He could only stand there for a moment with the snow blowing in at his feet, the clouded light not showing him much. The old wooden floorboards were stained in blood and vomit, and Joe faced away from him, perfectly still, wrapped in a coat that was fine once long ago. With his head bent down Anson could not suppose how long he’d been dead, but when he stepped into the room he felt it must have been some time from the cold. His breath still fogged around him as he moved further in, a creak on the wood highlighting each step. And then a groan.
“Joe?” He called out, then rushed over and flipped him. He certainly looked like a corpse already: his front teeth were knocked out, his nose crusted in blood, and both his eyes were bruised. But they rolled around in his skull and breath fogged at his mouth, so he lived.
“Holy shit.” Anson looked around uselessly until his eyes landed on the stove. He rushed over and threw some wood in, with paper and a dozen matches, then ran and slammed the door closed to keep the wind at bay. Joe never stirred, so Anson took off his coat and threw it over him, then did his best to drag the man towards the fire. When they got there he collapsed under the strain of it and huddled with the man. Periodically he rubbed his arms and legs to keep his blood circulating, and a great deal of time had passed before he felt the body with him warm. In the darkness he slept fitfully, dreamless but uncomfortable. When he awoke it was still dark, but he found a lantern and brought even more light into the little shack to look around.
Joe remained still as the dead. All signs pointed to a beating -- he found one tooth on the floor way in the corner, and couldn’t spot the other. Nothing looked ransacked, turned through, or stolen, and when he made his way behind the counter he found Joe’s gun untouched, like he knew and trusted whoever came in here. He also found a few different bags of white powders and pills, bent spoons, medical needles, and near empty jars of syrups. It turned out when he’d guessed morphine, he’d guessed correctly. His stomach flipped, and Anson headed back to his rooms, which were bare but for a trash can overflowing with liquor bottles and cigarette butts. A percolator sat empty on the stove, so he lit that one too, and soon the smell of coffee overcame the stench of human waste and decay.
He stayed in the quarters to drink it, or as much as he could stand without sugar and cream, then returned to the store in hopes that the smell had risen the near-dead. No such luck, he stayed on the ground where he’d been left, so Anson grabbed some flour bags and propped him up, then went outside to fetch a handful of untouched snow. Upon return he knelt beside him and slipped some in his mouth, and Joe allowed more and more into him until he managed to hold his eyes open, and nearly gaze at him directly.
“You’re okay.” Anson tried to tell him unconvincingly. “You’re okay now.”
He didn’t speak, so Anson gave up after a while and stood again to check the shelves. He found chicken bouillon with the canned goods and a pot in the living quarters, so he filled it with snow and made a thin broth. As he heated it he tried to reposition Joe a little better and found a rubber band still pulled around his arm, and when he searched his pockets was lucky not to be pricked by the needles contained within them. He threw it all to the far side of the room. He had only ever seen this sort of thing from a distance, on the streets as he drove past or at a shelter if he was really low on food and desperate to eat, and even a few times at the prison when some fellas needed to trade more than just cigarettes to survive, but he never engaged with it. Why should he? If that was how a man wanted to live and die Anson did not intend to stop him. But Joe didn’t knock out his own teeth. Certainly not after Anson’s past was wired right to his home.
When the broth heated, then cooled, Anson sipped what he could himself, then spoon-fed Joe the rest. In those precious minutes he went from barely drinking it to sitting up in full, and Anson held his breath at the sight. He really thought the man was dead because of him. He really, for whatever stupid reason, felt bad about it.
“Thank you.” Joe croaked when he was done, his voice hoarse. Anson moved to clear the pot, but he clung to him. “No, stay.”
He set the pot on the floor and held him, and they rocked slowly together the way his mother held him when he was sick very long ago. He rested his chin on Joe’s head awhile, and when he finally got uncomfortable and moved away he saw the man’s face glisten with tears.
“My wife was so beautiful.” He croaked. “With long blonde hair. Our babies are all blonde, too.”
“Joe. What happened?” He asked, but Joe only began to cry in earnest.
“My pills.” He whispered. “I need my pills.”
“I’m not letting you have those.” Anson said solemnly, and Joe broke down and sobbed like a child. “I know, I know. It’s okay. Shush now. It’s all gonna be okay.”
“I want them back! I want my babies back.” He bawled, and Anson held him until he tired himself out and fell back asleep.
When the sun rose he got up and washed the pot out, then made another batch of coffee and poured two cups. In the shop Joe was sat up, tired and dazed, but he could meet Anson’s eye and took the coffee with his own hands.
“You look almost real again.” Anson smiled gently. “You really don’t keep any cream and sugar in here?”
“The Coffee Mate’s behind you. Ten cents.” He said, and sipped on his own cup black. His voice sounded thick with exhaustion, and he lisped on all his s sounds. It was pitiful, really.
“Damn, Mean Joe really is fitting for you.” He said, though Joe couldn’t muster a smile. He sat down with him and drank it black anyhow. “Did Anita tell you?”
“I suspect it’s a doozie, but no. Whatever she’s got on you she kept to herself.” Joe thought a moment. “I wouldn’t bother lying to you. I’m a dead man anyway.”
“What happened?” Anson asked, and Joe shook his head.
“If you’ve got a secret bad enough to kill for, I’ve got a secret that’s killing me.” He held up his arm and pulled up his sleeve, the marks of each needle clear as day. “I thought the only way out was coming so far I couldn’t get my hands on it, even if I wanted. Even if I tried. If I were so desperate as to crawl down the mountain in the snow for it I would freeze first, and I’d rather die freezing than die a junkie. Die filth. That’s all I am now.”
“No, don’t say that.”
“I am. I was so good on the pitch. I was so good in the office. I flushed it away.” He sank his head in his hands. “My poor wife. My beautiful wife. I never deserved her.”
“Who beat you, Joe?” Anson asked softly. “Who did this?”
“I did. When I picked the high over her.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the flour bags.
“Who hit you?” Anson asked again, but he stayed silent. “Someone gave you these drugs. The same person who beat you?”
“They’re all the same. All together. Playing the same game.” He lifted one lid to look at him. “You’re playing, too.”
“I’m not playing games, I’m trying to help you.” He held his voice steady. “Anita had someone beat you? Because of me?”
“Because I don’t want to play with them.” He laughed a little. “I’m a sore loser.”
“What did you lose?” He asked, and again Joe said nothing. “Robert? You lost Robert, right? Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Joe whispered, and his eyes teared up all over again. “My friend. I don’t know. They gave me the morphine and I -- I just stopped asking.”
“Is he from Eureka? Did he go home to see his family?” Anson asked, and Joe sobbed.
“My friend! I just let them. Like I left my wife. I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve to live like this. Filth. Trash. Dog.”
“Okay, easy now.” Anson leaned over and steadied the man with a hand on his shoulder, but Joe looked around wildly until his eyes settled on the needle Anson had kicked away. “Don’t.”
“Why not? That’s all I have left now.” He began to crawl over, and Anson put a hand to his chest.
“Don’t make me restrain you and you can still have your dignity.” He said, and Joe laughed through his tears. “Who did this?”
“Who didn’t?” He laughed. “Who of God’s bastard children didn’t lead me here? Who doesn’t pollute each mind he crosses? Who doesn’t have poison in his own head? There’s only one way out. See here--”
He reached up to the nearest fixture, a map rack, and Anson helped him to his feet. He snatched a large one and began to unfold it, still propped up in Anson’s arms.
“The counter.” He directed, and Anson helped him walk over, unsure of his thoughts. Crazy Ole Joe, always so hard to read. He set the map down at the register and pulled a pen from his stationary cup, then stared at the paper a long while before marking an X.
“That’s us.” Anson said. The map was blank, of course, his own had been as well. There was nothing here, no town, no people.
“That’s the shack. Right on the highway.” Joe traced it in the same pen, his brow knit in concentration. Then he threw down that pen and rooted around for a different color. When he found it he brandished it, tried to take a step on his own, and failed. “Some coffee.”
“Hold onto the counter, I’ll get the pot.” Anson directed. He rushed to get it and wondered what Joe could possibly be showing to him. When he came back with the percolator and a fresh cup Joe had managed two feeble steps to the other side of the counter, closer to him, but still couldn’t release it. His hand shook when he extended it, and Anson took a big swig before he handed it over so the shaking wouldn’t spill the liquid. He lifted the cup and swallowed it all in one go, then handed it back to Anson.
“Like mother’s milk. If only this were my vice.” He turned back to the map. “This is the hotel.”
Anson moved to the opposite side of the counter so they could stand across the map. The hotel was further inland, and Anson knew it sat on a little unmarked street with a few little houses and a big brick library.
“It’s a grand hotel. There’s no marker on the map. I need San Diego. Santa Barbara. San Francisco.” He ordered, and Anson found all those maps and ran them back to him. They were book maps, and when he flipped the pages in each he could see hundreds of roads intersecting, dozens of pinpoints for local attractions, gas stations, hotels and motels.
“You’ve been all these places, I bet.” He said, and Anson nodded. “You’ve probably been to some of these hotels. But never such a nice one as this.”
“Calder told me he wanted the surroundings to match his fine establishment.” Anson said slowly, but the words sounded wrong. “But -- that’s -- you can’t just pour money into a hotel with no guests. You’d go out of business.”
“I hadn’t known you’d already spoken with him.” Joe rubbed his black eyes. “You’re already too far in.”
“Into what?” Anson asked, and watched Joe steady himself at the counter.
“It’s a lure. You’re not meant to come to it, you’re meant to find it. And become enchanted by it. And by the people and the land. And the proprietor. And if anyone too important to stop it comes along, you know they’ll land at the hotel, too. And their coffers will become the hotel coffers, become the town’s.” He scoffed. “But there’s hardly anyone who can stop it now. There’s no good men in this town now Robert’s gone. Just players like you. Playing the God damned game.”
“What’s happening? What’s really happening in that hotel?” Anson asked, and Joe shook his head.
“It’s not in the hotel, you fool. It’s in the people. Evil. It’s in us all and it’s spreading. And it looks so charmed from the outside we just all want a piece.” Tears dripped down his face. “My wife. I miss my wife.”
“How do we get down the highway in this, Joe?” He pointed to the line, and when Joe looked down his tears marked the page. “This is it, right? This is the only way out. But we can’t get through.”
“No.” Joe croaked. “There’s only one way out.”
Too late Anson realized the gun was on Joe’s side of the counter, and by the time he reached him the metal was already in his mouth. The shot was loud, and Anson reeled back as Joe hit the floor. He stood there a moment, breathing hard, as Joe did the same, still alive with the gun clenched in his hand and a pool of blood rapidly forming beneath him. It looked like his mouth was moving, so he leaned down and gently put the gun aside, then tried to listen.
“Make sure they burn me.” Joe whispered. “Don’t let them send me home. My wife -- shouldn’t see. . .”
And then he was only staring up at Anson, gone for good this time. Bile rushed up his throat, but he swallowed, then realized he was still holding the maps and set them on the counter. He stared down at Joe for a long while, his thoughts scattered and rushed. He needed to focus on what he could control in this moment. Get rid of the body. He’d done that plenty of times before. It’s not like he had someone he could report this to. Fingers would point his way even in his one moment of innocence. Joe didn’t trust a soul here, either, why should they be trusted with his remains?
He looked around at the shop and wondered when it had last seen a customer. How long it would be, how long he could keep this to himself. The village folk always walked, didn't want for gasoline like he still would, so likely he had time. Burning it with Joe inside would be easiest, and probably the most respectful of his wishes, but the time before the dead man’s absence was noticed was the time he had all this food free to himself. He stepped over Joe to check the till, then skimmed it when he found it plentiful. He could keep the shack for the time being, he just had to move Joe.
First he checked that the coast was clear: the sun was high and bright, though the cold was so intense he couldn’t imagine much snow melting, and no soul belonged out in this freeze so no one was around. Joe was heavy and already going stiff, so Anson didn’t attempt to lift him, instead going with his hands on both ankles as he dragged the man out the door and around the back. There was a little slope with some brush at the bottom, so that’s the way Anson went, and set Joe down as best he could before pushing and kicking him into some wild blackberry. He found fresh white snow, not yet stained red, and mounded it around the whole thing until he was disguised from immediate sight. Only upon thaw would he be found, and they were a ways from that.
But the evidence he’d been put there was everywhere, so Anson set a tub on the stove and boiled water, then added the grounds from the coffee pot. It wasn’t easy to pull outside, but when he tipped it out the water turned red snow brown, and flecked the ground with coffee beans. He put the percolator out for good measure right next to that, so at least the slope was cleared. The snow around the side of the house and the front entrance he shoveled, then salted, then shoveled pure snow over top. The snow went pink, so Anson matched it with some antifreeze from the shop, as though a fool or someone very high had tried to clear it.
Next he went inside and mopped down the floors, put the maps away, tossed the one that Joe had drawn over. That one he tore and put on the bottom, and on the top he left empty baggies and bottles and placed the rest of the pills haphazardly all about, much the way he found them. Poor Joe, out of control, off high somewhere. Who knew where he could have gone off to. At the end of it all he sat on the ground outside, his ass soaked, and ate a Charleston Chew just for the comfort of it. Taffy and Snickers lined his pockets, and Joe’s gun, now cleaned, sat in his sock, pulled high and strapped to his leg.
He had looked to see if he could replace any of his clothing with Joe’s, but it was all noticeably worn and likely recognizable. His only quality suit had chalk pinstripes that Anson never wore himself and would stand out too much, so he’d have to make something up in regards to his appearance. Maybe he was out looking for the man. At least the dark clothing hid the blood. Again he would rather march up to Heath’s little shack by the sea than go back to that stuffy hotel, but he could not imagine his chef’s reaction to such a state. And he certainly wasn’t going to explain himself, let Heath get too close. To himself or Anita.
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He got up, dusted himself off, and began his way back to the hotel, slower now from the cold. The sun did feel good on his face, and he relished that he still had this at least, just as he relished it in prison. This was why humans were not so different from animals: there was little they could do to remove the sun, or a cool breeze, or the smell of a campfire, or the chill of rain, or the whoosh of wind through green leaves, or the waves crashing into rock and ringing in his ears. There was a resiliency in all man and beast that came from such things, and he had carried it for years, all through Santa Barbara, all through Europe, all across the country. Carried it likely better than any of these townsfolk ever could.
The town looked near unchanged from the day prior, with hardly any snow trodden down in the roads. The sun was blinding against that snow, and he saw all shades of pink and green when he finally stepped into the hotel and tamped his boots. While he blinked and looked around he eventually made Sonny out behind the desk, and nodded to him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Monroe.” He said. Afternoon already. “Is there anything I can do for you today?”
He looked a little put-out, maybe missing Robert and Joe. Anson glanced down to his hands, folded out of sight beneath the desk when normally they’d be shining a glass.
“I think I’d like a drink.” He said pleasantly. “Would you make me one please?”
“Our proprietor is in the bar right at this very moment. He can whip up anything you can imagine.” Sonny said, and Anson hesitated.
“You are the bartender, Sonny, I’d hate to lose you a tip.” He said, and Sonny laughed.
“He’ll pass it along, don’t you worry. They treat me right here.” He waved Anson along, but he knew he just couldn’t deal with it today, so he went to the staircase instead. “Mr. Monroe? He’s expecting you.”
“Expecting me?” Anson asked, fuzzy. “What for?”
“You are a bible-seller, aren’t you?” Sonny asked, and Anson felt bound by his trade, the trade he’d stolen and murdered his way into. It was just so much easier to get strangers to trust him when he had the lord’s book in hand. The trade-off was this damned honor code they all kept to. Fitting in meant he had to keep to it, too, on the surface, so he had no choice but to remove his foot from the bottom stair and trudge in his wet trousers back towards the bar.
“I forget where it is exactly. Straight back there?” He pointed, and Sonny did the same by reflex.
“Past the fountain, before the smoking lounge.” He said, and Anson glanced his bandaged hand.
“How’d that happen, Sonny?” He asked, his smile thin. “You taking swings at people?”
“A burn. From cooking, of course.” The answer was noticeably rehearsed. “Don’t say such things, you’re talking crazy. Must be your long night out.”
“Must be.” He spoke flatly. There was nothing else he could accuse the man of without it being thrown back in his face, and it made him wonder what state Calder would be in, if any. Wonder enough to start back towards the bar, past the fountain that never ran and into the dark.
Only a few candles lit the dark wood paneling on the walls and floors, held aloft by wrought iron sconces that seemed to match the building in age. Beyond the candle glow the room was dim but for the pale man at the bar with the long silver hair to match. Calder was wiping down the counter with his jacket off and cuffs held up by sleeve garters, though Anson could tell he wore his usual style from the high waist of his pant and the fitted shape of his vest. He almost looked the part of a bartender, save for that coldness in his eye. When he stared at Anson his own exhausted visage told too much for his liking, showed too much weakness, but his attempt to stand straight and gather himself was half-hearted, and suddenly he missed Heath sorely, and missed Joe and even Robert, too.
“How do you do, Mr. Monroe?” Calder asked, his tone formal as ever, though something like mirth threatened beneath it. “What can I make for you?”
“Sonny says he trained you himself.” Anson pulled himself into a stool, wet and uncomfortable. “How about you test your talents?”
Calder smiled, almost to himself, and set down his cloth.
“You know, my favorite drinks are the simplest. With only the most rare and valuable liquors.” He reached under the bar and Anson heard ice clink into a glass. A Tom Collins, he saw when Calder raised and set it on the counter.
“Excuses, excuses.” Anson said, and Calder almost laughed.
“The greatest pleasures in life come from the finest things.” He said, then pulled a lemon from the icebox and peeled a garnish as Anson nodded. “Monnet Cognac, aged fourteen years in France.”
He pulled a bottle from the shelf behind him, poured a shot into the glass and then held the bottle forward for Anson to sniff. When he inhaled he caught a scent like gingerbread, baked and rich, with something spiced like cinnamon to follow and sandalwood at the finish. It was perfect for the weather, and Anson wouldn’t have minded drinking that on its own, but Calder stored the bottle and began to fish in his ice once more.
“By that you mean the greatest booze, though not the finest food.” Anson asked, and Calder glanced his way like he knew what he was leading up to. “That’s what I hear. You don’t eat as royally as you live and drink.”
“I’m serving you.” He pointed out, then pulled a bottle of champagne from the cooler. It looked aged, and the label was in a thin French script that screamed quality. “And you can’t see the line between satisfaction and gluttony.”
Anson ignored the slight as Calder cut the foil and twisted the cork’s cage.
“Soybeans satisfy you?” He asked as Calder gripped the bottle. His voice had dropped low in his exhaustion, and Calder studied him carefully with dark eyes.
“Soybeans fill me. Life satisfies me.” He twisted the bottle and the cork gently popped. He was careful to pour it into the glass without spilling a drop, then tucked the champagne away and traded his bottle for a bar spoon. “This drink is called the Gloria Swanson.”
“From the silent films.” Anson recalled. “She was always so aristocratic.”
“She still is.” He stirred the drink patiently. “You haven’t seen Sunset Boulevard? She was the old dame.”
“I don’t know it.” Anson shook his head as Calder ran the lemon peel over the rim and set it into the glass. He’d missed a lot of movies when he lived abroad, and even now in so many rural areas could rarely find a cinema. That pocket change, too, was often the difference between one or two meals in a day.
“She goes crazy and kills her lover.” He pushed the drink Anson’s way, and he took it with some suspicion. At least he saw the other man make it. “She thinks she’s somewhere else. Getting treated better than she should be.”
“Cheers.” He held the glass aloft, and Calder did laugh this time, though it felt as if it were more at Anson than the joke.
The champagne was crisp and acidic, with heavy notes of pear and eggshell, and it paired well with the bracing ice and warmth of the cognac. The aroma of the lemon made a perfect garnish, and overall he found himself enjoying this hard-punching drink.
“And you doubted me.” Calder said, not a tease but not a threat. Anson took another long sip and set the glass down.
“What do you want, Morris?” He spoke bluntly, and the corners of Calder’s mouth turned with impish satisfaction.
“The greatest pleasures in life. More than just a fancy drink, you know. A lavish home, a successful business, beautiful people all around.”
“You have one customer.” Anson pointed out. Calder continued as if he had not heard him.
“The blessed relief of prayer, warmth on a winter day, ecstasy, orgasm, life playing out. That’s all I want.” He said, and Anson sighed and took another sip. “But you’re asking what I want with you.”
“I am, and would appreciate a quick answer, if it please you.” Anson didn’t want to insult his host, but his patience was starting to wear thin. “I’m feeling a little worn out, and truthfully I’d rather be in bed.”
“As would I.” Calder stared him down for a reaction and got none. “It seems your nerves are frayed, Mr. Monroe. I hope nothing’s upset you.”
“How do you keep this hotel up and running with one guest?” Anson asked, his eyes narrowed. “The pass is sealed. No one else is coming up this season. What will you do for funds?”
“What will you, bible seller?” He asked. Well, he'd skim a dead man's register, for starters. “It seems to me you're running out of customers.”
“The best stage of sales.” Anson said. “Now I get to really know people.”
“And start convincing them to buy.” Calder said pointedly, but Anson shook his head.
“That's too much effort. You don't need to be convincing, you just need to be a friend.” He took another sip of his drink and felt a buzz come on. Calder nodded with something like approval in his eyes.
“You once told me you thought King James would look excellent in the parlor. Shall we adjourn?”
“Wha-- are you in a spending mood?” Anson chuckled and hoped he didn't sound all over the place. He didn’t want to be impolite, but he very openly wanted to leave. Calder seemed patient enough.
“I don't want my guests to suffer for anything. And I would like them to continue their stay here.” He said, and Anson gulped. “I'm a great fan of favors, and I think you can scratch my back quite nicely.”
Anson was not so fond of favors. Coin was more reliable to him than any man, and he'd rather hold and trade with metal than lies and vagaries. He knew the latter too well to play with some other hustler's tricks, but this was no hustler. This was the proprietor, and he was dependent on the rooms unless he wanted to spend the next several months in his cold car and risk catching death. It would be unreasonable to assume Heath and Gin would allow him to board with them, too: he could guess Gin wouldn't want the intimacy or the competition.
“Come, let's view the smoking room, you can tell me how many of God's script you think I'll need.” Calder said, and when he walked towards the French doors Anson stood reluctantly to follow. “And take that drink with you, no need to waste.”
He grabbed the sweating drink off the bar and near inhaled it, then entered the set of french doors into the parlor that he had not seen in some time, though it was unchanged since. The sofas, though plush, looked rarely used, the red rugs untrampled, and the cigar boxes full but dusted. Everything was dusted, actually, pristine, which must have been Sonny and Calder taking up Robert's old chores. Calder stepped around the coffee table, and for a moment Anson thought he would sit, but instead he reached up and tilted the stuffed stag head, off by just a hair, back to level. It occurred to him how silly Calder would look, so tall sitting in such low chairs, folded like a marionette -- when Calder turned back to him he had to hide the amused expression on his face.
“It's not so grand a room, but of course it's meant for more intimate gatherings. What did you imagine when you suggested a Bible for the table? A study of it, or a jest?”
There was suddenly something very harsh in his expression.
“I should never. The word of God ain't meant to be mocked.” He said, but the burn of booze in his gut played on his face and betrayed his true thoughts. He mocked the Bible every day. He mocked its foul ideas of what human life was meant to be, of bullshit guidelines and regulations. The idea that anything existed above this hurtling rock insulted his intelligence, and the push from others to suit its whims insulted his pride. What was the point of human intellect if not to forge your own path, commit to your own desires, and destroy anything that got in the way of it?
“King James may have championed this new print and distribution, but he was just as queer as you or me. What do you think of that? A brilliant cover? Or a loyal soldier of the Lord?”
“I think you ought to speak for yourself.” Anson stepped back, flummoxed. He was within his rights to leave at that, but Calder snatched his arm, his expression suddenly softened.
“Not when we're alone. Not to me, not to the mirror. We deserve better.” There was something desperate in him, like he really meant it. “And one day, not in this town. I'll make sure of that.”
“Never.” Anson shook his head. “They'll chase you down same as any other ole place. People love a mob. They love to organize chaos. That's why they're Christian in the first place.”
“In due time. This town is special.” Calder had still not released his arm. “And I can make them see.”
“How are you making anyone do anything?” Anson made to pull his arm away, but Calder only gripped tighter and stepped closer. “What influence could you possibly have?”
“I can pay upfront. For the Bible.” He leaned close and whispered, and Anson felt exhilaration rush up in him like bile. “I can take care of you.”
Anson had not realized how close they were standing, and when he took a deep breath their chests touched. So close, and he wouldn't mind getting closer if not for this man's dangerous words, his mystery. His delusions. The shirt he wore looked like such a fine silk, and with a drink in him Anson wanted to reach out and touch his broad chest.
“It would suit the room well.” He spoke softly, then motioned his head towards the coffee table behind them. “Right there. Loyal to the Lord. It would suit you, too.”
Calder kissed him fiercely, and in the heat of the moment Anson kissed him in kind. His hand still clutched his arm when he threw them both against the table. Anson gasped at the force of it, but Calder was quick to kiss him again as his hand finally released in order to push the box of cigars to the floor. Anson heard the box slam and the cigars roll on the carpet around the rush in his ears: the doors were open, the hotel was public, and Calder was a scoundrel. And yet he'd never been physically overpowered this way. He was always the dangerous one in the room, though most didn't realize it. Calder didn't seem to realize it either, so he amended that by grabbing a fistful of silver hair and pulling him closer. He groaned at that, and ground eagerly against Anson’s thigh. The hardness thrilled him.
“I want you.” Calder whispered between shallow kisses. “Don't ask me what the fuck I want again. I want you.”
Anson grabbed his ass in response, grinding with him as they both hardened. Calder's hands were all over his body, large and confident just as he was, and soon enough they were on his buckle, then his fly, then his cock.
“I'm going to satisfy you.” He heard Calder say, and wondered at the difference between satisfaction and gluttony.
“You want so much more than just me.” Anson whispered, his voice low, and Calder gave him a dark look as he unzipped his trousers. He was well-endowed and the head was red and desperate. Anson wanted to repeat every lewd act he'd ever committed, right here with the door open. His large hand grabbed Anson’s cock and his own at once, then stroked them together as Anson let a thick moan escape his lips. Calder spat on them and quickened his pace with only the slightest dusting of color on his cheeks, composed even in this. His lips were so red against his pale skin, and he laughed when Anson leaned up to bite them, and thrust against him in turn.
“You want everything.” Anson breathed. Something drunk in him kept talking. “Are you the evil spreading through this town?”
“Are you?” Calder leaned down and kissed him, their rhythm interrupted, then moved down to nip at his neck. “Aren't we all? That's all man is, darling.”
For whatever reason, he thought of Heath, of his brilliant blue eyes and the smell of cigarettes, cheap next to the heady cigars beside him. Evil in everyone. That's what Joe had said. Anson would amend that to most everyone. Not Heath. Not Pietro. Not his mama. The rest of them could burn. He made to push Calder off him, but the bigger man didn't budge.
“I think it was a cover.” He said, and Calder chuckled against his chest. “Is yours? Your faith?”
Calder got up and gave him a sharp look for an answer.
“I think you're all damned if it's real.” Anson glowered at him. “You, Sonny, Anita, David. You'll all burn for this.”
Calder tugged on them both again, harder, and when Anson jerked away he was fast to lay a hand on his throat. He coughed and sputtered in shock and Calder leaned the heel of his palm so hard against his neck he saw spots.
“You don't know what the fuck goes on.” He spat. “You don't know God's plan or your own. It's not yours to know.”
Anson pushed him away again, harder now, and Calder slammed his head back against the table. He was still grinding his cock against Anson, and when he blinked back surprise Calder groaned in delight.
“You don't think control is its own form of gluttony?” Anson asked, and Calder slapped him across the face. He tasted blood in his mouth, foul and metallic. “Tell me it ain't greed to run a town.”
The other man didn't look angry. Actually he looked hot for it, with his cheeks properly red now as moans spilled out of a panting mouth.
“All this control you're trying for. You've got none. That's why you're humping my leg like a dog.”
Calder hit him again, then pulled his hair until his head banged the table even harder. Instinctively he pushed back, but Calder grabbed his hand and the pair grappled for a moment, their hard cocks bouncing and meeting all the while. When Calder overtook him he hit now with a closed fist, then again, then slammed his head until Anson saw stars flashing and popping behind his eyes.
“Stop!” He yelled, but it suddenly seemed a lot to manage. His head felt heavy and he felt woozy from the drink: not from something put in it, but from the liquor, and maybe from the heat in his gut too, because he stayed erect. Calder spat on the pair and found a rhythm grinding.
“Maniac. Asshole. Get off me.” He said, and reached up a time or two again, but he was overpowered in a way he'd never been before, and try as he might Calder wouldn't budge.
“Keep going.” Calder purred his encouragement as he rutted his dick against Anson's. He felt sweat and precum keep the friction down, and blood pool in the back of his throat. He spat it in Calder's face.
“Use your hand.” He croaked, dizzy and hot, and Calder reached down to jerk them both again.
It was Anson that came first, with a pull in his gut and a heavy load released onto Calder's hand and cock. The proprietor let out a long groan and added to the mix, then slumped over Anson's form so their chests met with every heavy breath. Anson wondered if it would be too tender to peck little kisses at the other man’s temples, but when he kissed him Calder leaned into it, so he continued to leave a bloody crown against his forehead. They stayed tangled together a while that way, warm and messy and maybe too intimate. Anson told himself he ought to clean and dress, but he’d thought it in a daze, distant from himself.
“This doesn’t change anything, you know.” Calder hummed a little against his neck, and Anson felt his blood run cold. When they met eyes there was something so amused in his expression, just the way it was when he stepped into the bar before.
“You -- you have a plan?” Anson asked, his breath shallow. Calder chuckled.
“No, darling. God has a plan.”
His hands found Anson's neck again, and he thrashed wildly when they tightened. Calder leaned hard against him, unfazed but for a single vein popping in his forehead, his face still wet with Anson's blood. Anson kicked and pushed at him, but panic distracted every motion. His ears rushed as his heart beat out of control, and suddenly he felt like just another man, maybe like all the other animals that roamed this wretched earth. Hunted and beaten and ragged like he never thought he could be. When the black crept into his vision he whined, and when he lost consciousness he felt like a damned fool.
He was cold when he awoke, and the room was dark, but from the soft bedding and the distant smell of mothballs he knew it to be his own. When he sat up to light his bedside lamp he was sore and nude. Too long he'd let his guard down, but here and now he was met with a sudden reminder of how unsafe he really was in this town, even in his hotel room. The light was dim but he knew immediately that his clothing was gone, and knew secondary that Calder and Sonny must have stripped him to launder it. The finest service. On his writing desk sat a metallic champagne bucket, with the bottle wrapped in a towel. He stood to examine it and heard all of his joints shift and crack. There was nothing else, no note, but the message seemed clear when Anson unwrapped the bottle to find the delicate French lettering of the label, the remainder of what Calder served him previously. At least, clear to him. He was being wooed.
On most occasions he would politely decline so much liquor as this, but this evening, not for the first time, he obliged his proprietor.