Tomorrow she would lift her chin and smile at both of them. As if everything were as it should be.
Today she could not.
Steven eyed the doctor in his shirtsleeves, debating what he should say. Anne would have his head for meddling, but he couldn’t stand idly by and watch her get taken advantage of.
He couldn’t stand by and watch her get married to a chloroform addict to satisfy her curiosity.
Thoughts of her curiosity had kept him up last night, staring out at the night sky, trying to breathe.
“How long are you planning on staying in town, Mr. Baywood?” Madison asked, fiddling with the bandages in his hands. Rolling and unrolling them. Like he was nervous. Needed something to do with his hands.
“The passes have snow, so it will be awhile.”
“Lovely. Perhaps you’ll be able to attend our wedding.”
It was like getting shot again. He was amazed his feet were still on the ground.
You took too long, was his only thought. You stood by. Because that is all you do. Freeze when others act.
“She has accepted?”
The doctor crossed his arms over his thin chest. He was tall, but skinny. And despite the cool air and the breeze coming down from the mountains, there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Not yet. But I’m confident.”
“She told me,” Steven said. “About the chloroform.”
“How...surprising.” The doctor didn't even flinch. His lips tightened, barely. But that was all. And that he cared so little only made Steven angrier.
“You should be shot, for making her lie for you. For the position you put her in.”
“Hmmm,” Madison said. “Instead it seems I am to be married. Interesting how this new world of ours works, isn't it?”
Steven’s hands were in fists, his leather gloves creaking with the force, and the doctor noticed. His smile grew even more smug, if that was possible.
Madison took a few steps closer, as if daring Steven to hit him. As if asking for it.
“Tell me, Steven. You've known her longer—has she always been this headstrong? This...curious?”
Before he could even think, Steven took one gliding step toward Madison—but stopped. Reined himself in.
“The idea of Anne marrying me is clearly loathsome to you,” Madison said.
“You are not fit to touch her.”
“On that we can agree,” Madison said. “But the question is, what is a man who clearly can't abide being touched going to do about it?”
Steven spent the day at the train station site. He shrugged off his jacket and grabbed a shovel and worked alongside the laborers. He worked until his fine shirt was wet with sweat. Until not even the leather of his gloves could protect his hands from blisters. He worked until the kerosene in his blood was gone and the urge to hit Dr. Madison had faded.
But there was no amount of work that could clear his mind. All day he thought. And all day he thought about Annie.
Anne.
Considering marriage to that doctor to satisfy her curiosity. That doctor who could not hide his addiction. Who jeopardized Anne with his disregard. His baseness. The doctor who was not fit to even look at Anne, to be in the same room as her brightly shining light.
And knew it.
Madison would touch her, should they be married. He would touch her.
And what will you do about it?
What can I do about it? I can keep her safe. I can be her friend. But that curiosity of hers...
The doctor would put her at risk. Use her fierce nature for his own selfish needs. And you would let that stand because you are afraid to be touched. Afraid to risk trying?
I’ve tried!
Years ago. Is this really how you want to spend the rest of your life?
The memories of his failures in that regard. The whores he’d hired. The nights he’d tried to drown himself in drink—they were sharp. And clear.
A fine warning.
The sun set and the sweat on his body turned cold, but still he worked.
“Hey,” Jim, the laborer Steven had worked beside, a Negro who towered over everyone, shouted at him. “We all going home.”
Steven glanced around at all the men with their coats on, steam rising off their bare heads from the work and the cold air.
“You all right?” Jim asked, his teeth white in the dusk.
“Fine.”
“Never seen a man work so hard who don't have to.”
“Who says I don't?” Steven asked.
“Those fine clothes you ruined.”
Steven looked down at himself, sweaty and covered in filth. So goddamned dirty.
The men walked off, slapping each other on the back, talking about dinner and wives. Kids. All the other workers were leaving for the day.
Steven finally had to surrender his work to the darkness. He collected his coat and his vest, then returned the carriage he'd rented to the livery and walked down 6th Street to the hotel. Despite his hunger, he ignored the smell of soda bread from the kitchen.
He was too filthy to eat, so he climbed the wide steps leading up to the fourth floor and unlocked his door.
It was the nicest room in the hotel. A corner room, with plenty of windows and a view of the street below. There was a wide four-poster bed with fine linens. He pulled the rope for hot water, and within moments there was a boy at his door with a basin of steaming water.
Amazing.
Amazing what all his money could buy.
After tipping the boy and closing the door after him he stripped off all his damp and dirty clothes and splashed water over his body, getting rid of the sweat and the grime. He soaped up his hands and ran them under his armpits, down his chest and over his groin.
And then over his groin again. And then his mind split, and as if pretending he didn’t know what he was doing, he did it again.
To see if he could.
To see if it worked.
By the fifth stroke, he was firm in his hand. Not hard. But… firm.
Soap, warm water—he remembered being fifteen and discovering this sensation. This slick heat. The pressure of his hand. The memory of Daniella Whittaker’s smile over her shoulder at him, from the front pew at church.
It had been three years since the war.
And he’d not been compelled to touch himself like this but for a handful of times. All but twice he’d stopped. Ashamed, perhaps. He couldn’t say. This was an act he could not look directly at.
In fear of seeing just how broken he was.
He was not unmoved by the sensation. Not unmoved by his hand.
By thoughts of Anne.
He stroked himself, from the top to the tip of his cock. Growing longer and harder. His breath shuddered in his chest. And he closed his eyes and gave his cock and his hand his full attention. Sussing out all the sensations, the slight pull when his hair got caught in a finger, the stomach-dropping pleasure when his palms curled over the tip and squeezed.
And then he imagined Annie doing it. Anne’s small capable hand, using his flesh like this, handling his cock… Yes, over the top again. Harder. Again. And then again. He bit his lip, the bubble in his throat part sob, part groan.
Yes. He braced his hand against the wash stand, jostling the basin, the dish of soap.
It was here. This he could do. This thing.
And then suddenly… without warning... he could not.
His cock did not grow soft. Not for a while, anyway. He just stopped feeling it. Just as he approached climax, he felt nothing. As if all his nerves had pulled back from his skin in fear of feeling anything that was too much. Too much pleasure, too much pain. His body was not interested in any of it.
It was as if he were back on a march. Back in prison.
Conserving resources.
And then, at the thought of prison—his erection was gone. And he was just stroking a piece of meat. Dead. Lifeless.
“Goddamnit!” he cried.
Blind and furious, he
swept his hand across the wash stand and sent the pitcher crashing to the floor.
What can I do about it? He wondered, standing now in the center of his hotel room. Blood seeping from tiny cuts on his legs.
He stood naked, among the fine furnishings that his money allowed him to buy. Fine furnishings and brandy that travelled over oceans and mountains to get to his clumsy hand. His money bought the respect and attention of the men who were building the West, railroad by railroad, smelter by smelter, newspaper by newspaper. Those men treated him like he was one of them. As if they couldn’t see the rot inside his bones. The hollow beneath his skin.
I am not alive, he thought, but my body will not submit. I am one of the walking dead, the skeletons of Andersonville.
She would marry someone else. His Anne. His fierce Anne would touch and be touched by that doctor, who did not care enough about her to protect her.
What can I give her if I cannot stand to be touched? If I cannot stand to touch someone else? What does my hollowness, my deadness offer her, if that is what she wants?
Touch.
Sex.
The idea was not a bad one. The image of his Anne, naked on a bed, her bright eyes, her lovely skin—it was not terrifying. It was in fact, in a far-off way, exciting.
And he could imagine touching her. Her skin would be so soft. So perfect.
But he simply could not imagine her touching him. His body recoiled. His stomach kicked up into his throat.
But she would go elsewhere. And he could not stand it.
He sucked in a horrified breath. And then another. Each breath deeper and deeper until his entire body was in on the effort.
He got dressed with no attention to what he put on. They were pants and shirt. His nudity covered. The bare minimum done.
And then he turned, left the hotel and crossed the street to Delilah’s.
Chapter 5
Inside the whore house it was hot. Thick and damp with the scent of bodies and alcohol and the hundreds of candles burning overhead. And loud. He had not thought his life was so quiet, but here among the drunks and the whores, he realized his life was very nearly silent.
He found a place at the bar and ordered whiskey simply so he would blend in. So he wouldn’t look as odd as he felt.
There was a stage on the far end of the building, and there was a girl singing to the accompaniment of a piano player.
She was not very good, and everyone in the bar yelled over her singing.
Two girls came by, a tall redhead and a brunette with mean eyes. He waved them off.
“The men who come in my doors are usually not so picky,” another woman said, coming to stand at his elbow. She was sturdy and older than the young girls in corsets, their chemises undone. Her eyes a deep green that sliced right through him.
She wore more clothing than any other woman here, but it hardly mattered.
Something carnal seemed to cling to the edges of her feathers. The bits of beading at her shoulders. Her hair was the color of sunlight. It was very pretty. She was very pretty.
She stepped up beside him so they were shoulder to shoulder at the bar. He shifted away so they would not accidentally touch. After she lifted a finger, the bartender with red hair and dark eyes that could not be called friendly poured her a glass of sherry from a special bottle behind the bar.
“Perhaps it’s not a girl you’re looking for?” the woman asked, lifting a blond eyebrow as she took a sip from her glass.
I don’t know what I am looking for.
“If that’s the case, I’m afraid I don’t offer that kind of service,” she said.
She is asking me if I am here for a man.
“It’s not… I’m… I came in looking for a woman.”
“You don’t look like a miner,” she said, turning again with her back against the bar, her elbows braced behind her. She looked like a woman on the front of a ship, all bosom.
“I’m not.”
“Railroad?”
“In part.”
“Soldier.”
It wasn’t a question so he didn’t answer.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“West Virginia. You?”
“Tell me something, soldier. Do you really care? Or are you just making conversation?” she asked. She had a beauty mark painted on her cheek to draw attention to her crimson lips. It was effective.
"I'm not very good at conversation these days," he said by way of answer.
“If you say so. Kansas. I’m Delilah," she said, blunt and bold. Was it wrong that this madam reminded him of Anne? That her boldness was endearing to him? Comforting nearly?
“Steven.”
At the far end of the bar, there was a cry and the smashing of glass. Delilah stepped past him to see what the problem was. Steven, taller than her, could see a man, dirty and ragged and drunk, had knocked over a glass.
The redhead that had approached Steven earlier stepped to Delilah’s shoulder.
“Don’t throw him out,” the redhead begged.
“Stella, don’t be ridiculous. He causes nothing but trouble.”
“I’ll take him upstairs,” Stella said.
Delilah lifted that eyebrow again. “Sam Garrity does not have the money to pay for an hour of your time.”
Sam Garrity was the man Anne had stitched up last night. The man she was worried about. Steven shifted a few steps to the left to get a better look at him. The man’s face was purple and black with bruising. A filthy bandage swaddled his hand.
Beneath that bandage were Anne’s stitches, and the way Sam was going, they’d be pulled by the end of the night.
He wore his threadbare Union Cavalry coat that didn't stand a chance against the wind whistling outside.
“I’ll… take it out of my own money.” The redheaded prostitute said.
“I do not run a poor farm, Stella.”
The redhead looked down at the man at the end of the bar, swaying like he was on the deck of a ship in storm-tossed waters.
“He lost everyone and everything. Just like us,” she whispered, and something flinched on Delilah’s face. Something scared and young, and she glanced sideways at Steven as if to see if her secret was out.
“I’ll pay,” he offered. “For Sam’s hour.”
Delilah carefully controlled her surprise. “That’s generous of you,” she said, and urged Stella forward. “Go, before I change my mind.”
Stella was gone, moving quickly down to the far end of the bar.
And then Delilah turned to Steven.
“Drink your whiskey and come with me.”
He didn’t move. Not that he hesitated—he just wasn’t at all ready to follow her.
“Drink your whiskey and come with me or leave.” Her eyes were hard but her voice was broken, somewhere between a command and a plea. Punishment for having seen, for just a moment, her broken façade.
He lost everything. Just like us.
I don’t want to lose anymore.
Steven shot back the whiskey and Delilah signaled the bartender, who handed her the bottle of sherry. Those unfriendly eyes, to Steven, had grown more so.
“Delilah,” the bartender whispered, holding the bottle. Some communication passed between them, a powerful force, and Steven felt a heat in his blood. Something heavy.
But then Delilah got the bottle free, and as if some battalion drummer had counted out the command, they turned and walked along the edges of the room, the fringes of the party—past Stella, who held Sam’s small frame in her soft arms—to the staircase that led to the bedrooms on the second floor.
Girls gathered there at the banister in a sea of white linen and faded silks. They watched with wide eyes as Delilah walked past them, Steven in tow.
This, he thought, does not happen very often. He wasn’t sure if he felt special or doomed.
At the end of the hallway Delilah used a key from a long chain around her neck to open the door. She stepped inside the dark and shadowed room.
<
br /> “Come in,” she said.
And he’d come too far to be a coward now. He stepped in after her and closed the door behind him.
“Do you want me to light a lamp?” she asked. “Or is this something you need to do in the dark?”
“Dark or light, I don’t think it will matter.” Despite the heat in the room, coming up through the floorboards from downstairs, cold sweat tricked down his back.
There was the flick of a match and the small noises of a lamp being lit, and the room was illuminated in a soft light.
A forgiving light. Delilah looked softer, her hard edges blunted.
“You a virgin?” she asked.
He shook his head no.
“I hope you don't require a virgin,” she said with a smile. “I’m gettin' one next month. A prize to be won in a card game organized by a man from Georgia. Apparently she was a rather notorious Northern spy, or at least that is what we're all led to believe.”
“Sounds barbaric.”
Delilah blinked. “I suppose so,” she said. Perhaps she was entirely used to being barbaric. “Care for sherry?”
“I don’t normally drink.”
“What do you normally do?” she asked, pouring herself a glass and then quickly drinking it.
“It’s been so long I’m not sure I remember.”
“It’s our animal instinct. Everyone remembers. Do you normally pay for the services of a whore?”
“Not in some time, no.”
“Well, I’m a very good whore, so you need not worry.” That broken tone was back in her voice. She began to peel off her long black gloves, revealing plump arms white as moonlight. “Now, let me guess, you have some secret desire your wife is unwilling to satisfy. You want to hit me.”
“No,’ he said, horrified at the thought.
“You would like me to hit you?”
“No.”
She put her gloves on the small table with the lamp. “Pity.”
He blinked. “I don’t… want violence. Or to debase you. Or be debased.”
“Then what brings you to my door so full of self-loathing, Steven? Because I can smell it on you. Like gangrene.” He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was not able to talk about himself in that way.
Tempted Page 5