Page 6 of The Highwaymen

The sun rose higheras we drove, the AC working overtime to combat the desert heat seeping into the cab. Jamie fiddled with the radio, flipping through staticky stations until he landed on one playing classic tunes. The opening chords of “Stuck in the Middle with You” by Stealers Wheel filled the cab. I looked over at him with a raised eyebrow, but the kid wasn’t paying me any mind, instead lighting up another cigarette. Now that he’d gotten his rocks off, he was cool as a cucumber.

I, on the other hand, was wound up tighter than a rattlesnake at the roundup. Problem was, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kill Jamie or fuck him. MaybeI’d get the best of both worlds and fuck him to death. I didn’t know if that was possible, but my cock sure as hell wanted to try.

“You ever hear that joke about the guy who picked up a hitchhiker on the side of the road?” he asked.

“Probably,” I muttered, but he didn’t seem to have heard me.

Jamie gestured widely to the open road. “So the guy sees this kid on the side of the road with his thumb out. They’re out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, and I mean nowhere, and it’s like dark and shit, right? Real fucking creepy. Anyway, the kid gets in and he’s all like ‘Thanks, bro.’ Driver’s like, ‘No problem.” They’re driving along and, after a while, the hitchhiker turns to the driver and says, ‘It’s real nice of you to pick me up and all and I don’t mean no offense, but it’s kinda dangerous. How do you know I’m not a serial killer?’ Driver looks at the kid and says, ‘What’re the odds of two serial killers being in the same car?’” He cackled like a madman.

“I imagine it’s slightly better odds than two good men being in the same car,” I replied, and Jamie’s laughter died.

He looked over at me, sucked on the filter of his cigarette, and said, “How do you figure?”

“The FBI’s official records say that there are only about thirty serial killers active in the United States at any one time,” I replied. “But most analysts believe there are as many as two thousand. Now, there are about thirty-three million people living in the USA, and of those thirty-three million, only about twenty-four million are licensed to drive. Thirty-six percent of all licensed drivers drive every day, meaning there’s eight point six million people on average on the road every single day in this country.”

“Jesus, you’ve really thought about this,” he said.

“How many of those people,” I continued, “do you suppose aregoodpeople?”

He shrugged. “Depends on how you define good.”

I thought for a minute. “Let's say good means they haven't killed anyone. Yet. What percentage would you guess?”

Jamie took a long drag on his cigarette, pondering. “I don't know, man. Seventy percent? Eighty? Most people are just trying to live their lives, you know?”

“So let's be generous and say ninety percent are 'good' by that definition. That means there's still over 860,000 people driving around every day who have blood on their hands.” I glanced over at him meaningfully. “Statistically speaking, the odds of two killers crossing paths on the road are a lot higher than you'd think.”

A slow grin spread across Jamie's face. “Well, well. And here I thought this was going to be a boring drive.”

“Careful what you wish for, kid.”

“Who's wishing? Maybe this is exactly what I was hoping for when I climbed into your truck.” Something dark shimmered in his eyes, and he was wearing the same look I’d seen on his face at the rest stop.

I shot him a sharp look. “Is that so? And what exactly were you hoping for?”

“Someone like me.” Jamie's voice dropped to a husky purr, and he leaned in closer. “Tell me, Stu. How many have you killed?”

My grip tightened on the steering wheel as Jamie's question hung heavy in the air between us. The kid was playing with fire and he didn't even know it. Or maybe he did. That glint in his eyes suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

“More than you,” I replied gruffly, keeping my gaze fixed on the road ahead.

“Oh, I don't knowabout that,” Jamie drawled. “I'm pretty good at what I do.”

“And what exactly is it that you do, boy?” I asked, even though I already had a pretty damn good idea.

He flashed me a wicked grin, all traces of the nervous kid from the rest stop gone. “The same thing you do, Stu. I hunt.”

A chill ran down my spine at his words, followed by a rush of heat to my groin. Christ, what was wrong with me? Getting turned on by this psycho kid. But I couldn't deny the twisted thrill of finally meeting someone like me. Someone who understood the dark hunger that gnawed at my insides.

“What's your weapon of choice?” I asked, morbid curiosity getting the better of me.

Jamie flicked out a switchblade, examining it.

I grunted. “That pig sticker even big enough to do the job?”

“It’s not the size, dammit. It’s how you use it.” Jamie twirled the switchblade between his nimble fingers, the sunlight glinting off the polished steel. “I like to get up close and personal with my victims. Feel the warmth of their blood on my skin as I slide the blade in nice and slow.” His voice was a sensual purr that sent shivers down my spine and blood rushing to my cock.

I shifted in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position as my jeans grew increasingly tight. “Sounds like you enjoy playing with your food before you eat it.”

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