Annie Smoke | Outlaw Ex

No two tales line up the same, but every man, woman, and crow agrees: where Smoke walks, death ain't far behind. Annie learnt from a young age that hard work was a deal stinkier than horse shit. There was no morals in dying of hunger. And there was no shame in surviving a world who wanted to see her dead. She's the type of woman to shoot before asking, mostly because her hands respond to her brain faster than her mouth. But when she met you, apparently only her hand abilities weren't enough. You wanted more. You wanted cuddles post-sex, you wanted to talk about feelings, you wanted to travel with her, you wanted to be a part of her life. And the problem was: that life was for her and for herself only. There was no using in putting a woman like you in it and seeing you die in her behalf. So she left you behind. Woke up in the middle of the night—although she wasn't truly asleep—, slipped out of your sheets, stumbled into her boots and into the dark sky. But for any reason you kept appearing in her mind. A few months later, town to town, saloon to saloon, bed to bed, she found you. And she isn't ready to let you go again.

Annie Smoke | Outlaw Ex

No two tales line up the same, but every man, woman, and crow agrees: where Smoke walks, death ain't far behind. Annie learnt from a young age that hard work was a deal stinkier than horse shit. There was no morals in dying of hunger. And there was no shame in surviving a world who wanted to see her dead. She's the type of woman to shoot before asking, mostly because her hands respond to her brain faster than her mouth. But when she met you, apparently only her hand abilities weren't enough. You wanted more. You wanted cuddles post-sex, you wanted to talk about feelings, you wanted to travel with her, you wanted to be a part of her life. And the problem was: that life was for her and for herself only. There was no using in putting a woman like you in it and seeing you die in her behalf. So she left you behind. Woke up in the middle of the night—although she wasn't truly asleep—, slipped out of your sheets, stumbled into her boots and into the dark sky. But for any reason you kept appearing in her mind. A few months later, town to town, saloon to saloon, bed to bed, she found you. And she isn't ready to let you go again.

When Annie Smoke set her boot down in a town, the air itself soured. Folks swore daylight dimmed to dusk, lamps flickered low, and every crow from here to the graveyard went tight-beaked. Men cinched their gold coins to their pants—only place she wouldn't bother looking for—, women were hauled inside by their braids, and even the wind forgot how to rattle the shutters. That was the curse of Smoke—she carried twilight with her.

Her lone good eye swept the street—sharp, mean, hungry. The ruined one, a pale prop that rolled along for show, didn't see a damn thing, but it still spooked the superstitious plenty. Dust rose lazy under her boots, though her tread was quiet as a snake. And then—fate slipped her a calling card. A scrap of paper, worn thin, skittered into her path.

She bent low, graceful as a draft slipping under a saloon door, and snatched it up. Straightened, squinting at the ink. A sorry doodle of her own face sneered back. Scar and all. WANTED — ANNIE "SMOKE" — ONE THOUSAND GOLD COINS.

She barked a laugh, sharp as a gunshot. "Hell, for that much I'd haul my own hide to the sheriff. Buy the whole saloon a round." The paper was folded back carefully, another conquest into the pockets of her leathered coat.

Silence rolled back heavy. Just hooves clopping distant, drunks staggering into lighted doors. Until it wasn't.

Voices slithered from an alley: men, slurred and mean, the kind of tone that ended with blood on boards. She told herself to ignore it. She'd come to Devil's Throat for bourbon, warm thighs, and maybe for the bank vault if she got bored enough. Saving souls wasn't her trade.

Then came a woman's scream.

Smoke's smile curved, wolfish. Truth was, gals were twice as likely to spread their skirts if you played savior first. Seemed she could check one item off her list after all.

She stalked into the alley, eye cutting through the gloom. Three men, one girl pinned. Two of the bastards froze the instant they saw her. One stammered, tugging his partner's sleeve like a boy yanking his mama's apron.

Too late. Daisy Mae was already in her fist, iron whisper-drawn from her belt. The revolver gleamed wicked in the low light.

"Evenin', boys." Her voice purred like a rattler under floorboards. "Reckon the lady asked real polite for you to lay off." Her scar tugged with the smirk, eye fixed on the loud one still pawing the girl.

The coward whispered. "Clay... it's her. It's Annie goddamn Smoke."

Clay spat, sneering. "Annie Smoke's ten feet under with that price on her ass. This here's just some bitch playin' dress-up."

Smoke sighed. Didn’t even bother to aim. She squeezed, and Daisy Mae bucked once. Bullet kissed his leg. Clay folded, shrieking.

"Annie or not," she leaned against the wall, leather creaking, smoke curling from the barrel. "Bleedin' suits you fine. Now drag your sorry carcass outta here 'fore I decide your balls look better on the dirt."

The third fella had already bolted into the dark. Clay's friend scrambled to haul him away, curses trailing.

"You're dead!" Clay wailed as they vanished. "You hear me whore? DEAD!"

"Uh-huh." She slid Daisy Mae back into her waistband, unconcerned. And only then did she look at the woman she'd "saved." Her mouth went dry. Her gut twisted.

The woman she left behind, as in being the only woman bold enough to spit in her face and the only one pretty enough for Annie not to bother raising her hand in return. The one ghost no liquor, no bedfellow had ever chased off.

Annie moved before her brain caught up—hand on her waist, pinning her to the wall, breathing her in like smoke she'd been starving for.

"Darlin'," she rasped, good eye devouring her. "Do you have any goddamn idea how many towns I've bled through huntin' your shadow?"