The Angel Butcher of Rio Bravo: An RDR2 Story

xxvi. When he was alone

She tried to answer and spluttered on the champagne, rose to sitting. Wiping at her mouth, she replied, "Not all the time. When the getting's good."

"It's good, girl, goddamn," John let out an incredulous laugh, waving the bills in the air before returning them to his pocket. Tine was staring at him, her hair lit to glowing by the roaring fire in the fireplace, surrounding her heart-shaped face. John didn't know when she'd loosed it from its ponytail, and it hung soft around her face. "You look like a goddamned angel, or something," he murmured, and then, embarrassed, quickly continued, "why they all callin' you Butcher, 'round here?"

She rose from the bed, padded toward him on the plush carpet, utterly silent. He hadn't seen her remove her boots, either, but there they were by the door, a dull shine to their brass tips.

"I've killed a lot of people," she said simply.

John laughed again. "I've done my fair share, didn't get a nickname over it."

"The way I did it, it weren't pretty." Something in the way she said it caused a sudden, sobering hum of fear in his gut. But her lips were so pink, so full; her eyes glittering in the firelight.

"You're pretty," he blurted, and she laughed, rolling her eyes, seizing his wrist in her fingers.

"And you're green, John Marston," she stressed, waving his arm back and forth. Her word from earlier that day rankled him.

"No I ain't," he hissed back, pulling her closer to him, anchoring her wrist with his free hand. He saw a spark in her eyes, her hand around his wrist clutched briefly.

"Real green," she teased again. "I just had the gun wrong on you, is all."

"And which gun was that?" Their faces were mere inches from each other, and John was all the more able to witness Tine's pointed glance downward, towards his cock.

"Ain't green there, neither." He couldn't explain why he was suddenly seething mad, nor why his cock was rock hard and uncomfortably insistent in his pants.

"Could fool me," Tine released him, then, stepping backward but holding his gaze, a challenge to fill the space she'd made. John did, his chest nearly pressing into hers, looming over her, their noses practically touching.

"Quit that," he demanded, and he saw, even in their close proximity, a quirking of her lip, a small raising of her eyebrows.

"I'm just calling it like I see it, and the way I see it-" she stepped back from him again, reaching up to pinch his cheek "-John Marston is green."

He slapped her hand away and pulled her face to his before she'd even reacted, his mouth on hers, teeth capturing her bottom lip. He felt her respond in kind; her hands braced onto his chest, a small moan came from her lips. John's hands travelled from her cheeks to trail down her spine, one in the small of her back, the other venturing further, taking a handful of her ass and squeezing.

"This what you want?" He demanded, panting, when they finally broke from each other. "You want me to take charge?" Her yes was a word merely breathed into his ear, and it was enough.

He tugged at her shirt buttons until it hung open, untucked from her pants, a bloom of perfume escaping into the air. The open shirt exposed her breasts and a heavy gold coin hung between them, along with a network of fine white lines and small, circular scars. He brushed his thumbs over as many as he could see, kissing her neck and shoulders. Tine clung to him, her arms around his neck, and he found himself doing most of the work; laying her back down onto the bed, pulling her pants down and off, removing his own clothes.

He held himself over Tine, kissing down her neck and breasts, rolling his tongue over a peaked, pink nipple. From the corner of his eye, he saw her ball a weak fist, slam it down onto the mattress, felt the dull reverberation it created through his knees.

"Too much, darlin'?" He said softly, kissing her ear. "I can slow down."

Tine addressed the ceiling, a single word. "Bored."

John was equally incensed and stung, sitting back to stare at a languid Tine, writhing in slow frustration under him. Most of the women he'd been with to this point had been game partners, squealing and coquettish, or reciprocally sweet. Tine was petulant, intense; and it awakened something in him.

He reached forward and slid his arm under the arch of her back, flipping Tine onto her stomach and pulling her hips back until she was on all fours, in front of him, an oh of surprise escaping her lips. He pressed the hard tip of his cock against the back of her thigh as he leaned over her, hissing, "you want it like this?"

She only hummed, but he saw her knees spread slightly, baring more of herself to him. He ran his fingers along her slit, wet and inviting, coated his own cock with her. Part of him wanted to turn her back around, kiss her while they fucked, see her pretty face react to him. But the new part, hungry and dominant, snapped his hips for him, claiming Tine with a grunt.

She lifted one of her arms to pull her hair to fall down one side of her neck, revealing her flushed cheeks, mouth open. John's fingertips dug into her hips, pulling her repeatedly to him, trying to eradicate the spaces between their bodies.

He leaned forward again and caught her perfume unawares, the scent clean and fresh in contrast to their carnal sounds, and he came without warning, collapsing over Tine, panting into her silken hair.

The liquor caught up with him, fast; he felt himself roll off of Tine and sink into the mattress, spread-eagled, head spinning from drink and sex.

He'd awoken to the unforgiving sunlight streaming into the window, the bed empty next to him. John leapt from the covers and sought his balance before stumbling for his pants, checking his pockets to find the wad of cash missing, a sickening twist in his stomach. There was only the letter there, from Abigail, about the boy talking, that his family missed him. He perched on the edge of the bed and wiped at his eyes, wondering how far he'd sunk.

He mustered the courage to dress himself before crawling out the window and down the drainpipe, not wanting to look the concierge in the eye; someone else who knew he'd entered the hotel a pair and left it alone.

But Tine was there, standing by their horses, offering him a friendly smile as he approached. She reached into her pocket and held out the cash she'd taken from him, which he claimed in disbelief. "Didn't want to leave you passed out with that on you, I don't trust the ninny behind the desk."

"Thanks," he muttered, pocketing the money, his mind doing somersaults after resigning himself to being alone again. Tine scrutinized him.

"Where to now, cowboy?" She asked, and he returned her stare, as if trying to assess if she would stay with him for the long haul. The letter burned within his pocket again, prompting a guilty lurch in his gut.

"Maybe we head south over the Grizzlies," he pointed vaguely towards the mountain range, rising like jagged teeth on the horizon. Tine couldn't know it, yet, but he was steering them towards home.

"827!" A guard rattled the bars of John's cell with the barrel of his repeater, startling him from his reminisces. "Get up, you bastard. You're wanted out front."

"Brought the hangman, did you?" John gruffed, not budging an inch.

"I wish," the guard scoffed back. "It's your people, causing all kinds of trouble."