Bobbi's got a plan. It's convoluted and borderline stupid and involves ripping off some small-time drug dealer without him ever realizing it's her doing the ripping off, so right now they're sitting in the car in an almost deserted parking lot directly opposite the shabby hotel room the mark is supposed to be shacked up in, waiting for the night manager to take a break. "He's a right son-of-a-bitch," she says darkly, which means either she tried to pull a con on him and failed or he fucked her and stiffed her afterwards.
Jim doesn't care either way. Somehow, his presence here has been deemed absolutely necessary, although he's not sure why since she never listens to his entirely reasonable advice and mostly just does it whatever the hell way she wants to anyway. He's reached the point where none of her tricks are actually impressive anymore, but she still insists on dragging him along, mostly, he feels, out of downright spite. The heater's on the fritz in that shitty little car of hers, so he has to keep banging on the dashboard in the desperate hope that it will kick in at some point. Meanwhile, his breath keeps crystallizing and his coat's not enough to keep him entirely warm.
Bobbi's fine though. 40 proof and enough coke in your system to kill a mule will do that to you. She doesn't even need a coat. "Do you see him," she says, leaning over him to peer out the other window.
"No. I didn't see him five minutes ago either. Perhaps you'd like to sit here and do the watching if you're so anxious about it."
"Naw, baby-boy don't you take that tone with your Momma, you hear?" Bobbi takes her parenting duties very seriously when she chooses. Jim sighs, and she settles back into the driver's seat. Her hand comes up to softly brush his hair back from his face. "Sometimes, I wish you didn't have to grow up none. You were so sweet when you was smaller. This was easier, too. Everyone trusts a lady with a little kid. Fourteen year old, not so much."
He flinches at her touch, but doesn't pull away. One thing about Bobbi, she can't stand being disrespected, even if the disrespect is only imaginary. Same with Dad. "We've been waiting two hours, Mom. Don't you think maybe he's not leaving? Or just -"
"Just what, honey?"
Her hand stills on his face, but he's bored, and annoyed, and frustrated, and so he just says, "This. Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life? Pulling shitty cons on some two-bit drug dealer who's probably just two bad fixes away from ODing himself? Don't you have any fucking ambition?" He spits the last word out with the anger of too many years sitting in the exact same position waiting for some other stupid mark to arrive or leave, all so Bobbi can get some money that Daddy doesn't know about.
Bobbi's fingers press down on his face, her nails crescents that he can feel. Not sharp enough to break the skin, Bobbi's never hurt him like that, and when he dares to glance over at her her face is sharp, contemplative, but also just a little bit betrayed. Jim has to remind himself that he enjoyed their little excursions once, and how her eyes would light up when he came back to her, adrenaline like fire through his veins and money stuffed into his back pockets. He'd hand the notes over to her and she'd hug him tightly, say proudly, "You and me, baby. Always." Back then, she seemed so tall and smart and beautiful, and, even with Dad, always knew how to get her own way.
He opens his mouth to say something, take it back, maybe, but she's already speaking. "You never could learn when it's best to keep your mouth shut, could you, Jimmy. First I have to put up with you sulking all the way here, now you have to go and insult me. All them teachers saying what a bright kid you are getting to your head?"
She tugs viciously on his hair, and in one smooth motion she's straddling him, her too-short skirt riding up to almost her waist, exposing her panties. The red lace ones today. Bobbi always had a fondness for red. "You ought to remember who it was persuaded your Daddy to let you go to school to begin with."
"Child services?" He catches her wrist with his hand, he's stronger than her now, but Bobbi's edges are finely tuned to fight hard and fight dirty, and she's not afraid. "Besides, I wonder how Dad would feel, to find out that all these years you've had an extra source of income and didn't share."
"Some mouth you're getting," is her only response, and her mouth quirks up into a not-quite smile. They're about even, now. But then her eyes darken, and he suddenly feels, as acutely as she must, their crotches pressed together. He looks away, but he can't quite hide his body's reaction.
"Someone could come by," he says, and to his ears he sounds ridiculously uncertain. Bobbi will only take that as encouragement, and she does, she starts grinding her hips down slowly onto him, until his dick is hard and he can feel her, even through his jeans, wet and ready for him. Always ready for him. She always tastes like cheap lipstick and liquor, sour sweet and heady, except when she chews that hard pink candy that she loves so much, like today, then it's liquor and plastic strawberry, and he shudders when her tongue slides between his lips, invades his mouth and runs along the underside of his teeth, just the way she knows how he likes it.
"Who loves you, baby," she murmurs against him, and he moans, arches up into her. Her hands on his fly, expertly undoing the row of buttons on the jeans that she bought for him, one of those days when she was flush and for some reason decided not to throw it all into her veins. Good thing Dad never noticed what he ever wore. She used to try to make him snort or inject some of what she made, but the one time she managed to force him to he'd thrown up uncontrollably for two days and she never tried again. A combination of ipecac and salt water, he wasn't about to become a junkie, no way in hell, but she never suspected a thing and that was the first time he knew: even Bobbi was fallible once in a while.
"Come on, who loves you." His cock is aching, and her fingers are cold but when they run along his length he gasps, squeezes his eyes even tighter shut. He's expected to give an answer, so he does, shakily, "You love me, Mom." He presses his head against the cool glass of the car window as she establishes a rhythm, her nails scraping against his dick lightly only making it more intense. One thing you could always say about Bobbi: she knew how to give a handjob like no other.
Bobbi's fingers are hard on his jaw suddenly, and he's snapped out of his pleasure-haze when she twists his head around, says, "None of that. You look at me when I do this for you." He blinks slowly at her for a while, not even considering disobedience, but eventually he allows his eyes to drop, to distantly watch her pale hand, with the red-frosted fingernails that are always chipped, wrapped around his dick. There's blood rushing, as much in his brain as everywhere else, and he can barely hear her through the noise when she goes, "You come for me now, you hear. There's a good boy," but it registers nonetheless, and he whistles through his teeth as he comes, in short spurts, into her waiting hand.
"Fuck," he says, and he still can't quite breathe, his body boneless and lax. Bobbi reaches behind her for the Kleenex, and normally she'd wipe it on his face or his body or sometimes she'd even make him lick it clean, but today she just uses the Kleenex, busies herself until every trace is gone. When she's done she kisses him on the lips again, lightly this time, and this time he kisses her back.
Her arms loop lazily around him, and he automatically reaches for her panties, makes to slip his fingers deep into her the way she always expects, but she only shakes her head, says, "Later, baby. Later. I think I saw the asshole leave."
He stares blankly at the tissue she hands to him until she snaps impatiently, "For your face. You look like some rough trade trannie been rode hard and put away wet. Pretty, but it ain't gonna get you inside." The flush rises to his face despite himself, and he busies himself wiping the lipstick, wiping her off his face, as she takes out her own make-up kit and starts touching up. Out here, the dim light catching the angles of her face, she could pass for pretty. "You ready, Jimmy," she says.
"Always," Jim says, and almost means it.