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Caitlyn pours a smidge of cream into her coffee, enough to turn it opaque and hide the permanently stained mug from sight. She takes a small sip and sighs for what must be the hundredth time since she sat down in this diner. It’s the same as any other roadside diner you’d find around the state — that uncanny mix of homey and anonymous that makes her skin crawl. She sets the coffee down on the laminate counter next to her badge. She hadn’t earned that badge today. It doesn’t feel right to wear it.
The governor’s been screaming about bootleggers the last few weeks. He got embarrassed by a Yankee reporter who wrote an article about how those Southern boys don’t know what’s going on under their own nose. It was a sensation in Northern cities where the only thing they have to keep them warm through the winter is a sense of moral superiority. Every state and county agency has been on high alert since then, hoping to set the record straight that this is a land of laws and those laws will be respected.
Anyway, Caitlyn made a goddamn mess of it.
She isn’t supposed to cross county line. She isn’t supposed to give chase without calling in backup. She isn’t supposed to be so cocksure of herself that she blows the best tail on a whiskey runner they’ve had all month.
Arrogance. Caitlyn’s problems all come down to arrogance. It’s not like she wants to play hero and get paraded in front of cameras for the local papers. She only wanted to prove she could do what no one else could and catch the Hound. She couldn’t. Obviously.
She flips her badge over, so the shiny metal that calls her sheriff kisses the laminate and doesn’t stare at her anymore. The waitress, an older woman with exactly zero interest in Caitlyn besides providing the bare minimum of service, drops a warm plate off and walks away before it’s had a chance to finish wobbling. Grilled cheese seemed like a good idea earlier. Comforting, even. Now it makes her feel like a child.
The door jangles open behind her which means Caitlyn’s no longer the sole customer, though she doesn’t intend for that to interfere with her brooding. If this diner has anything resembling a suppertime rush, Caitlyn walked in well afterward. The sound of a coin and the clack of buttons comes from the jukebox before the soft notes of a country heartbreak ballad fill the diner. It’s overly sentimental and she’d rather have the quiet back.
The customer walks over and chooses, of all places in this empty diner, to sit next to Caitlyn at the counter. Accustomed to ignoring the things that frustrate her, Caitlyn doesn’t dignify the stranger with a glance or nod. No need to be neighborly around these parts.
Caitlyn stares at the grilled cheese sandwich she can’t bring herself to eat. The waitress comes around the corner from the kitchen and she squeals when she sees the stranger. Caitlyn’s stomach sinks.
“Violet!” the waitress exclaims, pleased as punch.
“Hi, Babs,” the not-so-stranger says. “How’re the grandkids?”
“Holy terrors,” the waitress answers with a chuckle. “You want the usual?”
“Yes, ma’am and a vanilla milkshake, please.”
The waitress scribbles in her notebook and tears out the ticket to pass to the kitchen. She pours out a cup of coffee, drops off the cream and sugar, then disappears around the corner again. The not-so-stranger clinks her spoon around her mug, slowly stirring in a sugar cube.
“You’re a long way from home, sheriff.”
Caitlyn doesn’t take her eyes off her damn sandwich.
“You know,” the not-so-stranger probes again, “next diner down the highway’s got girls in pantyhose and miniskirts. Surprised you didn’t see the billboards.”
“I saw the billboards,” Caitlyn says finally looking over to see someone she’d recognize even if she hadn’t been staring at the back of her head just hours ago, chasing her and that Dodge Coronet across more jurisdictions than Caitlyn cares to count. “I don’t need the rumors. People already think it’s queer enough that I’m a lady sheriff.” Caitlyn looks over her neighbor’s outfit: cuffed Levis, a white undershirt, and a black denim work jacket embroidered on the back with a dog that’s supposed to look intimidating but actually looks sweet. All bark, no bite. “I’ve always thought ‘the Hound’ is a silly name.”
The Hound laughs. “I think it’s cool,” she says and grins. She’s got a fresh cut on her upper lip and Caitlyn tries to recall when in their chase she might have gotten it. That hairpin turn around Mill Creek, maybe? The Coronet had almost fishtailed into the ravine when an old Ford pickup came trundling around the corner.
“Did your sister help you with the engine?” Caitlyn asks.
“Now sheriff, I’m not going to say anything incriminating,” the Hound teases. She watches Caitlyn for a moment before softening. “I will say that she’s very fond of the 436 Hemi and what the boys up in Detroit are cooking.”
Caitlyn scowls. “I’ve got an angry word or two for the Chrysler Corporation.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Caitlyn locks eyes with the Hound and, stars above, her gray eyes have no right to be that striking and no right to make Caitlyn want to cry the way they do. She really thought she’d be able to catch the Hound, foolish girl that she is.
The waitress drops off the Hound’s milkshake — half in a pretty soda glass with whipped cream and a cherry on top and the other half in an unceremonious steel mixing cup. The Hound slides the steel cup over to Caitlyn and pulls the untouched grilled cheese her way. She picks up a triangle of sandwich and dips it into the top of her milkshake, smothering it in sweetness, and quickly leans in to bite the corner off the sandwich before it can drip all over the counter. She makes a delighted hum and Caitlyn hates it all the more because she can tell it’s not an act to disturb her. The Hound genuinely likes it.
“You ever wonder if your mama dropped you on your head as a baby?” Caitlyn asks as the Hound dips the sandwich again. The Hound laughs and taps the steel cup with her free hand. Caitlyn sighs and takes a sip through its cold metal straw. Damn if it doesn’t hit the spot.
“She musta’,” the Hound answers after finishing another grotesque bite. “I think it’s for the best. Wouldn’t be fair to have someone this handsome also be smart.”
“Then explain me,” Caitlyn replies with more bravado than she feels.
“You definitely ain’t fair, sheriff.”
Caitlyn swallows any retort when the waitress arrives to drop a hamburger off in front of the Hound. If the waitress sees anything objectionable about the food crimes being committed, she keeps her mouth shut. Country folk don’t pry and don’t snitch. The Hound grabs the french fries from beside the burger and piles them next to the remaining half of the grilled cheese. She pushes the burger to Caitlyn with an encouraging nod.
Caitlyn’s a touch resentful that she’s more excited to eat the burger than she’d been about the sandwich, but she quickly makes her peace and tucks in because she needs to distract herself from the evils the Hound is perpetrating. The woman has put the french fries inside the grilled cheese and is dunking the unholy thing in her shake.
This is the woman that outran her, the woman that risked both their lives to deliver a few hundred gallons of moonshine. The bane of Caitlyn’s career has her cheek puffed out like a squirrel and is sucking a drip of ice cream off her wrist. Caitlyn feels a number of emotions at the sight, the most prominent of which is shame.
Caitlyn eats the burger, drinks the milkshake, and laments the decisions she’s made in her life.
The Hound finishes quickly and wipes her hands on her napkin. She pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of her shirt pocket and holds it out in offer. Caitlyn waves it off. The Hound shrugs and lights herself one. She glances around them and reaches over Caitlyn to grab an ashtray on the other side of her. Caitlyn has to lean back on her stool to clear the way and the Hound still manages to bump her with her elbow.
The Hound takes a drag of her cigarette and spins on her stool to face Caitlyn. She purses her lips, watches Caitlyn for a minute, and asks, “Did you go easy on me?”
Caitlyn swallows a bite before answering, “No.”
“What would you have done if you caught me?”
Caitlyn sets the last third of the burger down and grabs the Hound’s napkin to wipe her hands.
“What would you have done?” the Hound repeats, impatient.
“Filled out a lot of paperwork and gotten a commendation.”
The Hound takes an angry drag of her cigarette and blows the smoke out of her nose. “You’d really have taken me in?” she asks with a disbelieving pinch of her face. “For the governor's ego and the sin tax?”
She would have, wouldn’t she? She’d have taken the Coronet, filled to the brim with illegal whiskey, as evidence and driven the Hound right back over the county line. She’d have her deputy call the governor’s office (because she can’t stand the man) and deliver his vindication. She would have, right? She’d have watched them parade the Hound around in handcuffs on the evening news, listened to them spin some tale of the degeneracy in Zaun County, spent dime after dime to read about the trial and the sentencing in the papers. Would she have?
Both answers frighten her.
Caitlyn grits her teeth. She runs her fingers over the leather on the back of her badge. She taps it once, twice, three times. “I’m not cut out for this,” she says quietly.
The Hound’s cigarette has burned down to the butt in the time Caitlyn’s been ruminating. She stubs it out in the ashtray and whispers, “You’re cut out for whatever you set your mind to.” The Hound places her hand on the inside of Caitlyn’s thigh, near enough to be a consoling pat of the knee if you don’t look too closely. She squeezes Caitlyn’s leg through the gray fabric of her uniform. “I think you don’t want to do it.”
Caitlyn feels heat traveling up her thigh and there’s exactly one thing she wants to do.
“I assume you’ve got a lot of empty space in the back of your car?” Caitlyn asks.
The Hound grins, eyes wide. “I’m parked out back.”
Caitlyn stands, grabs her badge off the counter and her hat off the next stool over. She reaches toward her pocket for her wallet. The Hound stills her with an outstretched hand.
“My treat. I came into a little cash recently.”
The Hound pulls the cigarette box from her shirt and fishes a ten dollar bill out of it along with her next cigarette. She lets it flutter to the table as she lights up. It’s a wild overpay, outrageous even, but Caitlyn assumes the folks here feed the Hound even when she doesn’t have a cent to her name. The Hound blows smoke out of the side of her mouth before smiling, lopsided and roguish. Caitlyn would want to slap that smug grin off her face if she didn't want to kiss it off so much more.
The Hound follows Caitlyn toward the front of the diner, but when she makes a turn to the exit, Caitlyn brushes her hand and heads to the restroom instead.
The Hound lets the restroom door close behind her and looks around. “In here? My car’s more private.”
Caitlyn points at the sink. “Wash up. Your hands are disgusting.”
The Hound laughs, stubbing her cigarette out on the metal sanitary napkin dispenser. “Christ, sheriff,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye. “I almost forgot how uptight you are.” She turns the faucet on and begins scrubbing. With a sly look over her shoulder she adds, “Almost forgot how much I like it.”
Caitlyn lets herself enjoy the burn in her cheeks. She watches the Hound run her hands under the hot water, rubbing the soap to foam and then to nothing. She dries her hand on her Levis before Caitlyn hip checks the Hound out of the way and washes her own hands. When she’s finished, she turns to see the Hound staring at her, amusement giving way to desire with her gaze stuck to Caitlyn’s lips.
“Not in here.” Caitlyn says, “Once we start, I don’t intend to stop. Take me to your car.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the Hound replies. She pushes through the restroom door and almost races out the diner. It’s the second time Caitlyn’s given chase to her today.
Halfway around the diner, the Hound spins and walks backwards for a few steps to check on Caitlyn. She passes under a utility light above the employee entrance and for a second she looks exactly like she did before she took that silly nickname. Caitlyn feels as if her knees buckle and she’s fallen face first in the dirt, but her body keeps marching after the Hound; the world collapsing under her is only in her imagination.
The Hound reaches her four-door Dodge Coronet 440 where it’s parked, lonely and quiet, in a small grass clearing. The car’s a pretty light blue where the mud streaks and bug guts from today’s chase don’t cover. She unlocks the car and Caitlyn ignores the inkling of suspicion that triggers because, yes, country folk don’t lock their cars, but Caitlyn already knows the Hound’s a criminal. There just isn’t any evidence outside the circumstantial to prove it.
The Hound opens the back door to reveal a bench seat in two-tone blue leather. It looks stock, but that’s the point.
“Would you mind not peeking, sheriff? This here’s a trade secret and Pow would kill me if it got out.”
Caitlyn nods and sets her ass against the side of the car by the trunk, so she can stare out into the woods behind the clearing. She takes off her hat and runs her fingers over the felt brim while the Hound makes curious noises inside the car — clunks and clinks and whumps that Caitlyn does her best not to decipher.
When the Hound climbs out of the back, Caitlyn can’t help but glance inside. The seat has been flattened and lies in two pieces on the bottom of the car like a bed. The back of the cabin opens into the trunk and, if you wanted to, you could fit a lot of gallons of something inside. Caitlyn throws her hat in like a Frisbee and watches it land in a corner, dwarfed by the space.
“How many gallons you fit?” Caitlyn asks, leaning back against the car.
The Hound sidles in front of her and chides, “Nosy,” with more humor than reproach. She moves to set her hands on Caitlyn’s waist, but Caitlyn grabs her wrists and pulls them in front of her, palms up, like she would if Caitlyn were handcuffing her.
“So, this is all I had to do to catch the Hound?”
Caitlyn meant it as a joke, but the Hound’s face falls. “You don’t need—” she says and furrows her brow. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Then don’t call me sheriff, Violet.”
The moment feels tense. Caitlyn slowly releases Vi’s wrists.
“Alright, Cait,” Vi whispers.
Caitlyn tips forward to meet Vi’s lips and Vi is eager. Vi is eager like she was when they were fumbling teenagers, sneaking out and kissing behind her daddy’s barn. Vi is eager like she was when Caitlyn would come home from college between semesters. Vi is eager like she was when they’d drive out to the bluffs to park and spin tales about their future together.
Caitlyn wants to take all of those eager Vis, including this new one, and package them up to keep with her on the days where it seems like nothing in her life has ever gone the way she’d hoped it would.
Vi presses against Caitlyn, hip to hip and chest to chest, her arms sliding behind the curve of Caitlyn’s back to pull closer, even as she pushes them against the side of the Coronet. Kissing Vi is like walking a familiar path home. They learned together, practiced together, made perfect together. Vi knows to tilt her head and drag her tongue against Caitlyn’s barely parted lips. Caitlyn knows the exact pressure to use to bite down on Vi’s lower lip.
And maybe there’s a world where knowing each other would be boring or uninspired. Men certainly make a big show of the tedium of their wives — the old ball and chain. But goddamn, there’s just no way that those men who curse having to walk the line inhabit the same planet as Caitlyn and Vi, because it’s in the knowing that you can start to create. You can’t write a novel without knowing your letters, can’t build a bridge without knowing your equations.
It’s the knowing that sees Caitlyn grasp both sides of Vi’s face, tilt her forehead forward so their lips are just brushing each other, pant out, “God, Vi. I miss you.”
Vi shudders her breath. “Fuck, Cait,” she says and kisses her lips, “take me,” kisses her jaw, “have me,” kisses under her ear, “I miss you so bad.”
Caitlyn’s hands shoot to the lapels of the work shirt that proclaims Vi as the Hound. She pulls it off, Vi rolling her shoulders back to shuck it easier. Caitlyn throws the shirt behind her into the open back door of the car. She rips Vi’s white undershirt out of her Levis, snaking her hands under it and running them over the warm skin of Vi’s back. Vi works at unbuttoning Caitlyn’s uniform shirt between quick kisses.
Vi fumbles a button and huffs. “It’s one thing to work for the Man, but why’d they gotta put so many buttons on the uniform?”
“It’s a normal amount of buttons.”
Vi’s eyes dart up from the shirt to connect with Caitlyn’s. A grin spreads on her face when she sees Caitlyn smiling. Vi snorts and Caitlyn giggles and they both start laughing. If someone would have told Caitlyn this morning that she’d end up feeling joy tonight, (honest to God, real, actual joy) she’d have thought they were certifiable. When she first got the lead on a whiskey run, the odds-on best result seemed like it’d be grim satisfaction at a job done. But here she is with Vi, laughing and smiling in a way she’d forgotten she was capable of.
Caitlyn takes over unbuttoning her uniform shirt and throws it in the car to join Vi’s. Vi ogles her brassiere and, when Caitlyn lifts Vi’s undershirt off, she ogles Vi’s lack of brassiere. Vi is leaner than she used to be, chest smaller, muscles more defined, ribs more prominent. Caitlyn ghosts her fingers over Vi’s abs to the button on her Levis. Vi must not indulge in meals like tonight’s often.
At the thought of tonight’s supper, Caitlyn remembers where they are. She glances over at the back of the diner. The area is secluded and no one’s poking around right now, but they’re well past any chance of denying what they’re up to if someone were to see. Caitlyn unhooks the button on the Levis, slides the zipper down, brushes against Vi’s underwear, and then darts into the back of the Coronet. Vi whines and clambers in behind.
The moonlight barely reaches inside the car, but chalk it up to another advantage of knowing each other that they don’t need to do this in technicolor. The inky blues of the night will serve them fine. Presently, Caitlyn is much more interested in feeling Vi than seeing her. Not that she hasn’t been a sight for sore eyes this evening.
Caitlyn slides to the far side of the seat cushion/bed and strips off her brassiere and uniform pants while Vi wrestles off her boots and Levis. Caitlyn finishes first because her dress shoes slide off and she skips removing her socks. She all but leaps on Vi, pressing into her and pushing her to recline.
Here’s the thing: how does a mortal mind begin to comprehend the simple perfection of a lover’s touch? The meeting of soft skin? The give and the take? Caitlyn’s never been one to listen to preachers, but if they tried to use this as evidence of God’s divine love, she’d be a lot more inclined to believe them. From where she’s sitting (Vi’s thigh,) they’re focusing on the wrong kind of rapture.
Caitlyn grinds on Vi as she flexes, slowly coating her thigh. It’s so good, but Caitlyn is ambitious, always has been, and if she can have more, she wants it. She teases a finger on Vi’s clit. Vi bucks into her and groans as she tips Caitlyn forward. From there, they’re off. They may as well be at a rodeo for how hard Caitlyn rides Vi.
Vi’s pleasure breaks first. Her moans stop and her breathing stills, like taking a big breath before plunging into a lake. It’s the knowing that guides Caitlyn to push her into those waters. She dips her free thumb into her mouth to get it slick before pressing on Vi’s nipple in circles to match her other hand. Vi curses and bucks harder.
Caitlyn rasps, “You gonna come for me, pretty girl?”
Vi manages a single nod of confirmation before throwing her head back and crying out, piercing and loud like she’d been building it up in those precipitous seconds of silence.
It isn’t lost on Caitlyn that Vi screams her name.
“You can give me another one, can’t you?” Caitlyn asks.
Barely coming down from the first, all Vi can manage is another nod.
Caitlyn shifts her fingers down to push inside. Vi moans Caitlyn’s name again and shoots a hand behind her to grab onto something — the window crank in this case, though it doesn’t seem like Vi is especially concerned with what she’s chosen to grasp at. Caitlyn savors each press and curl inside Vi but can’t ever turn off the part of her brain that fixates. She notices the window handle isn’t moving as Vi bounces and tugs on it.
“The window’s fixed,” Caitlyn says and punctuates it with a deep thrust.
Cutting off a moan in a whimper, Vi manages to reply, “Can fit four gallons of ‘shine in the bottom.”
Caitlyn laughs. How did she ever think she’d catch this woman? She lowers herself on top of Vi, chest-to-chest, and kisses her like she wants to thank her and apologize in equal parts. Vi kisses back, warm and wanting, reassuring in a way Caitlyn didn’t know she needed. She works Vi to another climax, kissing her the whole time.
Caitlyn knows Vi will need a second to catch her breath before insisting on taking her turn, so she needs to say this now. She brushes her fingers through the side of Vi’s hair and then down her cheek.
“I’m sorry I walked out.”
Vi’s eyes grow bigger, silver barely catching the moonlight. She takes Caitlyn’s hand in her own and slowly places a kiss to each knuckle. “I’m sorry I made it so easy.”
Caitlyn shakes her head. When she speaks, it’s watery, tears having snuck up on her. “It wasn’t easy.”
Vi sits up, pulling Caitlyn against her. “Cait, baby, it’s alright,” she says and brushes away a tear trailing down Caitlyn’s cheek. “I’m here. We’re here. It’s alright.” She kisses Caitlyn to underscore her presence. She is here. They are here. Here — the back of Vi’s Dodge Coronet, parked behind a diner, on the evening of a whiskey run so poorly timed that Caitlyn thinks it must have been intentional. Caitlyn kisses Vi back with everything she has, throwing her whole self into it as if that could anchor them in place — here.
Vi trails her hand down to Caitlyn’s pussy and, already close from riding Vi for so long, quickly makes her come. While Caitlyn coasts on the end of her climax, Vi scoots to lean against the car’s door. Caitlyn snuggles into her. They stay like that in silence for a few minutes just holding each other.
Caitlyn realizes she’s been absentmindedly nudging her uniform shirt with her foot. She looks at the two-tone epaulets and pocket flaps, the embroidered Piltover County sheriff’s crest on the sleeve, the small holes where she normally pins her badge.
Caitlyn whispers, “I can’t bear to go back to being the sheriff and the Hound.”
Vi inclines her head, thinking for a bit. “You know, some of the boys in the shop keep saying there’s easy money to be made in those stock car races in the city. ‘Specially for a good driver, if you happen to know one.”
“Which city?” Caitlyn asks.
“Take your pick.”
Caitlyn huffs and sits up to properly look at Vi. She’s as earnest and bold as she’s ever been with a smile so genuine it makes Caitlyn’s chest ache. “What would I do?” Caitlyn asks.
“I think,” Vi drawls, “daddy Kiramman would be pleased to have another JD in the family.”
Caitlyn hates to trade on her last name, but it would be pointless to pretend there isn’t a legacy admission out there with her exact name on it. Maybe it’s time to stop trying to do things she doesn’t want to do just to prove she can do them all by her lonesome, without leaning on anyone who wants to help her.
“So, this is a roundabout scheme to find a defense attorney?” Caitlyn asks.
Vi laughs. “You caught me.”
Caitlyn watches Vi grin, that smile occasionally infuriating but mostly charming and always full of love. Caitlyn traces her fingers along the cheek of the woman she knows so well and still wants to keep learning.
“I caught you.”