A.N.: This story contains explicit content including adult language and sexual content. Please do not read if you are under the age of 18. To remain true to the HBO series, I have kept "standard" Deadwood dialogue in the story, and therefore would like this to be read only by Deadwood fans who understand that this is not about personal feelings or motives, but only to stay true to the characters and storyline of the series. Thank you.
Deadwood: A Dream Worth Having
1877. Deadwood, South Dakota.
"Where the fuck have you been all morning?" Al Swearengen barked as Trixie headed towards her room at the Gem Saloon.
Trixie turned to her employer with a calm demeanor. "Mrs. Garrett invited me to have breakfast with her and the little one," she replied, opening the door. She moved to step inside, but Al's firm hand grabbed the wooden door, stalling her entry. "I need to do my hair, Al, if I'm goin' to make you any money today," Trixie protested gently.
Al's hand remained on the door. "And how is the little square head?" he asked sharply. "Has your Mrs. Garrett just about fucking turned into one herself, spending so much of her precious fucking time and energy looking after her?"
"Let me in my room, Al," Trixie sighed.
Swearengen raised his brow, letting go of the door. "Of course, your highness. And while I'm at it, why don't I draw you a fucking bath and sing your fucking praises?" he sneered. Trixie ignored her employer and entered the room, closing the door behind her.
Al knew where she had been – it was the same place she had been going for the past three weeks. It was just about a different time every day, but she always returned in the same state: calm, relaxed, and with a certain glow about her that she never had during her time at the Gem. Al turned and walked up the stairs to his room, sighing heavily. That fucking Jew owes me, he thought as he slammed the door and went to sit at the desk. He pulled open the drawer where he kept his personal liquor and poured himself a shot, leaving the bottle on the desktop. He threw down the shot and poured another. Swearengen wouldn't be swindled out of his money because some rotten Jew was in love with his merchandise. Swallowing the second shot, Al propped his legs up on the desk. He wouldn't go over to the hardware store himself – he never sought out men he wanted to see on his own. But he couldn't well send Dan Dougherty over there either, because at the moment Dan was the only man working the bar, and in any case, Al wanted Sol Star to really rack up a debt before he struck down on him again. Al Swearengen wanted to teach Sol a lesson – if you can't pay, don't play. Then again, that whore needed to learn too. She wouldn't be allowed to give her heart away when there was work to be done at the Gem, when she could be making Al a pretty penny for her good services. There were plenty of men in camp that would pay well to have their cocks sucked by a true professional like Trixie. And no idiotic love affair was going to drive those paying customers away.
Sol Star was in love, and not even Al Swearengen was going to change his mind. Trixie had been calling on Sol regularly for several weeks now, and though they didn't have intercourse every time she did, the act wasn't a rare occurrence either. Some nights they would just sit and talk by candlelight, and some mornings they would take their breakfast in the corner of the hardware store, away from prying eyes. Whatever they did, though, Sol was content to just spend time with the woman he had truly grown to love. He didn't care that she was a whore; he was a Jew in a place where Jews were looked down upon. There was no standard to be met. And even then, it was love, which Sol believed in with all his heart. Of course, he hadn't verbally admitted his feelings to Trixie yet, but he would. As he buttoned his jacket following her departure that morning, he planned to tell her just how he felt the very next time he saw her.
"Mornin', Sol," came the familiar greeting as Seth Bullock entered the hardware store. He had had a separate key made so that either he or Sol could open or close the store, depending on where the other man was or what he was busy with at the time. Sol glanced over at his companion, closing the last button on his jacket.