Raylan enters the motel room quietly, careful to shut the door soft behind him. He lays his hat down on the table and keeps his keys in his coat pocket so they don’t jangle and knock against the wood. He shrugs off his coat, keeping an eye on the sleeping, feminine form in his bed.
It’s only as he goes over to the sideboard to pour himself two fingers of bourbon that she stirs.
“Baby, where you been?” she mumbles into her pillow, rolling over slowly to peer at him.
“Something came up with work,” he answers softly, tinkling the glass just a bit and taking a long sip.
She groans and flops face up on the bed. “Only a lawman,” she complains in an over dramatic tone, full of sighs, “would leave his best girl home on a Saturday night. I waited forever for you.”
Raylan smiles, takes another sip. He goes to the bed and leans over her, letting the alcohol linger on his lips as he kisses her. He knows she loves to taste it on him. Her hands reach up through his hair and wrap around his neck as he sinks onto the bed next to her. She tastes like sleep and his mouthwash. He’s sorry he had to leave her here.
“Who says you’re my best girl?”
She sits up and leans forward to keep their lips touching as he pulls away. She smiles and tugs on his tie. “I do,” she says, then whispers, “Come here, Man.”
Carol Johnson, he thinks, is the only woman he knows that would persist in calling her on-again, off-again, sometimes lover by the most simplistic name she could think of. Like Cat, Raylan has been relegated to Man ever since they began spending almost all of their non-work hours together.
He lets her pull him up onto his bed and after he settles he kicks off his boots, asking, “How long ago did you give up on me?”
“About an hour, I guess,” she replies, turning to be the little spoon to his big so he can press his face to her shoulder and breathe her in. “I thought we were gonna go to my place, cook something up, get pay per view.”
“Art put me on prisoner transport. Things got a little... complicated. I couldn’t call.”
She sighs again, this time it’s her sleep sigh. She takes his hand and wraps his arm around her waist. She’s warm as the blankets, softer than the bed. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not tonight.” He runs his hand through her hair. He’s always liked redheads. He likes that this one is never mad when he doesn’t want to talk.
She rolls over and looks into his eyes. Hers are very green and look softer than in daylight, he’s continually surprised by this. “You are very lucky I am so low maintenance, Deputy. And that you are the best looking man I have seen in these parts,” she says with a sardonic smile.
He draws his hand down to caress her hip through the fabric of her silk pajamas. He likes the twinkle in her eye. “I suppose I am,” he says.
“Lucky or good looking?”
He just chuckles and kisses her, pulling her closer, but she pulls back with a frown. “You think you’re getting some when you left me by myself in your dingy motel room all night?”
“No, honey,” Raylan huffs. “I’m beat. Can’t we just neck for a while and fall asleep?”
She laughs and twines her legs with his. Even with his jeans still on, he can feel the chill from her toes, the warmth from her calves and thighs. “I do love a man with simple desires.”
Her lips are full and soft and her tongue darts in and out of his mouth expertly. Her eyelashes brush against his cheek, as her toes curl up his pant leg. “Good,” he says.
He falls asleep in his clothes, his forehead brushing her collar bone. He wakes at five thirty because she’s on her way out the door. He remembers she complained some executives were in town for the day, on a Sunday. She winks at him and motions for him to go back to sleep. He rolls over and breathes her scent from the sheets until Art calls and tells him to get up.
He knows she’ll call later or he will when he gets off. Maybe they’ll cook in her room at the Sheraton. Black Pike had sprung for a suite with a kitchenette and he had a powerful craving for fried chicken.
He figures they could figure out how to make it together.
It’s only as he goes over to the sideboard to pour himself two fingers of bourbon that she stirs.
“Baby, where you been?” she mumbles into her pillow, rolling over slowly to peer at him.
“Something came up with work,” he answers softly, tinkling the glass just a bit and taking a long sip.
She groans and flops face up on the bed. “Only a lawman,” she complains in an over dramatic tone, full of sighs, “would leave his best girl home on a Saturday night. I waited forever for you.”
Raylan smiles, takes another sip. He goes to the bed and leans over her, letting the alcohol linger on his lips as he kisses her. He knows she loves to taste it on him. Her hands reach up through his hair and wrap around his neck as he sinks onto the bed next to her. She tastes like sleep and his mouthwash. He’s sorry he had to leave her here.
“Who says you’re my best girl?”
She sits up and leans forward to keep their lips touching as he pulls away. She smiles and tugs on his tie. “I do,” she says, then whispers, “Come here, Man.”
Carol Johnson, he thinks, is the only woman he knows that would persist in calling her on-again, off-again, sometimes lover by the most simplistic name she could think of. Like Cat, Raylan has been relegated to Man ever since they began spending almost all of their non-work hours together.
He lets her pull him up onto his bed and after he settles he kicks off his boots, asking, “How long ago did you give up on me?”
“About an hour, I guess,” she replies, turning to be the little spoon to his big so he can press his face to her shoulder and breathe her in. “I thought we were gonna go to my place, cook something up, get pay per view.”
“Art put me on prisoner transport. Things got a little... complicated. I couldn’t call.”
She sighs again, this time it’s her sleep sigh. She takes his hand and wraps his arm around her waist. She’s warm as the blankets, softer than the bed. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not tonight.” He runs his hand through her hair. He’s always liked redheads. He likes that this one is never mad when he doesn’t want to talk.
She rolls over and looks into his eyes. Hers are very green and look softer than in daylight, he’s continually surprised by this. “You are very lucky I am so low maintenance, Deputy. And that you are the best looking man I have seen in these parts,” she says with a sardonic smile.
He draws his hand down to caress her hip through the fabric of her silk pajamas. He likes the twinkle in her eye. “I suppose I am,” he says.
“Lucky or good looking?”
He just chuckles and kisses her, pulling her closer, but she pulls back with a frown. “You think you’re getting some when you left me by myself in your dingy motel room all night?”
“No, honey,” Raylan huffs. “I’m beat. Can’t we just neck for a while and fall asleep?”
She laughs and twines her legs with his. Even with his jeans still on, he can feel the chill from her toes, the warmth from her calves and thighs. “I do love a man with simple desires.”
Her lips are full and soft and her tongue darts in and out of his mouth expertly. Her eyelashes brush against his cheek, as her toes curl up his pant leg. “Good,” he says.
He falls asleep in his clothes, his forehead brushing her collar bone. He wakes at five thirty because she’s on her way out the door. He remembers she complained some executives were in town for the day, on a Sunday. She winks at him and motions for him to go back to sleep. He rolls over and breathes her scent from the sheets until Art calls and tells him to get up.
He knows she’ll call later or he will when he gets off. Maybe they’ll cook in her room at the Sheraton. Black Pike had sprung for a suite with a kitchenette and he had a powerful craving for fried chicken.
He figures they could figure out how to make it together.
Reply
Reply
OMG, Carol Johnson. There is no world in which I do not love her. <3
Reply
Leave a comment