Page 15 of The Highwaymen

Perfect.

He fumbled with his keys, unlocked the passenger door. “Climb on in, sugar. I'll be right there.”

I hauled myself up and slid across the bench seat, my heart beating faster with anticipation.

The trucker heaved his bulk up into the cab and slammed the door, sealing us inside. The air was thick with the stench of stale cigarettes and old fast food wrappers. He turned to face me, his eyes glinting with lust.

“Fifty bucks for a blowjob, hundred for a fuck,” I said, keeping my voice steady even as my stomach roiled. “And you wear a condom. Non-negotiable.”

He grunted, already fumbling for his wallet. “Sure thing, princess. Whatever you say.” He tossed a crumpled hundred-dollar bill onto the seat between us.

I plucked it up and tucked it into my pocket.

The trucker reached for his belt buckle, his fingers clumsy with eagerness. I watched him, detached, as if from a great distance. His heavy breathing filled the cab, mingling with the tinny sound of the radio playing some twangy country tune.

As he shoved his jeans down to mid-thigh, exposing pale, doughy flesh, a wave of revulsion crashed over me. I couldn't do this. Couldn't let this disgusting man put his hands on me, shove his cock into me, use my body for his pleasure. Not after Stu.

Stu.

I thought of Stu's strong, calloused hands gripping my hips, the delicious sting of his teeth on my neck, the exquisite fullness of him stretching me open as he fucked me hard and deep. The way he made me feel alive, on fire, every nerve ending screaming with sensation.

Even though he’d hurt me, it was different. There was an undercurrent of something else. Not tenderness, never that, but a kind of dark understanding. A recognition of the monsters inside us both.

This sweaty, panting trucker could never make me feel the way Stu did. I didn't want his clumsy groping, his rancid breath hot on my skin. He was just a poor substitute, a means to an end, and suddenly that wasn't enough anymore.

I couldn't go through with it, not this time. As the trucker groped for me with meaty paws, grunting with anticipation, a cold clarity washed over me. I didn't want this. Didn't need this. Not anymore.

Quick as a snake, I struck. My hand darted into my jacket pocket and emerged, clutching my trusty switchblade. The trucker's eyeswidened in shock as the gleaming blade snapped open with a soft snick.

“What the fuck—” he started to say, but I lunged forward and buried the knife to the hilt in the side of his throat before he could finish. Hot blood spurted from the wound, splattering across my face and chest in a warm, coppery mist.

The trucker gurgled, hands scrabbling weakly at his ruined throat as his life gushed out in sickening pulses. I yanked the blade free with a vicious twist and he slumped over, wheezing and twitching.

I watched him as he bled out, the cab's grimy upholstery turning a slick, glistening crimson. The sour reek of shit filled the air as his bowels released. I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

It was over in moments, the trucker's body going still and slack, glassy eyes staring at nothing. I wiped my blade clean on his shirt and folded it closed, then tucked it back in my pocket.

I reached for the wad of fast food napkins I'd seen stuffed in the cup holder to wipe the worst of the blood from my face and hands, shoving the napkins into a plastic grocery bag. Then I patted down the trucker's corpse until I found his wallet, took the meager cash inside, pocketed his smokes and Zippo lighter, and hopped out of the cab.

I was still wearing enough blood that someone would sense something was amiss if they saw me, so I clung to the shadows on my walk back to the hotel room. About halfway back, I stepped off into the desert to bury the bag of evidence in the sand.

The dusty desert air filled my lungs as I trudged back to the motel, the high of the kill already fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in my chest. The thrill had been fleeting, the rush of power and control short-lived. Now I just felt empty. Numb.

The trucker's blood was already drying tacky on my skin, flaking off in rusty bits. I could still smell the coppery tang mingling with the stench of fear and shit. It clung to me, inescapable, a morbid perfume.

I slipped back into the motel room as quietly as I'd left, easing the door shut with a soft click. The room was exactly as I'd left it - dingy, reeking of sex and cigarettes, with Stu sprawled out on the bed, dead to the world.

In the dim light filtering through the threadbare curtains, I could make out the rise and fall of his broad chest. My eyes traced over the lines of his body, lingering on the trail of hair disappearing into his unbuttoned jeans.

Memories of our earlier encounter flooded my mind - the rough grip of his hands on my hips, the burn and stretch as he forced himself inside me, the humiliating mix of pain and pleasure that had me hard and leaking despite myself. I felt my cock twitch in my blood-crusted jeans, a Pavlovian response to the ghost sensations playing across my nerves.

I padded closer to the bed, shedding my jacket and toeing off my boots as I went. Stu didn't stir, lost to the depths of sleep. I drank in the sight of him laid out before me, tall and solid, the corded muscles of his arms and chest speaking to a raw, brutish strength.

He was everything I should despise - a cruel, controlling bastard who took what he wanted and damned the consequences. But something about him had pulled me in, and I couldn’t let go.

I stripped off my blood-stained clothes, letting them fall forgotten to the stained carpet. Naked, I climbed onto the bed and straddled Stu's sleeping form, my knees bracketing his hips. The cheap motel bedsprings creaked under the added weight, but he didn’t wake.

I ran my hands over his chest, relishing the feel of firm muscle and coarse hair beneath my palms. Stu was solid and real in a way few thingsin my life were. His skin was sleep-warm, radiating heat that seeped into my perpetually cold fingers. I traced the lines of his tattoos, the ink stark against his tanned flesh.

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