"Harder," she begs, and I pick up the speed. I take her mouth with mine, tongues tangled as the overwhelming pleasure of her tight, wet pussy makes my spine tingle, my orgasm approaching. I slip my hand between us, pressing on her soaked clit that has her pussy so tightly gripped around my cock, it’s like a damn vice. Finally, she comes with my name on her lips and I follow, releasing inside her, marking her the way I've marked everything else tonight.
I flop to her side and she snuggles up beside me. I look out of the window and see the sun is rising now.
It’s a new day.
A new life waiting.
"I need to get rid of these clothes and we need to move on," I say eventually.
We take a few breaths first because this quiet, blood-soaked, perfect moment is the last bit of peace we'll have before the real hunt begins.
And we both know it.
We both force ourselves up out of bed and clean up and dress. I put on a clean shirt from the bag in the back. The bloody one goes into a plastic bag for me to burn later. While I finish cleaning up, Roxy quickly goes to take some pictures of Gary’s truck, before running back to join me in the van.
Roxy drives this time, and when we get going, I look in the rearview mirror where I can see Gary's truck, still and silent in the growing light. By the time someone finds him, we'll be three states away.
Different names and a new life.
"Where to?" she asks.
"West. California, maybe. Somewhere we can hide amongst the crowd."
"Sounds good to me."
She says it like it's simple. Like we didn't just cross the line from suspects to murderers. Like we're not being scoped out by every cop between here and the coast. But maybe it is that simple. As long as we're together, nothing else matters.
She's mine. I'm hers.
And I'll kill anyone who tries to take that away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROXY
The radio crackles between stations as we drive west on the I-40. Dom's hand rests on my thigh, warm and reassuring while I flip through frequencies looking for news.
Static. Country music. A preacher talking about salvation.
Then: "– body discovered early this morning at a truck stop outside Flagston. Police are identifying the victim as Gary Hollis, 53, a long-haul trucker…”
My hand freezes on the dial.
"– found in his vehicle with what authorities are calling suspicious injuries in a suspected robbery. Investigators have not released details but are asking anyone with information to come forward…"
Dom's fingers tighten on my leg and I glance at him. His jaw is grinding, eyes fixated on the road. I can feel the tension throughout his body, but I don't turn the radio off.
We drive for another hour, cycling through stations, listening as the story develops. Each report adds a little more detail. Major stab wound. Missing wallet and phone. Signs of struggle. Blood evidence being processed. Two individuals of interest…a man and a woman…seen in the area.
The descriptions are vague at first, but after a while they get more specific.
"– male suspect described as tall, dark hair, wearing black clothing. Female suspect described as petite with long dark hair, last seen wearing a purple hoodie…"
There it is, the moment we stop being anonymous. The animal instinct to run that most people would feel hearing their description broadcast across state lines doesn’t happen. Instead, there's a strange clarity settling over me. Like the world has finally come into focus. We're not suspects anymore…we'reknown. For the first time we are being seen. It’s a euphoric feeling.
"We need to get off the highway," Dom says quietly.
"You’re right."
