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It was the most terrifying realization he could imagine. Because he might want to help her, might even try, but in the end, when the chips were down, he wouldn't be there for her.
And he couldn't survive failing someone again. Not again.
"Oh, no." Skeeter poked his head through the half-open door to Killian's cabin and dropped the whiskey bottle. It hit the hard-packed dirt at his feet with a thud. The sharp, pungent smell of alcohol wafted upward. "I'm a dead man."
She was gone.
His knees started knocking together. He swallowed convulsively, licking his paper-dry lips. Killian wasn't going to be happy. Not happy at all.
Skeeter bent down and retrieved the fallen bottle. It was still more than half-full. He eyed the sloshing amber liquid, smelled its familiar sweetness. And suddenly he was desperately thirsty.
He wiped the glass mouth and took a long, gulping swallow. Then another, and another.
Finally he pulled back and looked at the bottle. He could go get Killian now, or he could get drunk first. Either way, he was in a world of hurt.
There was no contest. Skeeter leaned against the cabin door and folded downward. His butt plunked on the cold dirt, his knobby knees came up like twin mountain peaks.
Drunk was better.
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He drank the remainder of the bottle in fiery swallows, then staggered to his feet. A slippery laugh escaped him. He clamped a bony hand over his mouth and tossed the bottle away.
He pushed off from the cabin and stumbled down the street. Halfway to the drinking tent, he started to sing. A laughing, nothing little ditty about whores and drawers. He burst into the drinking tent with a flourish.
"Hey, Skeet," said a barrel-chested woman who looked like his father. "Where ya been?"
He gave a yelp and skedaddled sideways, muttering something about Killian.
Killian. Suddenly he remembered, and a cold wash of fear almost sobered him. He staggered through the crowd, clearing his way by pushing aside people even drunker than he was.
"Skeeter." His name was said quietly, with a steel edge of danger that brought him to a dead stop. His knees started shaking again.
"B-Boss?" he said, casting a reluctant look to his left.
Killian stood against the yellowed canvas wall, his hat pulled low on his head, his arms crossed. His mouth was wreathed in shadows, but even so, Skeeter could tell that the man wasn't smiling.
Lord, he wished he had a drink. Plunging his shaking hands in his pockets, he pitched toward Killian, stumbling to a halt beside him. "I ... I reckon you're wonderin' what I'm doing here."
"Where's Lainie?" Killian said.
Skeeter gave his boss a blank stare. "Who?"
Killian's jaw clenched. "The woman."
"Oh. Her." Skeeter's chin dropped. He had a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to piss his pants. "She ... left."
195
Killian stiffened, pulled away from the wall. "Where to?"
Skeeter swallowed again. "I don't know, but she asked for my compass."
Killian's jaw tightened. "Tell me you didn't give it to her."
"Okay, I didn't."
Killian tossed his hat back and glared down at Skeeter through ice-cold eyes. "Did you give her your compass?"
