Stray's A/N: My old computer broke down a few weeks ago, putting me way behind in work and MGB. Thanks to Ariel and all you guys for being patient as I reply to reviews and slowly get my life in order again ;)
"Can't you do anything right?" Heather shouts.
"What?" Courtney can barely hear her over the combination of the roaring train, clicking down the tracks, and the blood pumping in her ears as she runs after the crew, past their previous cart where she snatches her suitcases. They end up in the cargo hold right behind the train engine.
Alejandro slams the compartment door behind Courtney and grabs luggage and boxes left and right to barricade. "Calm down, amor," he says to Heather. "It wasn't bad for a first timer."
"Well it wasn't good, either," Heather snaps.
"What did I do wrong?" Courtney asks, bending over at the waist, panting.
"Excuse me if I don't find it very intimidating when the person robbing me is shaking like a goddamn leaf," Heather retorts, taking Courtney's gun from her and putting it in her belt. "If one of those businessmen had been carrying a piece, we'd be Swiss cheese cause you couldn't point a revolver in a straight line."
"Bite me, Heath," Duncan says. He yanks on the cart's side door and pulls it open to rushing wind. "Ya'll comin' or what?"
Alejandro grabs an annoyed Heather's hand before Courtney can even think up a response, and the two of them jump out of the train. Courtney blinks for a second at where they were, before she stumbles to the door and looks down at the river far below them. She catches Heather and Al just before they splash under. She bites her lip and tastes blood.
Duncan grabs her by the waist as the train rattles angrily over the bridge. "Hope yer not scared of heights, doll."
"Is it...is this safe?"
He snickers and pecks her on the neck. "We'll find out soon enough. Ready? One...two..."
"Three," Courtney squeaks, closing her eyes tight, and jumps.
The wind rushes by for far too long and doesn't let her hear a thing. Next she knows, she's plunged into cool river water. Her shoes scrape the boulders at the bottom. With a suitcase in one hand and Duncan's hand around her waist, Courtney flails her way to the surface gasping for air. The press of Duncan's hand on her back pushes her to shore where she scrambles out on her hands and knees, her cotton dress transparent and heavy with water. Courtney crosses her arms to cover her chest.
Duncan mutters something about the goddamn fucking goddamn depression as he counts the paltry amount of cash in his hands, then shoves it back in his pockets.
"Let's get off the road and count up the loot," Duncan orders, squeezing out his pinstriped jacket as Al takes off his shoes. "What color car ya want today, Heath?"
Heather rolls her eyes, grabbing Duncan's jacket from him to cover herself. She points to one coming down the street. "Green's been all the rage."
"As you wish," Duncan drawls, pulling the gun from his belt and walking towards the street.
Courtney eyes them, but Al comes up beside her, holding out his own jacket.
"You'll get used to it," he says with a smile. "Here."
Courtney takes the jacket halfheartedly and watches as Duncan walks out into the middle of the road, dripping wet with a suspender hanging off one shoulder, and raises his gun at the approaching car. It swerves to avoid him and stops. Duncan walks over, gun still raised, and easily intimidates the driver out. He whistles and the four of them, soaked and loaded with bags of cash, clamber into the car. Everyone but Courtney fits in the front seat.
"Back," Duncan says, gesturing to the backseat. "Watch the dough."
"But why do I have to do it?" she asks irritably.
"Because yer last to the car and yer not driving," Duncan snaps. "Now get back there before the jobbie we just scared outa here decides he wants his car back enough to fight for it."
"Crew rules," Heather adds, smirking. "You'll get used to it."
The backseat is empty for the rucksacks and suitcases of cash and Courtney's pleasure alone. She climbs in grouchily and has to brace herself as Duncan peels off. The three professionals chat and smoke in the front seat, Duncan paying her no mind other than to reluctantly tell Al to hand her a lit cigarette when she asks for it. The swampland and small towns rush past her in the window, and she chooses to focus on that instead of the growing unease in her stomach.
The safehouse isn't far. It's small white foreclosed house on the edge of a knotted mess of trees. As they grab their bags and get out of the car, Al goes to pick the lock on the front door.
"What now?" Courtney asks.
Duncan and Heather ignore or don't hear her.
Al gets the door opened in about a minute and the three seasoned criminals head straight to the parlor. Once they pull the plastic sheeting from atop all the furniture, they dump their half filled bags of bills and light up more cigarettes. Courtney decides to look for a bedroom.
The first one she finds has nothing more than a bed and a dresser. She shuts the door and pulls the plastic cover off the bare mattress. It's a step up from the matress in Chicago but not by much. She shrugs off Al's jacket and peels off her soaked dress, only realizing then that she must have lost her hat jumping out of the train. She opens her suitcases to find that everything she packed was damp, including her notebook of clippings, her changes of clothes, and her money. Sighing, she climbs on the bed in her wet underwear, wraps herself in the uncomfortable plastic dust covering, and passes out.
She stirs when the weight shifts on the bed. Sleepily, she blinks her eyes open to find Duncan climbing in beside her.
"I was wonderin' where ya went," he says smoothly, brushing her hair back from her neck before planting a kiss. "Ya didn't say anything, ya little Minx. Shoulda figured ya wanted to be alone," he teases, his hand trailing down to pull off her panties. "After all, ain't that why you tried so hard to find me?"
She grabs his hand, stopping him.
"Last time we slept together, I ended up handcuffed and out to pasture," she tells him. "I'm not playing that game again."
"The fuck's the matter with ya, suddenly acting all pissy?" Duncan says. "Ya got me all hot and bothered for nothing."
Courtney turns to face him. He's in an undershirt and underwear, scowling.
Heather's words stick out in her memory. "I didn't leave my life and my husband to be your...call girl."
"But ya did leave yer dead fish husband," he says, breath smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, "pathetic sad sack of shit that he is."
"Don't talk about Justin like that in front of me," she says, all her hairs standing on end. "He's still my husband."
"And yer still his wife, but look at ya," he says, smirking, reaching down to pet between her legs, "here ya are in my bed."
Courtney grabs his hand and tosses it off, turning away and moving to the far side of the bed.
"Let me sleep, Duncan." She tucks the plastic sheeting under her chin and closes her eyes.
She hears him curse right before he shoves her off the bed.
"Damn bitch! This is my bed. You either do as I say, or you find yourself another place to sleep."
Courtney glares at him viciously and picks herself off the floor. With all the dignity she has left, she grabs her wet clothes and suitcases and marches towards the living room which reeks of cigarettes, grabs the dusty afghan, and slings it over her as she flops on the hard couch.
Duncan appears over the back of the couch, glaring down at her. "Seriously?"
"Your terms, not mine," she says, turning away. "I'm not letting you anywhere near me until you can prove to me you're actually serious about this arrangement."
Before Duncan can reply, she adds, "I mean the arrangement of joining your little ragtag group of criminals. I already know your thoughts on our intimate arrangement."
"Peaches," Duncan says, the word sharp on his tongue, "those ain't mutually exclusive. I let ya into this crew, you let me into yer pantyhose."
"Yeah, and you check out the next morning," Courtney covers her head with the afghan stubbornly. "I've heard this one before."
"Clyde," Alejandro calls from the other room, "not to interrupt, but we need to get up early tomorrow to clear out so if you want to move this somewhere more private…?"
"No," Courtney answers. "He was just leaving."
Duncan rips the afghan off her and takes it with him back into the room, swearing loudly. Courtney reaches for the discarded plastic sheeting on the floor and with a weary conscious, wraps herself in the thin crinkling plastic.
If these were Duncan Clyde's true colors, maybe it wasn't too late to get a refund on her old life. Or a discount on a new life altogether.