Both Buck and Nathan thought they had a winner this hand. Watching them via
the mirror behind the bar, Ezra could clearly make out the occasional telltale
twitch from Buck's left shoulder and the way that Nathan held the cards just a
little tighter than strictly necessary. Of his six confederates in arms, only
Chris Larabee had proven to be any type of a challenge to read and Ezra had
discovered his quirks in less than four hours of poker play. It was all in his
eyes. Chris squinted at his cards just like he squinted at everything and
everyone else. It was as if he was trying to see through them to the truth of
the matter. Sometimes he tipped his head slightly in consideration too. The
trick was to read these signs in the right order to make the correct diagnosis.
It took a little longer to figure out, and was a little more subtle to detect,
but Ezra found that he could now read Chris' poker face unerringly: Chris didn't
think he was onto a winner this hand and was getting ready to bluff.
Throwing back his last shot of whiskey, Ezra tuned out the poker players
behind him and considered his options. Reviewing his monetary worth while in
this town always brought him to the same conclusion: he had to leave. If he
wanted to make money, to be free to make money in the ways he knew best, he had
to get out of here and he had to go now. There was no other option. Staying in
this town was a waste of his time and talent. He knew that as sure as he knew
that Buck was going to bet himself dry before folding. It was as plain to see as
the garish designs on the back of the playing cards. So why was he still here?
Ezra watched in the mirror as Chris claimed the pot and Buck, discovering the
bluff, threatened to skin him alive with a butter knife while the others laughed
and cursed good-naturedly. As much as Ezra enjoyed being with these men, he had
stopped playing poker with them some time ago. It wasn't the winning that
bothered him, he was just that much more skilled than the others. Poker was an
intrinsic part of his profession, after all. What burned was the fact that the
games were not as friendly or as open, nor did they last nearly as long, when he
sat down to play. He felt as if the other lawmen thought he was cheating them
when he played. Slowly, one by one, they'd drift off each time Ezra won the pot.
And he couldn't just not win, so he didn't sit down with them anymore. They
still asked him on occasion but Ezra always declined. He was sure they were
beginning to think that he thought he was to good for them, that he refused to
waste his talents on them. The fact was there was no one within a fifty-mile
radius worth Ezra's skills to skin them. This town was just a complete joke. His
wage as a lawman was laughable.
He needed to get somewhere where he could find someone to bankroll a Faro
table for him. That way he could get himself up a decent stake and get back in
the game. A bunco exploit was another option but, looking over his shoulder at
his fellow lawmen, Ezra knew he wouldn't feel comfortable undertaking such a
swindle for another few hundred miles at least. What were these men doing to
him?
Distracted by his thoughts, Ezra pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of
his jacket and one of the carefully crafted buttons on his cuff dropped off onto
the scarred bar top with a dull 'plink'. Watching the ace high design on the
button glitter as it rolled over the battered wood, Ezra made up his mind to
leave town. He was always more or less packed so he could be riding out of town
forever in less than an hour. Sending for his trunk when he got settled wouldn't
be a problem. He was pretty sure that none of his six confederates would come
after him after he had 'run out' on them. It was simple. It was easy. Ezra
straightened away from the bar, took one last look in the mirror, then strolled
casually out of the saloon.
His trunk was packed and he was halfway through changing his clothes when
there was a demanding knock at his room door.
"Come in, Mister Larabee," Ezra called out and continued to button up the
front of his pants before picking up his shirt from the bed and pulling it on as
Chris came in and shut the door behind him.
Taking in the look of the room with one slight tip of his head, Chris settled
a piercing gaze on Ezra then held out the button from the bar top. "You dropped
this," he said, so low it was almost a growl.
"That I did, sir. Much obliged." Ezra reached for the button but Chris held
it firm.
"Where you off to, Ezra?"
"Nowhere in particular."
"In the middle of the afternoon?"
"I find our quaint, quasi-hamlet a mite oppressive this time of day." Ezra
gave up on the button and stepped back, buttoning up his shirt instead.
"You could have joined the game." Chris tucked Ezra's button back into his
pocket.
"Are you gentlemen not tired of bestowing your hard earned money upon me?"
Chris barely shrugged. "We take our chances."
"For a dollar a day," Ezra retorted. "I have participated in games of chance
where people have dropped our weekly wage on the floor and not bothered to pick
it up." He finished buttoning his shirt and reached for a dark blue vest to
pull on. "I've seen people win and lose a fortune in a single night. More money
than you'll ever see in your lifetime."
"Money isn't everything," Chris said, as if explaining the facts of life to a
child.
Ezra couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. He laughed until his sides
hurt. He laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. He laughed until Chris
pinned him to the bed and snarled at him to stop.
"How much is enough, Ezra? Ten, twenty, a hundred thousand? You can't buy
anything that matters and enough is never enough."
"Well, as much as I appreciate you trying to save my soul--" Ezra struggled
against the bodyweight holding him but found he had allowed Chris to pin him too
securely. "Let me up, sir," he requested coldly. "I won't ask you again."
"And I'll tell you this once," Chris hissed back. "If you ride out of here
now, you're never coming back. If I catch you swindling anyone in these parts,
I'll put a hole in your hide and ask questions later. Is that clear?" Chris
finished, then took Ezra's mouth in a harsh, breath-stealing kiss. "You're not
the only one who's the best at what he does around here." Chris stood away to
watch Ezra slowly sit up and catch his breath.
After a moment's still silence, Ezra began buttoning up his vest. "You shoot
people for a living, Mister Larabee. Forgive me for saying so, but you're hardly
preacher material. And your profession lends itself more suitably to our current
occupation."
Chris scowled. "You do your part."
"When you need a cheater," Ezra added, standing up to sling on his shoulder
holster. "And I find that my aptitudes are at best unwelcome and at worst
execrated in this vicinity."
"So why did you stay?"
Ezra slipped his gun into its holster and looked Chris in the eye. "Good
question. Unfortunately, I find myself bereft of answers."
"No you don't." Chris picked Ezra's jacket up off the bedpost and balanced it
on the tips of his fingers, just out of Ezra's reach. "You think leaving is the
answer."
"What do you want from me, Larabee?" Ezra let his hands drop to his sides in
exasperation. "I am not hero material. My only ideal is to live high enough and
long enough to wash away the desperate stench of small towns like this, people
like these."
"People like me?" Chris asked flatly, dropping the jacket on the bed beside
Ezra. "People like Buck, Vin and JD? Like Josiah and Nathan who try and help
others, try to make this town a better place? What do we smell of, Ezra? Honest
sweat?"
"That's not what I meant." Ezra pushed his jacket to the side and sat back
down on the mattress, looking down at the bare floorboards between his boots. "I
can't do this anymore. I'm not a lawman. I loathe games of chance and the odds
of getting out of this game alive are getting shorter and shorter. It was a bet
I never should have taken to begin with."
"Then why did you?"
Ezra looked up into Chris' frown. "I don't know. The judge's pardon and my
current economic depression no doubt contributed to my rather rash
decision-making. I thought it might be an entertaining way to bide my time, I
suppose."
"Awful dangerous way to get your kicks."
"What can I say?" Ezra shrugged with a grin. "Sometimes a high stakes game is
better than none at all."
"What was the bet?" Chris asked, running the back of his fingers over Ezra's
neck then under his chin. "Are the odds getting better or worse?"
Ezra smirked. "You tell me, Mister Larabee."
"Stay a little longer and you might find out." Chris moved to straddle Ezra's
legs, fingers finding and unbuttoning Ezra's clothes while easing him back onto
the mattress.
"Well, the pot is starting to look mighty appealing," Ezra murmured into
Chris' hair as Chris worked a hot tongue and nipping bites down Ezra's neck and
collarbone. "In fact, I'm almost tempted to raise my stake," Ezra went on
light-headedly until Chris' hand clamped over his mouth. Taking the hint, Ezra
closed his eyes and let the waves of pleasure roll over him: the feel of Chris'
body-warmed clothes against his exposed skin; the way Chris' fingers explored a
path down his chest and stomach that was quickly followed by a knowing mouth and
clever tongue, lower and lower.
"Oh lord!" Ezra choked a breath when Chris had to use both hands to hold down
his bucking hips while licking the length of his rapidly hardening cock. "Oh
lord, what did I do to deserve this sweet..." Ezra lost his breath as Chris
experimentally sucked the head of his cock before drawing it further down into
his wet, yielding heat.
His fingers tangling in Chris' hair, Ezra thought he was about to go mad when
Chris suddenly replaced his slow mouthing action with fast, heavy stroking from
a strong, determined hand.
While Ezra almost jerked himself off the bed, Chris leaned in close to Ezra's
ear. "Don't decide you're beat until you've seen all the cards," he whispered
low, and Ezra came hard into his hand.