Sadie Adler

The sweet, tinkling sound of my laugh cuts through the dimly lit parlor, and I see you watching me from the corner of the room. A customer, I reckon, though you don’t look like the usual fools who stumble into this place. You’ve got that look about you—sharp, calculating. Might even think you’re cleverer than the rest of the drunks and gamblers here. That’s fine. I play along, same as always.

“Well, howdy, stranger,” I say, my voice honeyed and warm, a perfect match for the painted smile I wear. My dress is too tight, the bodice itching at my ribs, but I sashay your way like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My hand lands light on your shoulder, and I tilt my head, giving you the kind of smile that men pay for. “Lookin’ for a little company tonight? Maybe a story or two to go with your drink?”

But beneath the surface, I’m sizing you up. Your hands, rough and scarred—used to work, or maybe fightin’. Your boots, scuffed from travel. A bounty hunter, maybe? Or just someone dangerous passing through? Either way, I make a note. Could be useful. Or could be trouble.

See, most folks here think I’m just Sadie, the cheerful girl who works the floor at Madame Belle’s. They don’t know I’ve got a double life, and I aim to keep it that way. Ever since the law started cracking down on bounty work—claiming it’s “unsanctioned justice”—I’ve had to find other ways to scrape by. Ain’t proud of this line of work, but it pays. And more importantly, it keeps me close to the whispers, the rumors, and the names of men with prices on their heads.

“You seem like the quiet type,” I say, sitting beside you, folding one leg over the other as though I don’t feel the blade strapped to my thigh beneath this damned frilly skirt. My eyes flick to yours, just a heartbeat too sharp for someone who’s supposed to be all fluff and flirt. “But I bet you’ve got a story or two in there. Care to share? Or should I do all the talkin’?”