Page 52 of The Highwaymen

I huffed a laugh, the sound tinged with more than a little hysteria. “Yeah, we fuckin’ did.”

The scale of what we had done began to sink in as I surveyed the slaughter around us. The desert sand was painted black with blood in the harsh glare of the headlights, clumps of shredded viscera glistening under the moonlight.

The night seemed to stretch into infinity as we stood there among the cooling corpses, the desert a vast and silent witness to our bloody triumph. Despite the carnage, a strange sense of peace settled over me, the restless beast within momentarily sated by the orgy of violence.

I turned to Jamie, really looking at him for the first time since our desperate battle began. Bathed in the harsh glare of the headlights, he was a vision of blood-spattered beauty, feral and triumphant. The tear tracks cutting through the grime on his face gleamed like liquid silver, his eyes wild in the stark light.

I pulled him to me again. He came willingly, melting against me like he was always meant to be there, all hard lines and coiled strength. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the heady mix of copper and sweat and something uniquely Jamie. In that moment, he was the only real thing in a world gone mad.

“Let's get out of here,” I murmured against his skin, my lips brushing his jumping pulse.

He nodded, pulling back just far enough to meet my gaze. “Where to?”

I glanced around at the mess we'd made, the ruined vehicles and shredded corpses. Nobody was going to miss Romeo and his gang. They were meat for scavengers now.

I smirked at Jamie. “I hear Milwaukee’s nice this time of year.”

Jamie barked a laugh, the sound wild and unfettered in the vast desert night. His eyes danced with manic mirth, bright with the promise of new hunts on the horizon. “Then what are we waiting for, honey bunny? Let's hit the road.”

One year later…Somewhere inthe Midwest.

The diner was a relic from another era, all gleaming chrome and red vinyl booths that squeaked when you shifted. The air was heavy with the salty scent of frying bacon and bitter coffee, the clatter of dishes and murmur of conversation a familiar background hum. Dust motes danced in the sunlight slanting through the blinds, painting golden stripes across the scarred Formica tabletop.

I sat across from Stu, watching him methodically work his way through a heaping plate of eggs and hash browns, a contented little smile playing at the corners of hismouth.

I let my eyes roam over him appreciatively, marveling at the sheer presence of the man. He seemed to fill the diner booth with his bulk, making the vinyl creak as he shifted. But there was a quietude to him too, a centered calm that could explode into calculated violence at any moment.

It still amazed me sometimes that this force of nature had chosen me, had deemed me worthy of his partnership in all things. In Stu, I had found not just an enabler of my darkest urges, but a true companion, someone who understood the twisted workings of my mind like no other.

As if sensing my regard, he glanced up, eyes crinkling at the corners as he caught me staring. “See something you like, pumpkin?”

I smirked, leaning back in the booth and stretching languidly, enjoying the way his gaze darkened as it raked over me. “Always, honey bunny. Though I don't know how you can shovel it away like that. It's barely past dawn.”

“It’s hungry work we do,” he protested and shoved another forkful of eggs. “You know I always eat a full balanced breakfast before a hunt. It’s the most important meal of the day, after all.”

I chuckled, shaking my head fondly at Stu's twisted domesticity. Only he could make planning a murder sound like June Cleaver preparing a church picnic. But I suppose that's why we worked so well together. Beneath the blood-soaked bravado, we were just two broken souls who had found a home in each other's darkness.

“So, who's the lucky winner today?” I asked, idly twirling my butter knife between nimble fingers, the metal catching the early morning sunlight in hypnotic flashes.

Stu grinned, a slow, predatory thing that never failed to send a shiver down my spine and an electric tingle to my groin. He jerked his chin toward the counter where a man in a cheap suit sat hunched over acup of coffee, barking into his cell phone loudly enough for the whole diner to hear.

The waitress had just refilled his coffee, but he put his hand over the speaker to berate her for not being there the second his cup was empty.

I watched the man at the counter with a detached sort of fascination, the kind one might observe a particularly loathsome insect. He was the epitome of every arrogant, entitled prick I'd ever had the misfortune to encounter - the cheap suit doing little to disguise the soft paunch of overindulgence, the thin sheen of sweat at his temples betraying the sticky corruption beneath the overpriced cologne.

His nasal voice grated like nails on a chalkboard as he barked orders into his phone, beady eyes roving over the waitress's form with undisguised lechery. She couldn't have been more than nineteen, all coltish limbs and wide eyes, discomfort rolling off her in waves as she tried to escape his unwanted attention.

Stu caught my gaze, a single raised brow asking a silent question. I tilted my head in the slightest of nods, a feral grin tugging at my lips. Oh yes, this one would do nicely. The thrill of the hunt was already thrumming through my veins, electric and alive.

I watched the man at the counter, anticipation coiling in my gut like a nest of vipers. He was oblivious to our scrutiny, too absorbed in his own self-importance to notice the predators at the periphery.

I let my mind wander, already envisioning how this would play out. We would tail him from the diner, perhaps stage a breakdown or play the part of a stranded motorist in need of assistance. Men like him, so assured of their own superiority, were always eager to demonstrate their dominance by rescuing a helpless piece of roadside ass.

I could picture it now - his piggy eyes roving over my form as I bent over the engine, hitching up my shirt to expose a tantalizing strip ofskin. He wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity to get his sweaty hands on me. And that's when Stu would strike, a silent shadow in the glaring sun, tire iron glinting like divine retribution.

God, there was nothing like seeing Stu work, his brutally efficient movements as he reduced a man to a bloody smear, all coiled strength and barely contained savagery. It never failed to make me achingly, desperately hard, the rush of blood and viscera as potent as any aphrodisiac.

I shifted in the booth, my jeans suddenly uncomfortably tight. Stu smirked knowingly, a dark promise in his eyes. Oh, he knew exactly what he did to me.

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