7. Clay #3
Clay: Then what?
Her typing starts and stops twice before the message finally comes through.
Josie: I’d probably tell you to stop looking so pleased with yourself.
Clay: I’d ignore that.
Josie: I know.
Clay: Then?
Another pause.
Josie: Then I’d kiss you just to make you shut up.
My grip tightens on the phone.
Clay: You’d have to do better than that.
Josie: That sounds like a challenge.
Clay: Maybe it is.
A full minute passes this time. Long enough that I sit up a little more. Long enough that I can picture her chewing the inside of her cheek, deciding whether to stay careful or not.
Then my phone lights.
Josie: Then I’d climb into your lap and see if that finally did it.
I let out a rough breath and smile into the dark.
There she is.
Clay: Better.
Josie: Don’t sound so satisfied.
Clay: Too late.
Josie: You’re a menace.
Clay: And you’re in my lap. What happens next?
Her answer comes quicker now.
Josie: You tell me.
Clay: I’d put my hands on your hips.
Josie: Obviously.
Clay: You saying you remember my hands?
Josie: I remember enough to know you talk too much.
I laugh softly.
Clay: And yet your legs are still around me.
Josie: For now.
Clay: You’d be kissing me already.
Josie: Maybe.
Clay: My mouth on your neck.
Josie: Clay
Just my name. No punctuation. That makes my freaking heart skip a beat,
Clay: Tell me to stop.
A pause.
Josie: I’m trying to be reasonable.
Clay: Don’t. I’m in no mood for it.
Josie: That much is obvious.
Clay: What do you want, Josie?
There’s a long silence after that, and when she answers, the joke has gone out of it a little.
Josie: You know.
Yeah, I do.
My thumb moves before I can second-guess it.
Clay: Say it anyway.
The response takes so long I wonder if she’s gone. Wonder if I’ve asked for more than she wants to give in writing tonight, where the words sit there after the heat wears off.
Then it comes.
Josie: I want your mouth on me. Your hands. I want you to stop making me type things I’d never say out loud.
I close my eyes and let that land.
Clay: Too late. I’m gonna make you say those too.
Josie: You’re arrogant.
Clay: You like that I know exactly what you mean.
Josie: Right now I might hate it.
Clay: No, sweetheart. Right now you’re in bed thinking about me touching you.
Her answer is immediate.
Josie: Yes.
That one word nearly wrecks me.
I sit there staring at it, breathing a little heavier than I should be for a man alone in a motel room with nothing but his phone and his own bad habits for company.
Clay: You touching yourself?
There’s a pause that’s an answer all on its own.
Josie: Maybe.
Clay: Maybe’s not good enough.
Josie: You’re very bossy when you’re states away.
Clay: And?
Josie: And it’s irritating that it still works.
I grin.
Clay: Good.
Josie: I hate you a little.
Clay: No, you don’t.
Josie: Fine. I hate how much I don’t.
I laugh under my breath, then type back with my pulse kicking hard now.
Clay: Tell me when you come.
Three dots. Gone. Back.
Josie: You first.
I shake my head, smiling idiotically in an empty room.
Clay: Brat.
Josie: Reckless cowboy.
Clay: We can keep this up all night.
Josie: We really can’t. I have work in the morning.
Clay: Spoilsport.
Josie: Alive and employed, actually.
Clay: Send me one thing before you go.
Josie: Dangerous phrasing.
Clay: You know what I mean.
A pause.
Then an image comes through.
Nothing scandalous. Of course not. It’s Josie.
Just her knees tucked under a blanket, the edge of a book fallen open beside her, a glimpse of bare thigh and soft fabric and one hand resting there. She knows full well it’s more than enough.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Clay: That’s cruel.
Josie: Goodnight, Clay.
Clay: That’s it?
Josie: Yes.
Clay: Sweetheart…
Josie: Goodnight.
Another beat.
Josie: And congratulations on your win.
That last part settles warm in my chest in a way whiskey can’t quite manage.
I look at the picture once more, then type back.
Clay: Night, Josie.
A minute later, when I set the phone down, the room is still the same cheap motel room it was before. Same peeling paint. Same stale air. Same nothing little place in another nothing little town waiting for morning.
But I’m grinning anyway.
Which is probably a problem.
I stretch out on the bed and fold an arm behind my head, staring up at the ceiling while the last of the adrenaline and heat and laughter work their way slowly through me.
Usually after a win, I’d still be out somewhere. Drinking too much, taking somebody home, and definitely chasing the feeling a little longer before it faded.
Instead I’m here, alone, replaying the shape of her words in my head and feeling more satisfied than I should.
That’s new.
I’m not sure whether to be amused by it or worried.
Probably both.
My hand throbs where the rope burned through the glove. My shoulder aches. My whole body feels used in that good hard way that comes after a ride worth surviving.
And under all of it, quieter but stubborn, is the thought of Josie in bed with her hair down and that sharp mouth finally saying yes when it counts.