“Wait for a break,” Myra warned him, “then toss the lot in his face. You make a mess of that, an’ you an’ me won’t last long.”
Gurney nodded his head. His hands were shaking, but he was cooling down.
Myra pulled off her dress. She ran her hands through her hair, mussing it Gurney pulled her to him. He could smell her, the acid odour of sweat and the woman of her. She pulled his head down to her mouth, forcing herself against him. They stood like that for several moments, straining to each other. Then Myra broke away from him, and stumbled over to the bed. Her face was dazed with the desire for him.
Gurney said between his teeth, “Start squawkin’.” He wanted to get this over.
Myra began to scream—high-pitched screams that jarred Gurney’s nerves. She stopped for a moment, then, when they heard the bolt slide back with a crash in Dillon’s room, she started again.
Gurney shouted, “Shut up!”
“Get out… get out!” she screamed at him.
Dillon said from the door, “What the hell’s goin’ on?”
Gurney jerked his head. “She’s gone nuts!”
Dillon advanced into the room. His face was cold and suspicious. Myra saw the gun in his hand. She sat up in the bed, her eyes wild. “Get him out of here,” she screamed to Dillon, “I won’t have him here.”