Tombstone

John 'Doc' Holliday has a thing for Angela Dawson.

1881

Outside, the dry heat beat down on the arid sand. Inside, Angela Dawson was trying to keep her cool.

“What is it you want from me, Mr Holliday? My soul is not for sale, no matter how hard you stare.” Angela challenged John ‘Doc’ Holliday’s stare with one of her own, but she felt small and supremely conscious that they were alone in the tiny pharmacy.

“Do you really think I would want something as simple as your soul?”

“Simple? You really haven’t done your research, have you?” Angela smiled coolly, but behind the counter she crossed one heel behind the other in an unconscious attempt to stop herself from taking a step back from his piercing gaze. Her confidence was a façade, much like the invitingly colourful front of the simple, drab store. “I am far from simple, Mr Holliday.”

“But of course, my dear. You are, after all, a woman.” His dark eyes searched hers before slowly descending to the swell of her breasts. A look of disdain crossed his cold features, but it was brief, fleeting.

“And you sir, are a pig.” If a pig he was, he sure was a better-looking specimen than those on her grandfather’s holdings. She checked herself, and reminded herself that this particular pig was a gambler and a murderer.

“I have heard you do… business… with pigs.”

“If by pigs you mean murderers, then you’ve heard correctly. Not my brightest idea, but money is money, and even murderers like my… services.”

“Can you guarantee the product’s potency?”

“I wouldn’t sell less than the best, Mr Holliday.” She reached under the counter for a small timber box. Placing it on the counter, she opened it with an air of significance. “The best. Better even than morphine.”

He looked at the contents suspiciously. “You know it’s a poison, right?”

Angela tried to keep her laughter light, but even to her it sounded contrived. “Yes, but the tranquillity!”

The gunslinger raised an eyebrow. “Do you indulge?”

“Too much, Mr Holliday. What can I say? I like it too much for my own good.”

“Good girl. Don’t let others judge you for it, either.” A smile as smooth as snake oil replaced his sardonic smirk. Angela’s skin crawled as she noted his open judgement. He’s heard about me. She blinked angrily at his hollow laugh.

“Damn you, Holliday!”

“Too late for that. Haven’t you heard? Someone beat you to it.”

Despite herself, she had to chuckle. Of all who knew him, Holliday himself had perhaps the driest sense of his condition. It was well known that tuberculosis had also claimed his mother, but he carried his death sentence like a demon urging him to do wonderful things.

“How much are you purchasing today, Mr Holliday?”

“A few grams. Better make it three.”

Angela arranged a half-dozen small weights onto one side of the scales, and began to spoon a white powder from the box onto the other side of the scales. “For yourself?” It was more than simple curiosity that had her asking. Do murderers even feel pleasure?

Holliday ignored her inquisitiveness. “I’d like it in two separate bags. Half in each.”

She took the cash he extended and pocketed it. Sales like this never went through the till. She pushed the two small paper bags towards him, but started when she felt gentle pressure on her hand.

“I won’t fall for your tricks, Mr Holliday.”

“You can call them tricks, but you can’t even begin to fathom what I can do with these hands.” He grinned. “I am, after all, a doctor.”

“A dentist, Mr Holliday. And do you think me that easy? That simple? Just turn the key and unlock me?”

“Why not? Aren’t you curious?”

“It would be a mortal sin to be with a man like you.”

“A mortal sin? Do you really think one dance with the devil can do all that?”

“I am not sinning for you, Mr Holliday. Not a sin of that nature.”

“You really think me some kind of monster, don’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’m not that. I’m not near that.” He shook his head. “What do you think my agenda is, Miss Angela Jane Dawson?”

Angela grimaced. “Don’t call me that. My mother used to call me that.”

“Your mother? There’s a lovely kettle of kippers…”

“One which we will not be opening.”

“Fair enough.” He tapped a finger on the counter. “You haven’t answered my question. What is my agenda?”

“You want me to surrender my body to you, but I can’t. I won’t. To have union with a murderer would be to hate… you know, Him.”

The gunslinger threw back his leonine head and laughed. “Hate God? You don’t think that is a little over the top?”

“Don’t you?”

“Supposing I even hated God for this wretched cough and this stinking weather, why would I need to barter for your precious soul? Human beings are so simple. Given a range of choices, they will always choose the selfish choice. That’s how mankind has elevated themselves to the status of gods, and forgotten all about Him.”

“Not true. Not close to true.”

“Too close for comfort, though, isn’t it? Read a little contemporary philosophy, Miss Dawson. I don’t need you to serve me or worship me in order for you to hate God. Just serve yourself. Make love to me.”

The man was teasing her, and he had her number. Despite her indignation, Angela didn’t know what to say.

 Mr Holliday turned and closed the door to the store. He turned back to find a revolver pointed at his head.

“That was awfully presumptuous of you, Mr Holliday. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t plug you where you stand.”

“Do you know how it is people like me still roam the earth, good lady?” Angela shook her head, but her aim remained true. “I would know if you were capable of killing me. Had I thought you the type, I would have already left.”

“So, you’re a coward. A cheap, nasty coward.”

“No. I just have no reason to kill you. Besides, you are more useful alive,” he said. His hand reached out slowly under the levelled firearm and cupped her breast. “You know, they say when you make love to your true mate, you see yourself through your lover’s eyes.”

Angela thumbed the hammer, and the revolver’s cylinder turned. “It’s loaded, Mr Holliday. Think very carefully about your next move.”

“You won’t. Not while you want me.”

“I don’t want you, Mr Holliday.”

“If you don’t want me, why is that question still at the front of your mind?”

“What question is that?”

“You have questions about my… anatomy.”

Angela could not help but glance down, and in that moment, the gunslinger seemed to twist and contort his form until, impossibly, he stood behind her. With one of his tanned fists cupping her shooting hand, and the other still cupping her breast, he pulled her close. She imagined she could feel an erection through his coarse pants, but she couldn’t be sure just how far she could trust her thoughts.

He leaned forward and whispered hoarsely into her ear. “It’s been a pleasure doing business.”

Angela jerked herself away from his embrace. The memory of a hard, chiselled body against hers lingered for a second, but it did not distract her from her purpose. She pressed the revolver’s barrel into his temple. “Leave.”

Holliday mockingly tilted his hat, turned and left.

Angela’s heart was thudding in her ears. She slowly lowered the hammer on her father’s trusted revolver. Was he really gone? Reluctantly, she placed the gun on the counter. She shook her head. Tombstone was no town for her.