Firewatch Ch 9

No news is bad news. Flores truly doesn’t know what to make of the lack of response from the Sheriff’s Department. Small departments are busy and occasionally uncooperative, but being ghosted this way is a career first. Her bag from the gas station crinkles as she makes the walk back to the motel. She usually likes the smell of fresh rain, but it seems different tonight.

Light pollution is minimal; she can see a few stars, and the mountains look black. Flores is uneasy, but she can still appreciate the quiet. She crosses the street to the motel, where the rental car is back in the lot. A covered walkway between the two rows of rooms houses the ice dispenser and a vending machine. The light is out, and someone stands in the shadows.

Flores pauses as the figure looks left, then right. “Wilde?” The face, in the dark, turns toward her. Flores’s hand moves on its own to bring out her flashlight; it’s a reflex. She illuminates a woman wearing a curiously slack-jawed expression. Her pantsuit is rumpled. “Ma’am? Are you all right?” Flores approaches. “Are you lost?” Most people would shield their eyes from the powerful LED beam, but this woman stares it down vacantly.

“Why would I be lost?” she asks.

Flores lowers the light. This woman isn’t as tall as Wilde, but she’s close. “Do you know where you are?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No. Do you know where you are?” The woman puts no particular emphasis on the word “you”.

Flores cocks her head. “I’m in Barney, Oregon. My name is Valeria Flores. It is…” She checks her watch. “Eleven…” she trails off. “It’s later than I thought. What’s your name?”

“I have to go.” The woman turns and starts down the walkway. Flores hesitates.

“You sure you’re OK?” she calls after her, reluctant to raise her voice too much; people may be trying to sleep.

There’s no reply. Flores puts her light away and goes to her room. There’s a glow in Wilde’s window, just a line between the curtains. Lamplight. Flores pauses as soon as her door is shut, then turns her lock and puts the chain on. It wasn’t just that woman’s behavior; something was off about her that Flores has trouble wrapping her head around. Something about her clothes.

Her eyes fall on the chair at the cheap room’s flimsy desk. She starts toward it, intending to wedge it under the door, but a muffled sound stops her in her tracks. She raises an eyebrow, then turns to look at the wall that she shares with Wilde.

F-Files

“No, you be on top,” the bartender says with a giggle, giving Wilde’s bare bottom a playful slap. Naked in bed, the contrast between their bodies is perhaps too apparent. Wilde is all skinny angles, and the bartender is curves and soft flesh. Her name is Alison, and she’s very friendly.

Wilde opens her mouth to reply, but stops and smiles when she hears the TV come on, a bit loud, in Flores’s room. “I told you to keep it down,” she whispers hoarsely.

“Bossy. Maybe you really are an FBI agent.”

“Me? No.” Wilde obediently gets on top in a 69, her cock dangling over Alison’s mouth.

“Come on.” Alison opens wide, and Wilde obligingly feeds it to her before burying her face between the redhead’s legs. She’s bushy and fragrant after a full day of work. That only makes Wilde harder.