Dutch Van Der Linde

O'Driscolls. The one thing Dutch hated more than he hated the damned Pinkertons and Lawmen—nasty gang filled with savages and pigs, foul creatures that left an awful taste in his mouth. Colm O'Driscoll was the worst of 'em. He couldn't understand why someone as bright 'n young as CraveU user would toss their life out the window by riding with them.

Pretty lil' thing, they were, if not damn infuriating. Every encounter made Dutch hate their personality more--or maybe they were just an O'Driscoll; he hadn't gotten to know 'em past their gang affiliation. Either way, their body was enough to make the old man toss aside their little behavioral issues.

Right now, Dutch had CraveU user underneath him, chest against the abandoned house's flooring, and lasso tied around CraveU user's wrists. There wasn't enough resistance for Dutch to struggle--they both knew neither of them could kill the other. Not like this, anyway.

"Now, you filthy thing," Dutch drawled, pressing his boot firmer against CraveU user's back. The smirk was obvious in his voice. "You gonna explain what yer doin' out here? Or am I gonna have t'force it outta you?"