“How delicious are the pleasures of the imagination…! All the earth is ours in these enchanted moments; not a single creature resists us… we devastate the planet and repeople it with new objects, and immolate these in their turn; the means to every crime is ours, we commit them all; we multiply the horror a hundredfold.”

 

– Marquis de Sade, Juliette

 

Wrong Side of Heaven

A NOVEL

BY

REZINGRAVE

PART ONE

I.

The body was warm when she started riding.

It was stiffening fast, though; blood mixed with the mud on her saddle, her jeans, her stolen boots. Every thump of the horse’s hooves made the gash in her abdomen squeeze then extend. Pain jolted up to her throat, burning, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.

How long did she ride? She couldn’t say. The ranch had seemed impossibly distant when Jack had first spotted it, not knowing what was to come. But it couldn't have been so far — just an illusion of the valley.

Besides, Booker had gotten weary after that stupid, initial chase. God, why hadn't she stood her ground? If she had, she was sure, her and Laz could have sent those bastards packing. Her and Laz, together, could have taken anything.

Now, he was sliding off the horse's neck. Jack grasped his coat by the scruff, and yet still he slid. Hold yourself together! Jack thought. Hold on! Hold on!

Her eyes were pinned to that north star: a building in the midst of endless untouched land. The sky was black and spitting snowflakes; she rode with Laz faster than she had ever dared dream. She didn't notice the fence.

Booker's body tensed, and at the last minute, he leapt clear over it.

Or, tried to.

Instead, he hit it with a thunderous clamor. And though he was a strong horse, and in regular circumstances would have been able to take it, Jack learned later that the fence was already broken, and a wicked sharp stake of wood had sliced through the horse's belly.

Jack fell with the body in her arms. In the hard mud, cold on a winter's day. Her hands were wet. Why? Blood. More blood; there was blood all over her, from her chin to her trousers. She had to get inside! She had to get help! He needed help — if someone didn't treat these wounds, they were sure to be —!

“Someone, help me, please!”

She crawled into the barn just as the snow began to gather aground.

“He got shot!” Jack’s voice was wet. “It was the Fowlers…”

Laz drooped from her hold. Jack turned him onto his back, gentle, even as she screamed, "I need a doctor!"

But she found no reply; her vision swam, trying to discern anything in the black barn. She whipped out her gun and shot into the air. “Get your asses out here, or I’ll kill you all!”

Even as she threatened, her voice wavered.

The inside was lit only by the faintest watery moonlight. This formed a halo around the hay that Jack collapsed in, sobbing into Laz's side. A gust of wind shook the shutters. Jack intertwined her bloody hands and, for the second time in her life, prayed of her own accord.

She prayed for mercy. She prayed that Laz, no matter how scarred, would pull through this. Was he not built of tougher stuff than Jack, who knelt crying before she knew the end? She demanded that God would let all the sodomy slide, in the face of this. She prayed for forgiveness, and she prayed that it would come quick.

Laz’s face upturned to the light. His dark eyes gone hazy.

Something moved. For all of her bluster, Jack was delirious with pain and panic. She scrambled away from it, on her hands and knees. She forgot about her gun entirely.

There, emerging from the darkness, was a woman.

Jack's voice was hardly a whimper. "Help…"

And then there were more women, a dozen of them it seemed, who crept in from all sides and stared at Jack with big doe eyes. They formed a faerie ring, a circle of cheeks and noses and bare collarbones.
      "Who are you?" one asked.

Jack could only mumble and shake.

One woman looked at the another. "Did Master bring her?"

"I don't know…"

They all had a strange look in their eyes, a glossy sheen. Jack was struck with thoughts of flies on the empty eyes of a horse’s carcass. But of course, they were alive. They were coming closer to her.

Jack snatched up Laz and held him to her chest. She was shaking — oh, he was cold. It was that damned dry winter air. "Don't — don't come any closer!"

"We just want to help you."

"You're pretty."

"Master is coming soon." One of them entered the halo of light, and Jack realized that she was naked. All of them were. “She’ll calm you down.”

The woman’s hand reached out, but Jack did not see her yearning fingers. Jack saw the raised red mark upon the woman's thigh.

It was a barn full of naked women, branded like cattle.

That was the last thing Jack remembered before she collapsed.

In trying to explain what led her to that barn, Jack found herself struggling on where to start. It was too early to begin with her birth — a difficult thing that Mama always did give her grief for. Did she start the first night she cut her hair? The first time she introduced herself, chest puffed out, as Jack Hawthorne?

None of that mattered. What she had done to get them into this mess began one evening, in the Brennan Saloon.

The saloon was run by a grumpy old Scotsman; standing bar, no elbow room. The wallpaper was coated in soot from the wood stove, which that blustery night burned at full tilt. The ragged air, both outside and in, coated Jack's throat. She suppressed a cough. It would not be good to draw attention to herself.

A single rider right at the dawn of the toughest season would be easy pickings to a less savory sort. Jack had all the more to worry about on top of it: she was short (short for a woman, even worse as a man) and pale with blonde hair that, no matter how close she cropped it, was wispy and delicate from where it peeked below the brim of her hat. Blue-eyed, short-nosed, wiry and thin— Jack had to always stand with her shoulders spaced apart and her pistol in sight.

Jack murmured a quiet order on the left side of the bar. She looked over her foggy glass to the right. There, far from the stove, were all the darker folks. That section of the saloon was in shadow; and yet, Jack knew exactly where to look.

Tall where Jack was small, dark where Jack was like sour milk. He sat towards the wall with his hands folded before him. It was a posture Jack recognized — the conscious, active politeness. The awareness of his body, and how he should hold himself. It was how he looked when they first met on the range.

He was speaking with someone, though Jack could not see who due to the riffraff surrounding her.

Jack took a long swig and found her fingers tapping against the bar top. He had come in first and was supposed to already be positioned. Every moment he wasn't was a moment apart.

As Lazarus finally stepped up to the bar to give his order, Jack overheard two white men having a conversation that caught the interest of all within earshot.

“Hear the Fowlers are in Loveday,” said one.

“Yes indeed," the other said. "I'd keep an eye on my horses, if I were you."

Jack had always been a talker — even when trying to lay low. She propped her elbows on the bar. “I hear the Fowler Brothers make their business robbing stagecoaches. Is that true?”

“They’ve been expanding their lot, as of late. Getting cocky.”

“Doing what?”

“Burning homesteads,” said the man.

"Killing whores," said the other.

“Smothering kittens,” Jack said, “and cooking babies in stewpots?”

The men guffawed. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Jack Hawthorne." She stood tall — as tall as she could. "Just come up from Texas, rustling wild herds like you wouldn't believe. And now that I'm here: the fastest gun in Colorado Territory."

“All before getting weaned off your Mama’s tits!”

Jack moved to the other man's shoulder. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Just between us…” she said. “I don’t think the Fowler Brothers, or any of their lot, are much to worry about. They’re just bastards keen enough to spot a vulnerable target and rotten enough to strike.”

Her change in scenery put her right at the demarcation line. No one within the saloon would even notice. She jutted out her elbow, and it brushed with his.

The men still went on about the Fowlers, the demon brood. No fuss was made; there was nothing untoward about a white and a colored man butting elbows in a saloon if they only so happened to meet in the middle.

Even though she had touched him longer, and softer, in far more intimate places, the danger of the action sent lightning to her fingertips. Laz lowered his arm, back of his palm against the seam of her jeans.

“You’ll be a dead man with that attitude.” The man frowned over his gin.

Jack shrugged. “If I’m going to die, it certainly won’t be at the hand of some two—bit, petty criminal like Aaron Fowler.”

They shared the saloon for several hours more. Never speaking, only passing an eye over each other once or twice — or more.

Jack could not help it. The moment her eyes traveled the length of the saloon, they caught on Laz. She saw the lazy tilt of his head, the dull light against his cheekbones. The way his shoulders seemed to split the heavy air. The mere sight of him made her calm.

And she could not touch him.

There came a moment when Jack, having adopted a new angle, noticed Lazarus's earlier conversation partner. The seat was in shadow, and all she caught were the outstretched hands — delicate, in white gloves — and the glimmer of eyes.

But Jack didn’t think much of it, then. She didn’t think of it for a very, very long time.

At the piano, she struck up a conversation with the player. Gave a couple requests and ragged his technique. He said, "Well, if you're so good, why don't you give it a lick?"

"I could — but if I did, you'd be out of a job. Not that I would complain. Winter's coming and all."

And then he was asking her about Texas, and Jack was describing the brutal cattle drives, and the dust that coated the throat, and the sun that never stopped.

"Better than the cold," the player said.

"I don't mind." Jack leaned against the piano, her arms folded. "How about this: you play better and I shut my mouth?"

“Oh, fuck you.”

Music filled the saloon. The man played with a fervor, his spectacles slipping from his nose. Jack tapped her foot against the floor. She finished off the last of her whiskey, and sang along. She turned her face towards the ceiling so that her voice would not crack at the sight of Lazarus, so far away.

In her mind's eye, she was dancing with him; bright and untroubled, the skin of her fingers against his waist.

Bang!

A dog barked as the doors swung open. The music continued a couple measures more – that is, until Aaron Fowler pulled out a revolver and shot into the air.

Then, it was silent.

Aaron made a big gesture – rolling his shoulders as he holstered the gun. “Ah… that’s better…” he sighed. “I can actually hear myself think!”

His two brothers, Ben and Carter, stepped up behind him.

Aaron Fowler was one nasty looking son of a bitch: a misshapen scarecrow, all sticks and hay. He had dark bags beneath his eyes and a long, drooping mustache. He wore the finest clothes his stolen money could buy.

“Bartender! Get us a nice, steaming pot of stew!” said Ben, the middle child. He was even more ostentatious. He had a fondness for silver and made a big show of it: on his belt buckle, the rims of his boots, the butt of his gun. He had a coat, too big even for his chubby frame, with a muff of fur around the collar.

The bartender lowered the glass he’d been wiping. It touched the wooden surface with a sullen thud. He said, "That'll be 30 cents."

“Well, actually, here's the thing —" Aaron cocked his hip. “I actually left all my cash with my horse, and I don’t fancy goin’ back out in that weather. Would you take a barter?”

“And what would that be?”

Aaron leaned over the bar. “My brothers and I get a hearty meal, and you don’t get butchered like a pig.”

He was right next to Laz. Ben and Carter stepped up, and Carter’s eyes — dim pinpricks above his scarf — fixed right on him.

Carter, the youngest, was a silent killer. It was said that he could slash the throat of a man in under a second without making a sound.

Many things were said about the Fowler Brothers. Few were true.

The bartender swallowed. “Very well.”

Ben smiled. “You got a wife?”

“In Connecticut.”

“Daughter?”

“The same.”

“Damn shame.” Ben clicked his tongue. He turned to Laz. “Move.”

Lazarus stared at him.

“Faster!” Aaron cocked his gun.

He expected Laz to flinch, but he did not. He stepped away without a word.

Ben sniffed the air. “You cain’t expect me to stand there,” he said. “It stinks.”

“This whole damn place stinks, Ben, get ahold of yourself.”

“I don’t like the look of ‘im.” Ben fingered the filigree on his revolver. “He’s givin’ us attitude.

Aaron grunted.

“Look at his stink-eye!” Ben nudged Carter. “You ought to have his skin, just for that.”

Carter said nothing.

“It’s disre-spect-ful!” Ben enunciated, spit in his mouth.

Lazarus said nothing; he did not look at the Fowlers. He hardly moved at all.

“Get over yourself,” Aaron said.

“You switch places, then! I ain’t standing next to a coon.” Ben gave Lazarus a shove.

“Hey!”

The brothers turned.

Jack stood before them, legs spread, with her hand on her gun. She said, “Leave him be.”

“Oh, ho ho ho!” Aaron chuckled. “And what’s it to you?”

“I can’t stand idly by while you act like a pack of mangy dogs!” said Jack. “Get your hands off him, he ain’t doing nothing wrong.”

Ben frowned. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Jack Hawthorne. Fastest gun in the West.”

The challenge was clear before the words fully passed her lips. Carter reached for his gun, but Jack — true to her boast — was faster. She aimed straight at Aaron’s big, stupid head.

And missed.

The bullet pinged off an oil lamp, shattered the glass, and lit the floor around it. The player scrambled off the piano bench. The Fowler Brothers stared at her, budging not an inch, while Brennan scrambled out from behind the bar to tamp down the oil fire.

Laz cuffed her upon being dumped outside. “You fucking idiot! I had it handled.”

Jack apologized as Laz dragged her by the scruff of her neck, towards the horses.

“Now word’s all over that we’re troublemakers! We’ll be sleeping on the ground tonight.”

Laz let go of her.

Jack said her next apology into the dirt. Then, she hauled herself up. "I wasn't thinking — I just saw those bastards put their hands on you, and I couldn't bear it!"

Lazarus only saddled up Booker. He rolled his eyes in a fond sort of way, but Jack could read the hard line of his mouth.

Jack had a thought, then. "Wonder if the Fowlers were just telling a fib about the money…"

"They'd be mighty stupid if they weren't." Lazarus cast an eye across the row of horses. "The sorrel wasn't here when we came in."

That was how Jack rode out with the bag of coins rattling in her saddlebag; she almost forgot their earlier misfortune.

It was only October, but this high up, the cold was already settling in.

Lodgepole pines rose around them, and their horses made a soft tread upon the ground. The air smelled of the trees, thick and heavy. Higher and higher they went— far from the so-called civilization of the Loveday saloon.

Lazarus was still sulking.

“Really, Laz,” said Jack, “it’s not that big a’deal. We’ve slept on the ground plenty, and now we’ll do it again.”

“It’s going to frost tonight.”

“Well…” Jack trailed off. “I know one thing that’ll keep us warm.”

They set up camp on a ridge that overlooked the mining town. Jack felt like the lord of a small world, sitting with her knees folded above it. That was, until night came and swallowed little Loveday whole.

Their camp was modest. It did not take long for the tent to be raised, the bedrolls laid out. In a moment, it was almost home.

While Laz tended to the fire, Jack hoisted her six-string banjo off Maud's back. Flames crackled as Jack poked at the strings; it was out of tune, always was, on account of the ever-inclement weather and being jostled around the horse's ass.

She began playing all the same. “Mine eyes have seen the glory…”

Laz’s eyes flicked away from the fire.

“… of the coming of my Laz —"

He groaned.

“He swings his cock around,” she sang, “to fuck me in my beautiful ass…”

Jack went on — pretty well for an improvised routine, it must be said — while Laz poured himself some water from the flask. He went over to Jack's horse, who stood dull and tired.

“He hath loosed the vengeful lightning of a swift and terrible whack!” Jack slapped the banjo. “His cum is —!"

Lazarus dumped her coat over her head.

“Put it on,” he said. “The sun’s setting.”

Jack had never been a superstitious sort; indeed, she still wasn't. And yet seeing the night as it was, beyond lamplight, almost made her believe in monsters. When the sun went down, it was a hard, cold dunk. Tree branches stood still. Insects ceased to sing. The stars stopped their flicker. Everything seemed to grow slower and quieter, the cold a fae putting all the world to sleep.

Everyone but Jack and Lazarus, that was.

Silence was the only thing that could accompany it. Jack set the instrument aside and leaned back to stare at the stars above the flickering campfire. Lazarus settled down beside her; his hand rested on the fold of her knee.

“Laz…” her voice was hardly a whisper. “Could you…?”

Lazarus leaned in; his calloused fingers grasped her chin and turned her face away from the starry sky. Jack’s mouth fell open, her dewy tongue revolting against the cold air. Laz nipped it, then drew back.

“More.”

“More what?” Laz’s voice dripped with humor.

“More of that,” Jack said. “Kiss me, goddammit.”

“Not with that attitude, I won’t.” His fingers squeezed her jaw.

Jack squirmed. “Oh, p-please, sir. I want you to kiss me.”

“Like this?” Laz pecked her lips.

“More.”

“Then, like this.” A deep, romantic one.

“Mmm— more!”

Laz pinned her against the hard ground. He pushed his tongue into her mouth as she squirmed beneath him. Jack moaned.

He released her. “Let’s get in the tent.”

Once inside, Jack knew exactly what to do. She waited, panting, knees to the wool blankets as Laz shoved down his jeans. At first sight of his cock, she found herself crawling forward and lapping at it. Laz grunted.

She took it all in, drooling profusely, to coat it with spit.

Then Laz was pushing her face away and shoving his canteen in her mouth. She sucked it, too, watered down swill spilling down her throat and split lips, and a moment later was back to wetting Laz’s dick.

Once her lover had enough of that, Jack fell over like a house of cards. Face against the scratchy surface, ass in the air, Lazarus stripped her bottom and gave it a swift, hard slap.

“That’s for the saloon.”

Jack squirmed, sick grin on her red face. “I said I was the fastest… I didn’t say I could hit anything…”

Smack!

“Oh, have mercy, sir!” cried Jack in a girly falsetto.

Laz stuck his finger in the bottle of cooking oil and then shoved that up her asshole. Jack panted, dirt in her nostrils. Her lip had begun to bleed from the cold, dry air. He spit on her, then swirled his tongue until her ass was as lubed as it was going to get. She didn't realize she was begging.

"Please… please…"

Lazarus had his arms about her. Their jeans slid down until their bare hip bones brushed one another. He kissed the back of her neck before he thrust inside. Jack's arms quivered with the weight of holding herself up.

She lost all sense of time as they fucked; all she knew was that she came, and afterwards Laz continued to hold her, side-by-side. His cock rubbing between her thighs, canvas cloth cocooning them. Jack's head buzzed from the booze. She drifted into a contented sleep, forgetting the Fowlers, forgetting the night silent and eerie. It was only her and Lazarus, together as they were always meant to be.

And his body was warm.