It was dark, cloudy, though the moon was nearly full. He should have sensed something, heard something, but he hadn't. He wasn't sure why, though he suspected it was complacency more than anything else. Staying here, in this town, being a hired gun to protect this town for a dollar a day plus room and board was going to be the death of him; he'd just hoped it might be for some present threat and not from some sin of his past.
He was halfway up the stairs when he paused. He'd heard something, this time. He waited. He wasn't supposed to be here. Unlike his friends, he didn't rent a room; he preferred to sleep in, or even under, his wagon at the other end of town. Not that anyone would question him if they saw him; they'd assume he was here for a reason, an official reason. He wasn't.
He heard the sound again -- a creaking, maybe a floorboard -- but it was in another part of the building, nowhere close. It could be anything, and Vin decided, it was probably nothing. He continued up the stairs.
He wondered briefly if he should be more cautious. After what happened tonight, he had good reason. Or, was what happened precisely why he felt he was safe, at least for now? He'd heard the gun cock a split second before he heard the voice telling him not to move. It wasn't a voice he recognized. How could he have? He was told to raise his hands -- he didn't have time to reach for his gun -- and then to slowly turn around. Vin had done as he'd been told, despite his instinct to go down fighting.
A moment later, a break in the clouds spilled white moonlight on them and Vin saw the boy's face. He was, at best, seventeen, but more likely he wasn't that old; he looked even younger than JD had when he'd first come west. The gun in the boy's hand was steady, even though Vin detected a tremor in his voice. He tried to think of a way out of the situation, a way to avoid bloodshed, primarily his own. But he had been well and cornered, and now, as then, he chastised himself for his stupidity, his complacency, and his confidence in his friends to watch his back when he was too lax to do it himself. By all rights, he deserved to be dead, shot through the heart, lying in a pool of his own cold blood.
He'd killed the boy's father. Or so the boy thought; so the boy had told him. Jess Kincaid had a son who'd grown old enough to leave his home in Tascosa and track down his father's alleged killer. And he'd found him in a back alley of a dirt-water town in the lawless New Mexico Territory. There was a bounty on Vin's head -- five hundred dollars -- but Vin knew that the boy didn't care about the money, that he probably wouldn't even think to ask for it, if he even bothered to tell anyone he'd killed the murderous Vin Tanner. More likely than not, he'd go home, as empty handed as when he'd left, except for the mark of revenge, painted on his soul with Vin's blood.
Vin reached the top of the stairs and took a left. The hallway had never seemed so long to him before, but then, most nights weren't this long either.
He'd felt the moisture on his face and wondered if it was the first splatterings of rain. Then he saw the look on the boy's face: the surprise, the disappointment, and the realization. Slowly, like nothing Vin had ever witnessed before, the light color of the boy's shirt turned dark, and the darkness spread, outward from the center of his chest. The gun slipped from his hand as the boy sank to his knees. He stared at Vin, eyes dark, even in the moonlight, the same dark shade as the blood on his shirt. Hours later, the boy canted forward, his face hitting the dirt with a dull thud as if someone had merely dropped a sack of flour.
Behind the boy stood Chris Larabee, his gun drawn, aimed, and smoking. Another body dead, because Vin Tanner had a price on his head, for a murder he didn't commit. Chris seemed bound and determined to keep him alive. Why, Vin wasn't sure. Whatever the reason, Chris was willing to set aside his own moral code in the process. Vin had never seen the man shoot anyone in the back before, and he'd been witness to Chris reprimanding JD for even thinking about doing such a thing.
So why had he done it? Why had Chris shot that boy in the back, especially when Chris himself knew what it was like to want revenge? Did it really matter that the boy had drawn on an innocent man? The boy didn't know that, and now he never would.
The door at the end of the hall was unlocked. Vin reached out without hesitation; he'd been hesitating all evening and he had no more left in him. He turned the knob and then pushed the door open.
Chris was sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers wrapped around the gun that lay idly in his lap. Their eyes locked instantly. Vin closed the door behind him and Chris slipped his gun back in its holster that hung from the bedpost. Vin didn't move after that, and neither did Chris.
Vin had questions and he needed answers, but no one moved and no one spoke.
Then Vin's gun belt slipped to the floor and he was out of his boots before he'd crossed the room. Chris was standing, his shirt gone before Vin had arrived. Their lips met before Vin realized what he was doing. Chris's stubble scratched at his chin, but he didn't care. Chris's lips were soft and moist, parted ever so slightly. His skin was warm beneath Vin's fingertips and surprisingly smooth, at least down his back where Vin's hands were now trailing. He could feel Chris's fingers slipping beneath his suspenders, slipping them from his shoulders, and then Chris was working free the buttons at his waistband.
When his trousers slid to the floor, Vin stepped out of them. Then he reached for Chris's pants; his tight pants, which wouldn't slip from his hip, but which would have to be coaxed and tugged down his long, lean legs. Vin didn't mind. He slipped his hand beneath the waistband and began to work them down. As he pushed the fabric lower, he moved to kissing Chris's neck, shoulders, and chest. Chris's stomach was flat and hard, marred by a single, long, ragged scar to the left of center. Then Vin was on his knees; Chris's pants were on the floor, and his hands were in Vin's hair.
Vin breathed in the man's scent: whiskey, cheroot, sweat, musk, and whiskey. The man drank too much, but then, who didn't? It wasn't like they didn't have good reason. Getting shot at, risking your life -- every day -- did that to a man. Even JD drank too much, though he'd probably never had a drop of alcohol outside of church before coming west.
And then Vin was tasting him: salty, more than anything else, and maybe just a tad bitter, but not as bitter as the thought that Vin had almost died without knowing this.
The sun could rise tomorrow, and Vin realized, it wouldn't matter if he saw it set, not after this.
As Chris pushed into his mouth, Vin brought his hands up between Chris's legs. His sack was heavy and tight. Vin squeezed it gently and gave it a tug; Chris thrust deeper. Vin moved his other hand back, slipping a finger over his hole, pressing, stroking. He felt Chris's legs tremble when he shoved his finger inside. He thrust deeply as Chris continued to fuck his mouth.
But this wasn't what Vin wanted. It wasn't why he'd come here.
He had questions; he needed answers. Only, he didn't feel like talking -- he never did -- and Chris never seemed to mind. Too much just happened between them, every day, without them having to say a word. Like now.
Chris pulled him to his feet, and then they were on the bed, their arms and legs a tangle as their mouths met again. Vin wondered if Chris was thinking about tasting himself as they kissed. Vin wondered what he would taste like on Chris's lips.
Then Chris's hand was stroking his dick and Vin didn't think about anything else. It was Chris's right hand, his gun hand. So strong, so sure, so skilled. The hand that had killed that boy; the hand that would bring Vin to the edge until he begged Chris to finish him off.
Vin didn't know what Chris spread between his legs, didn't know where it had come from, when Chris had reached out to retrieve it, but it was cold and slick and caused Vin's breath to suddenly catch in his throat. Then Chris's hand was rubbing over the slickness, spreading it, warming it, moving it up and inside of him. Vin arched his back, pressing himself against both of Chris's busy hands. He wanted more, he wanted it now. Hell, he'd wanted it for as long as he could remember; only, he hadn't realized it before tonight, before watching the last of that boy's life being wicked away by his shirt.
Vin gasped into Chris's mouth as Chris pushed slowly into him. Somehow, he'd thought the man -- Bareback Larabee -- would be rough and wild, but he was calm and intense, as always. Each long thrust was like a small lightening strike, sending shivers through Vin's body, sent jolts of sensation out to his toes, his fingers, and the top of his head. Chris remained silent, his features focused and determined, as he forced the air from Vin's lungs in sighs and moans; Vin hadn't known he was capable of such sounds.
He felt Chris's hands on the mattress, on each side of his chest, as a slickness developed where their skin touched. His firm belly grazed over Vin's erection, rubbing over his length. He wrapped his legs around Chris's waist and felt him thrust even deeper. He'd almost died without ever feeling Chris inside of him, pushing into him, kissing him. He'd almost died.
Vin scrunched up his face as his vision dimmed, as everything became Chris moving into him, deeper and faster, as his balls tightened, as his cock swelled even harder. Suddenly he was coming. He felt the warm liquid squirting between them; he cried out with the release, until Chris covered his mouth, kissing him into silence.
Hours later, Vin's head was still spinning as Chris dropped onto the mattress beside him. He pulled Vin close, until Vin was able to rest his head against Chris's shoulder. They were both hot and sweaty, but Vin didn't care. It didn't seem as if Chris cared either. Vin pressed a few kisses against Chris's chest, enjoying the salty taste, before his eyelids grew heavy.
He still had questions, he still wanted answers, but he was now too tired to talk.
He wondered if he'd ever have another opportunity.
Continued in Every Night Has Its Dawn . . .
March 2003Comments would be most welcome if sent to: C.V. PuerroPlease do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.Characters from "The Magnificent Seven" were used without permission and this story in no way signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. The story itself belongs to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.Dedicated to Peggy, Fiercy, Clara, Giselle, Charlotte, Judy, Kim, Ruby, Sandra, Nin, SueN., and Firefox: the folks who took the time to send comments on this story.