When he leaves to tell his men to ride on, I have half a mind to lock the door behind him and rush up the stairs, but I don’t dare. Fifteen minutes, thirty at the most, and it’ll all be over. I can hold out that long. And if he’s gentle, a voice inside whispers, a voice I try to stifle and can’t, if he keeps his word and doesn’t hurt me, then maybe it’ll be worth it.
It won’t be—I won’t let it be.
He’s the same as McBane, just wants someone warm beneath him when he comes, something more than the lonely road and his hand or another hardened regulator. He wants someone soft, that’s it, and it’s just me tonight because I got the luck of the draw. Maybe he liked the way the light fell from my windows out into the street, I don’t know, but he saw me and wanted a taste, so he held his men bac
