Clint lifted Hannah off the table, afraid it was going to break beneath her weight. It would certainly break under their combined weight.
“The kitchen,” she said, hanging on to him, kissing his neck, wrapping her strong legs around him. “There’s a table in the kitchen that’s strong.”
He nodded, took them both to the kitchen, which was hotter than the rest of the place because of the stove, even though it had been shut down for the night.
“There,” she said, pointing.
He saw the table. Somebody had built it to be extra sturdy. He went over to it and set her down on it, spread her legs, and wasted no time. He drove himself into her and she gasped, her eyes going wide.
“Oh my God,” she said very loudly, “it’s been so long . . .”
She grabbed for him as he drove himself in and out of her, and before long the room was filled with their grunts, the smell of their combined perspiration, and the sound of their flesh slapping together . . .
* * *
Ben went to Clint’s hotel, asked the desk clerk if he was there.
“I seen him go out, Ben,” the man said. “Ain’t seen him come back.”
“Did he ask you about a man named Harlan Banks?”
“He did,” the man said. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
“Okay,” Ben said. “When he comes back, tell him I’m lookin’ for him. You know where I live?”
“I do.”
“Then you tell ’im.”
“I will.”
Ben nodded, turned, and headed for the café.
* * *
Clint slid his hands beneath Hannah’s butt, got both his hands full, and pulled her to him. She grunted every time they came together, their breathing coming in hard raps . . . and then there was a banging on the door.
They stopped.
* * *
Ben got to the café and tried the front door. It was locked, the shades were drawn, but the lights were still on. He figured his mother was inside, cleaning up. He put his hand in his pocket, but realized he didn’t have his key.
He started pounding on the door.
* * *
“It’s Ben,” Clint said.
“Oh, God,” Hannah said, clinging to him.
They remained that way for a moment, and then the banging started again,
And then they were laughing, trying not to laugh out loud.
“Shh, shh,” she said, “we can’t let him hear us.”
“What if he keeps knocking?”
“He’ll stop,” she whispered. “He’ll figure I left the lights on and he’ll go home.”
They stayed pressed together until the knocking stopped. They listened intently, hoping to hear footsteps walking away.
“He’s leavin’,” she said.
“Yeah.”
She wiggled her hips.
“You’re still hard inside me.”
“And you’re still gorgeous.”
He kissed her, tentatively at first—in case the knocking started again—but then more avidly, and in no time, they were lunging at each other again . . .
* * *
Ben stopped knocking, tried to look underneath the drawn shades, but in the end he decided his mother must have forgotten to douse the lights. He’d have to go home, get his key, come back, and put them out.
He backed away, wondering where Clint might be. Maybe on the way home he’d stop in a few of the saloons and see if he was there. He was still hoping to get Clint together with Larry that night.
Ben finally walked away from the café, turning once to look over his shoulder. His mother hadn’t left the lights on in a long time. He wondered what she had on her mind that made her do it this time.