Motel Hell: Day One
What do you do with someone so incredibly stupid? I suppose I should be grateful that he isn’t pissed off at being locked in the bathroom for hours on end, while I made love to Sonny, but somehow I’m not. He deserves no consideration, after all he’s put us through. And for what? I still don’t know! At the same time there’s a small part of me that thinks maybe I should lighten up on him just a little. It’s not like I think he’s having a grand old time himself, right?
I take a deep breath, and against my better judgment I decide not to kick his ass. At least not right now. I gather up the clothes he’s strewn about the small enclosure. “Here!” I thrust them at him, not unkindly. “Get dressed and go to bed.”
He interrupts himself mid-verse—I forget which bottle of beer he’s musically chugging at the moment—and manages to dress himself without too much ado. He stands there as if awaiting further instruction, so I oblige him. “Dale, go to bed.” I shoo him from the room so that I can use the facilities, and I spend a few minutes seated upon the porcelain throne, lost in silent contemplation as I ponder the moments of my life.
Having gained no great insight from staring at the black and white diamond pattern imbedded in the tile floor, and unable to force my weary brain to come up with some really cool plan of action worthy of the great James Bond himself, I opt to return to bed and snuggle up with Sonny until tomorrow rears its ugly head.
My glance falls on the empty shower stall. I’m tempted to take a shower—the thought of hot water cascading over my weary body is quite a delicious idea—but I’m just too tired. Besides, if I wait, I’m pretty sure that I can get Sonny to join me. That idea brings a slight smile to my face. One which dissipates as soon as I exit the bathroom for the bedroom to find that Dale has managed to completely twist what I told him to do, and has climbed into bed with my Sonny. So much for playing Mr. Nice Guy.
Sonny’s dead to the world, I can tell from the way his head is thrown back, mouth slightly open and issuing snuffling noises. Good. He doesn’t need to see this. I grab Dale by the scruff of his neck and haul him backwards off of the bed and onto the floor.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Sonny needs me,” Dale whimpers, as I notice with disgust that he’s managed to disrobe again, the bastard, “he needs me most, ‘cause I’m the best thing there for him. He and I are a perfect fit.”
“You know what?” I mutter softly, so as not to wake Sonny, “your ego is outrageous.” I pick him by up the scruff of his neck and haul him back to the bathroom. “Sleep there.” I grab a towel and wipe my hands as I leave the bathroom, shoving the chair back into place. Then I rejoin Sonny and fall into a deeply satisfying sleep, wrapped about my boy.
I’m awakened by the sound of voices, which perplexes me. I can feel Sonny’s warm body, pressed up against mine—he’s still sound asleep and lightly snoring. Dale’s still the Prisoner of the Loo and has no one to be talking to. Besides these voices aren’t coming from that direction. And they’re too deep and testosterone laden to be Dale’s, anyway.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?”
“You said, and I quote, ‘we called her the friendly librarian’. What do you mean?”
I open one eye, then the other, squinting in the general direction of the rest of the room, which is pretty small. When’d that table and chairs get there? I never heard anyone knock, much less come in. It’s Agents X and Xtcy or whatever they’re calling themselves to get by in their little undercover world. Sitting at a folding card table, playing cards.
“That means that she was easy to check out, and anybody could take her home. Do you have any fours?”
“No, go fish.”
An annoyed growl as a hairy hand dives into the pile of cards splayed out over the table.
Jeez, do I have to deal with so many simpletons so early in the day?
The door handle clicks. Both men instantly tense, hands going to their guns. Or at least I’m guessing that’s where they’re going. I’m pulling the blanket up higher around me and my naked boyfriend, wondering when this became the meeting place of Morons Anonymous. In waltzes Agent Nelson and they visibly relax.
“Stow that stuff!” he snaps, and the cards disappear back into their deck faster than I can think Houdini. Nelson carries a couple of brown paper sacks which look spotted with grease. I reach for my shorts and yank them on so I can get out of bed without revealing the family jewels, search for Sonny’s and kiss him gently awake. He smiles at me. We kiss again, and I hand him his boxers, shielding him from view so he can slide them on.
In the meantime, a number of wax-paper-wrapped bundles have taken the place of the cards, as well as six cartons of milk. The kind you used to buy in the cafeteria when you were in elementary school. With six straws.
“Where’s Camel?” Nelson asks. The card sharks shrug.
A pounding on the bathroom door answers that question. Nelson glances at me, then crosses over, releases the chair, and opens the door. Dale tumbles out, falling into Nelson’s arms—wailing, to my disgust. I wait for Agent Nelson to reprimand him in some way, but he surprises me.
He locks his lips on Dale’s and kisses him. Is this some new FBI interrogation technique I’m unaware of?
to be continued
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