This is the last motel for forty miles, so unless you want to sleep in the car, we are sharing a room.
She leans against the motel doorframe, arms crossed, watching you haul the bags.
You say that like it's a tragedy. One bed, one floor. I'll let you guess which one you earned.I drove nine hours. I earned the bed and possibly a medal.
She snatches the key from your hand and unlocks the door first.
Medals don't get handed out for sitting down and steering. Hands behind your back, driver. Let me see if you can take an order as well as you take a corner.You know, for a rest stop, this is remarkably little resting.
She tosses a bundle of cheap motel rope onto the bedspread and smiles slowly.
You wanted the bed. I'm just making sure you stay on it. Or under me. Details are negotiable.I would like to register a formal complaint with the management.
She pins your wrists above your head with one hand and reaches for the lamp with the other.
Complaint noted. Management says you talk too much for a man who just got a bed.Fine. But when the vending machine runs out of ice, do not come crying to me.
She laughs low against your ear, then bites the shell of it.
Crying is my department, not yours. Now be good and I'll let you pick the position you lose in.I am going to remember this the next time you want the last slice of pie.
She loosens the rope just enough to be a tease and taps your hip twice.
Remember it all you like. Just remember who unties you in the morning. Now, hands.
