Trixies’s Gamble
Copyright© 2026 by Heel
Chapter 2
The hotel room felt smaller than it had an hour earlier.
The lamp threw a weak yellow light across the narrow bed and the washstand. Dust floated in the air, turning slowly, lazily. For a moment, Trixie stood there listening to her own breathing, trying to let the night settle.
She slipped the money pouch onto the table and loosened her coat.
That was when she heard boots.
Not passing. Not wandering. Stopping.
Right outside her door.
Her stomach tightened. She told herself it was nothing—this was a drinking town, a losing town. Men staggered these halls every night. Still, she didn’t turn her back to the door.
The handle rattled.
Once.
Then the door slammed inward with a violent crack, wood splitting, the lock tearing loose as if it had never existed at all.
Hank Miller filled the doorway.
His face was red and slick with sweat, eyes glassy and unfocused, mouth twisted with something far past anger. Whiskey rolled off him in waves.
For half a heartbeat, Trixie couldn’t move.
That hesitation shattered everything.
He crossed the room in two strides and hit her hard enough to snap her head sideways. Pain burst behind her eyes and she stumbled, crashing into the bedframe. The room spun. She tasted blood immediately.
“You think you can take my money?” he roared, grabbing her coat and shaking her. “Make a fool of me?”
Another blow landed. Then another. She cried out, the sound sharp and broken, nothing like the steady voice she used at the poker table. Her thoughts scattered, flying apart like cards thrown into the air.
She tried to shove him away. Tried to kick. Her foot caught nothing but air.
He shoved her backward and she fell onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. He loomed over her, breath hot, shadow swallowing the light.
Panic took over completely.
Not fear she could measure or manage—this was blind, choking terror. Her heart hammered wildly, breaths coming too fast, too shallow. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t plan. She could only react.
Something inside her snapped.
Her hand moved before her mind caught up.
She reached into her coat and the small two-barreled pistol was suddenly in her hand, as if it had leapt there on its own. Cold metal. Solid. Real. She didn’t remember deciding to draw it. There was no calculation, no steady aim.
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