7. Clay #2
She smiles, but I can feel the answer landed a little sideways. It’s not the smooth line she was reaching for.
Brandon, damn him, notices immediately.
He throws an arm around my shoulders from behind and says loud enough for everybody nearby to hear, “Would you look at that? Our boy’s gone philosophical.”
I elbow him off. “Get off me.”
The woman laughs, but I’m already half distracted, and the worst part is I know by what.
My phone in my pocket.
That shouldn’t be enough to throw me. A phone’s a phone. A woman I’ve spent one night with and traded a handful of texts with shouldn't be enough to make all this feel slightly dulled around the edges.
But the thought of Josie slips in anyway.
The way she writes, trying to stay in control even while the words turn warm.
The way she acts as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to me.
“You alright?” the redhead asks.
“Yeah,” I say, too late.
Brandon lets out a sharp laugh. “He’s not.”
I turn to glare at him. “I’m standing right here.”
“And doing a terrible job pretending you’re interested in this conversation.”
The woman lifts her brows, amused more than offended. “Wow. Harsh.”
“True,” Brandon says.
I scrub a hand over my mouth, already irritated. “I’m fine.”
“Uh huh,” he says. “What’s her name?”
I stare at him. “What?”
“There’s a her.” He points at me as if he’s solved some grand mystery. “No way you’re turning weird in a bar without there being a her involved.”
I snort. “I’m not turning weird.”
One of the other guys, Mason, leans in with a grin. “You kind of are.”
“Shut up.”
The redhead gives me one last look, clearly deciding I’m more trouble than entertainment at this point, and slips away toward a group of girls near the dance floor.
I watch her go mostly out of habit, but there’s no pull there.
Brandon catches it and grins wider. “Damn. It’s serious.”
“It’s nothing.”
“That’s worse. You look like a man distracted by nothing.”
I drain the rest of my whiskey. “Y’all got hit in the head too many times.”
“Maybe,” Mason says. “Still doesn’t explain why you’re standing here like you’d rather be somewhere else.”
I open my mouth to tell him I wouldn’t, but the words don’t come as quick as they should.
Because the truth is I don’t want somewhere else exactly.
I want quieter, my phone, that strange sharp satisfaction of watching a message from Josie appear on the screen and knowing I got under her skin enough for her to answer.
That's new… and a little embarrassing.
“Jeez,” Brandon says, reading my face too easily. “He really does have a girl.”
“I don't have a girl.”
He grins. “Then text your no girl and get it over with so you can stop acting like somebody’s grounded you.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself. “You’re an asshole.”
“Maybe. But am I wrong?”
I hesitate.
The grin he gives me when he catches it is immediate and merciless. “Oh, wow.”
“Relax,” I mutter. “It’s just texting.”
“Just texting,” Mason repeats with mock solemnity. “Our boy is down bad.”
I shove him lightly, enough to make him stumble. “Say that again, and I’ll put you through a wall.”
He only laughs harder.
The night keeps rolling around us. Music gets louder. More drinks appear. A brunette tries her luck with me, and I manage a smile, maybe even a passable conversation, but my heart isn’t in it, and that’s obvious enough that she peels off after a few minutes too.
I can feel the guys watching me with the kind of delight men reserve for seeing their friend brought low by something as ordinary as a woman.
Traitors.
By midnight I’ve had enough of being entertainment.
“I’m out,” I say, dropping cash on the bar.
Brandon looks offended. “Already?”
“You say that every time, and every time I’m right to leave.”
He tilts his head. “You going back to the motel to text?”
I hold his stare for a beat, then grin. “Maybe.”
The noise he makes is somewhere between triumph and disgust.
“Hopeless,” Mason says.
“Jealous,” I shoot back.
That earns me a chorus of insults and laughter as I head for the door.
Outside, it’s cooler and carries that late-night stillness towns get after they’ve wrung out most of their noise.
Gravel crunches under my boots as I make my way back to the motel.
My body’s starting to stiffen now, bruises and strain settling in for the night, but under all of that there’s still a restless hum in me.
The ride did that.
So did the win.
So does she.
My room is dim and stale when I step inside. Same ugly bedspread. Same rattling AC unit. Same nothing little room that could be anywhere in the country. I kick the door shut behind me, toss my hat onto the table, and sit down on the edge of the bed long enough to pull my boots off.
Then I grab my phone.
I don’t overthink it. If I do, I might stop.
Clay: You awake?
The three dots appear so fast I laugh.
Josie: Unfortunately for me, yes.
That grin comes easy.
Clay: Funny. I was just thinking unfortunately for you too.
Josie: Oh no. Why?
Clay: Because now you have to deal with me.
A pause.
Josie: That seems dramatic. I could simply stop replying.
Clay: You could. You won’t.
The dots blink, disappear, then come back.
Josie: Your confidence remains one of your more irritating qualities.
I stretch out against the headboard, one leg bent, phone in hand.
Clay: More irritating than charming?
Josie: Significantly.
Clay: Still talking to me though.
Josie: A lapse in judgment. It happens.
I laugh under my breath. I can almost hear her saying it, dry as hell, pretending she isn’t smiling while she types.
Clay: Long day?
Josie: Very.
Clay: You should let me distract you.
Josie: That sounds like exactly the kind of idea that turns a long day into a worse one.
Clay: Didn’t last time.
That one takes longer.
Long enough to make me grin wider.
Josie: You’re impossible.
Clay: You didn’t answer.
Josie: I know.
I shake my head, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
Clay: I rode tonight.
Josie: And?
Clay: And I won.
Josie: Is this where I’m supposed to act impressed?
Clay: You were supposed to do that automatically.
Josie: I’m acknowledging your achievement in a measured and emotionally healthy way.
Clay: Sounds hot.
Josie: That wasn't the intended effect.
Clay: Shame.
A beat passes before another message comes through.
Josie: Was it a bad ride?
I glance down at the bruising already coming up along my forearm, then flex my sore hand.
Clay: Mean one. Nearly had me for a second.
Josie: But didn’t.
Clay: No.
Josie: Good.
That single word settles low in my chest in a way I don’t entirely care to examine.
Clay: You worried about me, sweetheart?
Josie: Don’t push it.
Clay: That’s not a no.
Josie: It’s close enough.
I can feel the shape of her through the screen somehow. Tight bun probably half fallen by now. Curled up somewhere in that little cottage of hers. Looking annoyed while still answering every message.
Clay: What are you doing?
Josie: Sitting in bed with a book I’m no longer reading because someone keeps texting me.
Clay: Sounds like I’m improving your evening.
Josie: Your self-esteem is astonishing.
Clay: You should see me in person.
Josie: I have. That’s part of the problem.
I laugh hard enough that I feel it in my sore ribs.
Clay: Talk dirty to me, Josie.
There’s a long pause after that one. So long I wonder if I finally pushed too far.
Then…
Josie: Please put your laundry away.
I bark out a laugh and drop my head back against the wall.
Clay: Damn.
Josie: Too much?
Clay: I don’t know if I’ll recover.
Josie: Good. Learn something from this.
Clay: Alright, my turn.
Josie: Absolutely not.
Clay: Coward.
Josie: I’m a professional.
Clay: You say that like I haven’t had you moaning my name against your own front door.
The typing bubble appears, vanishes, appears again.
Josie: You're insufferable.
Clay: There it is.
Josie: There what is?
Clay: The part where you don’t deny it.
Another pause.
Josie: You’re in a remarkably smug mood for someone alone in a motel room.
Clay: Who says I’m alone?
I wait three seconds.
Josie: You’re alone.
Clay: Yeah.
Josie: I knew it.
Clay: You sound pleased with yourself.
Josie: I usually am.
That one feels true enough that I grin into the screen.
Clay: What are you wearing?
Josie: A full suit of armor.
Clay: Liar.
Josie: Flannel shorts and a tank top.
My mouth goes dry a little at how fast that image lands.
Clay: You say that like you’re trying to be nice to me.
Josie: I’m not. I’m trying to remind you how far away you are.
I shift against the pillows.
Clay: That’s just mean.
Josie: You started this.
Clay: Keep going.
The dots blink.
Josie: Why?
Clay: Because I asked nicely.
Josie: That’s debatable.
Clay: You in bed?
Josie: Yes.
Clay: Hair down?
Josie: Maybe.
Clay: Thinking about me?
A pause.
Long enough to feel planned.
Josie: I was trying not to.
That does it more than if she’d said yes right away.
I drag a hand down over my mouth, staring at the screen.
Clay: Trying how hard?
Josie: Hard enough to be annoyed that I’m failing.
Clay: Good girl.
Her answer takes a while.
Josie: You cannot just type things like that.
I grin.
Clay: Looks like I just did.
Josie: You’re lucky texting can’t kill.
Clay: You’d miss me.
Josie: That remains unproven.
Clay: Then prove me wrong.
Josie: How?
Clay: Stop answering.
Nothing.
Five seconds. Ten.
Then…
Josie: That was manipulative.
I laugh softly.
Clay: And yet…
Josie: And yet.
There’s heat in my blood now, sharpened by the ride and the whiskey and the fact that she keeps coming back. I swing my legs fully onto the bed and settle deeper against the headboard.
Clay: Tell me what you’d do if I was there.
The pause that follows is different.
Josie: Depends what version of you showed up.
Clay: There’s more than one?
Josie: Yes. There’s smug bar version. There’s annoyingly observant version. There’s the one who thinks he’s funnier than he is.
Clay: I am funny.
Josie: Focus, Clay.
I smile.
Clay: Alright. Pick a version.
Josie: The one from my cottage.
The room seems to go quieter around me.
Clay: Yeah?
Josie: Yes.