Chapter 2: The Motel Room Gamble
The Frontier ate up the miles like a starving dog. Interstate 10 stretched ahead, a gray ribbon through the flat brown nothing of West Texas, and Miles kept one hand on the wheel and one hand on Delphine's thigh. She hadn't asked him to move it. She hadn't asked him to stop, either.
They'd been driving for nine hours. The sun had dragged itself across the sky and died somewhere behind them, and now the dashboard glowed green and the headlights carved tunnels through the dark.
"You keep looking at me," Delphine said.
"I keep thinking about last night."
"Which part?"
"The part where you screamed loud enough to wake up every trucker from El Paso to Abilene."
She laughed, low and dirty. "I did not scream."
"You absolutely screamed. It was hot. I almost came again just from the sound."
She shifted in her seat, and he felt her thigh tense under his hand. "Eyes on the road, Callahan."
"Yes, ma'am."
They passed a sign: Van Horn, 47 miles. Miles did the math in his head. Another hour, maybe two, and they'd need to stop. The Frontier's gas gauge was hovering just above empty, and his eyes were starting to blur at the edges.
"I need to pull over soon," he said.
"There's a motel coming up. I saw a billboard."
"A motel?"
"A cheap one. Probably full of bedbugs and regret."
"Sounds perfect."
The motel was called The Starlight, and it looked like it had been built in 1962 and abandoned in 1987 and then reopened by someone who didn't care about things like renovation or building codes. The sign buzzed and flickered, half the letters dead. The parking lot was cracked and weed-choked. A single vending machine hummed near the office door, its glow sickly and green.
Miles parked The Frontier in the far corner and killed the engine. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant drone of cicadas and the electric buzz of the sign.
Delphine stretched. "I'll get the room."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure. You look like you're about to fall over."
She climbed out and walked toward the office, her hips swaying in those borrowed sweatpants. Miles watched her go, then grabbed his journal from the glove box.
Day Three: Texas is endless. Delphine sings Tom Petty songs like she wrote them herself. I think I'm in trouble.
He capped the pen and stared at the words. In trouble. That was one way to put it.
The room was exactly what he expected: peeling pink walls, a carpet that had probably been brown in a previous life, and a bed with a Magic Fingers unit bolted to the frame. The mattress sagged in the middle, and the comforter had a cigarette burn near the pillow.
"Home sweet home," Delphine said.
She dropped her bag on the floor and flopped onto the bed. The springs groaned.
Miles locked the door and looked around. The room smelled like stale smoke and the ghost of cheap air freshener. A TV bolted to the dresser played static. The bathroom door hung slightly ajar, revealing a shower stall with rust stains around the drain.
"Romantic," he said.
"Shut up and come here."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He crossed the room and fell onto the bed beside her. The Magic Fingers unit rattled, and a quarter popped out of the slot, rolling across the nightstand and onto the floor.
"What the hell?" Delphine laughed.
"Complimentary vibration. Very classy."
She rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand. "I'm hungry."
"There's a vending machine."
"I meant for something real."
"There's a diner across the street. Saw it when we pulled in."
"Later." She reached over and opened the nightstand drawer. Inside was a Bible, a phone book from 1998, and a deck of playing cards. She pulled out the cards and held them up. "You play poker?"
"Badly."
"Perfect." She sat up and started shuffling. Her hands moved with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times, the cards whispering against each other. "I have a proposition."
"I'm listening."
"Strip poker. Every hand you lose, you take something off. Every hand you win, you get to ask for something."
"Ask for something?"
"A favor. Anything you want." She dealt two hands and set the deck aside. "You in?"
Miles looked at her—the sharp grin, the challenge in her eyes, the way the dim light caught the curve of her neck. He thought about saying no. He thought about the fact that he barely knew her, that this was reckless, that he was supposed to be finding himself or some shit.
"Deal," he said.
She won the first hand.
Miles pulled off his shirt.
She won the second.
He kicked off his boots and socks.
She won the third.
He hesitated at his jeans, then unbuttoned them slowly, shimmying out of the denim while she watched. Her eyes tracked every inch of skin.
"Your turn," he said.
"I've won every hand. I don't owe you anything."
"That's not how this works. You win, you get a favor. But I haven't won yet, so you haven't had to take anything off."
She tilted her head. "So what's my favor?"
"Come here."
She crawled across the bed, the mattress groaning under her weight. When she was close enough to kiss, he stopped her.
"Kiss my neck," he said.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
She leaned in and pressed her lips to the side of his throat. Soft at first. Then she opened her mouth and dragged her tongue along the tendon, and Miles felt it all the way down to his balls.
"Fuck," he whispered.
She pulled back and smiled. "Another hand?"
They played.
He won the next one.
Her shirt came off. No bra underneath—she hadn't been wearing one since yesterday. The curve of her breasts caught the light, and Miles had to remind himself to breathe.
"My favor," he said.
"Name it."
"Touch yourself."
She raised an eyebrow. "Right now?"
"Right now."
She leaned back against the headboard and slid her hand into the waistband of her sweatpants. Miles watched her fingers move beneath the fabric, watched the way her breath hitched when she found the right spot.
"Faster," he said.
"Bossy."
"Just do it."
She did. Her wrist worked faster, and a low moan escaped her throat. Her eyes fluttered closed, and Miles watched her face—the way her lips parted, the way her brow furrowed—and felt his cock strain against his boxers.
"Stop," he said.
She opened her eyes. "What?"
"I said stop. I want you to win the next one."
She pulled her hand free. Her fingers were slick. "Why?"
"Because I want to see what you'll ask for."
They played the next hand in silence. Delphine won with a pair of queens. She laid the cards down and looked at him.
"Stand up," she said.
He stood.
"Take off your boxers."
He did.
His cock was hard, already leaking, and it bobbed against his stomach when he stepped out of the fabric. Delphine licked her lips.
"Kneel," she said.
He knelt at the edge of the bed, and she swung her legs over the side so she was sitting in front of him. She reached out and wrapped her hand around his shaft, and he hissed through his teeth.
"You're so fucking hard," she said.
"Wonder why."
She stroked him slowly, root to tip, her thumb swiping over the head. Miles's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to grab her, to push her back on the bed and bury himself inside her, but that wasn't the game. The game was losing, and he'd lost.
"Open your mouth," she said.
He did.
She guided him to her lips and took him in. Just the tip at first, her tongue swirling around the head. Then deeper, her mouth hot and wet, her hand still working the base.
"Jesus," he breathed.
She pulled back and looked up at him, lips slick with spit. "You like that?"
"I love it. Don't stop."
She didn't.
She took him deep, deeper than he expected, her throat working around him. Miles moaned and rocked his hips forward, and she took it, her eyes watering, her hands gripping his thighs. The Magic Fingers unit rattled beneath the mattress, and somewhere outside a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the curtains.
"Fuck, Delphine, I'm gonna—"
She pulled off and squeezed him hard at the base, cutting it off.
"Not yet," she said.
"You're evil."
"Another hand."
They played the next hand on the floor. She sat cross-legged, still in her sweatpants, and he knelt across from her, naked and throbbing. The carpet was rough on his knees.
She won again.
"Bend over the dresser," she said.
He stood and walked to the dresser, its laminate surface peeling at the corners. He planted his hands on the edge and looked back over his shoulder.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"You'll see."
She came up behind him and kicked his legs apart. Then she was kneeling, and her tongue was on his asshole, and Miles nearly collapsed.
"Fuck!" he shouted.
She didn't stop. She licked and sucked and probed with her tongue, one hand reaching around to stroke his cock, and Miles had to bite his own wrist to keep from screaming.
"You like that?" she murmured against his skin.
"Yes. God, yes."
She worked him like that until he was shaking, until his legs threatened to give out, and then she stood up and pressed her body against his back.
"You're gonna fuck me now," she said. "But not on the bed."
"Where?"
"The dresser. Right here."
He turned around and lifted her onto the edge of the dresser. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him close, and he slid into her in one slow, deep thrust.
She was so wet. So tight. Miles grabbed her hips and started to move, and the dresser rattled against the wall with every thrust.
"Harder," she said.
He fucked her harder.
"Faster."
He fucked her faster.
The cicadas outside were screaming, the sign buzzed, and the room smelled like sweat and sex and cheap motel soap. Miles buried his face in her neck and pounded into her, and Delphine dug her nails into his back and moaned into his ear.
"I'm gonna come," she said. "Don't stop, please don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
She came with a shudder, her cunt clenching around him, and Miles followed a second later, spilling inside her with a groan that started in his toes and ended in his throat.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Delphine laughed. "The dresser's digging into my ass."
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
He pulled out and helped her down, and they staggered back to the bed. The Magic Fingers unit was still rattling, and Miles fished a quarter out of his jeans and fed it in.
"What are you doing?" Delphine asked.
"You'll see."
The bed started vibrating. A deep, rolling hum that shook the mattress and rattled the headboard.
"Oh my God," she said.
"Right?"
She pulled him on top of her. His cock was still wet, still half-hard, and she reached down and guided him inside her again.
"You're gonna kill me," he said.
"Probably."
They moved together, slow and sloppy, the vibrations carrying them along. It wasn't like the first time. It wasn't like the dresser. It was something else—something lazier, more intimate. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, and he tasted himself on her tongue.
"I've never done this before," she whispered.
"Gambled?"
"Any of it. The running. The motel. You." She arched her back as he hit a deeper angle. "I've never been reckless."
"And now?"
"Now I think I'm winning."
He kissed her again, and they didn't talk after that. They just moved, and the Magic Fingers rumbled, and the neon sign outside blinked red and green against the curtains.
When they finally finished—both of them spent, both of them tangled in the sheets—Miles lay on his back and stared at the ceiling.
"We didn't pay for the Magic Fingers," he said.
"We'll add it to the tab."
Delphine rolled onto her side and rested her head on his chest. Her hair smelled like sweat and oysters, which didn't make sense but did anyway.
"Tom Petty," she said.
"What about him?"
"Free Fallin'. It's about a guy who's running away. But he's not running toward anything. He's just... falling." She traced a circle on his chest. "I used to think that was sad."
"And now?"
"Now I think falling's the point."
Miles didn't answer. He just held her, and the cicadas sang, and the flickering sign cast shadows on the wall like ghosts.
He reached for his journal on the nightstand and wrote one line before he forgot.
Day Three: She's winning. I don't mind losing.