Page 46 of Josephine and Clay

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.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Josephine