Incest/Taboo Connie and Clyde

"Good night, CJ," she said, coming close, kissing me on the forehead. As she leaned forward, and down her shirt, and as I looked at the beautiful skin of her chest.

So beautifully pale.

I couldn't help myself-- I sat up and then stood. She backed up, a little surprised. "What's wrong?" She asked.

I listened to the stairwell, and made sure that there was nobody up there first. Then I took her forearm. "You tell me," I said. I looked into her eyes and gently tightened my grip around her wrist.

Connie's eyes widened with the realization that I knew.

She glanced helplessly toward the front door, then up the stairs, and she tried to pull away her wrist, I let her, but the anger had clouded over everything. I could hear myself sounding threatening, as I asked her again what was going on out there.

"Nothing," she insisted.

We were quiet for a moment.

"Is he pimping you out?" I asked, point blank. Connie's eyes went wider and she clamped her mouth shut.

Then her head bowed sadly. "Not yet."

I couldn't believe it.

"The unemployment ran out," she said, putting her face in her hands. "It ran out completely. The streaming... it was his idea, and at first, we were able to make just enough in order to catch up on our mortgage payments, and to get some real food on the table."

She looked up at me, I could see that she was crying. "And we thought that if we just kept at it, since it was lucrative, that maybe we could make even a little more, and get out of this mess. Maybe we could fix up the house, sell it, but for some reason the number of viewers is going down. I don't know, I think it's--" She choked. "I think it's because I showed too much, too soon, and now there's no mystery about it anymore," she said, her voice a moan and cry, and as my heart broke for her, I pulled her close, and buried her face in my chest.

I could hear her sobbing, trying to suppress it.

I could only think of James and how cold he had to be for him to do this. "You said yet," I said, icily.

"I'm a little scared," she said to me in my chest, "because he told me couple weeks ago that he had some friends that liked me a lot."

My blood ran cold.

"Is he doing anything else?" I asked, "has he been hurting you? Threatening you?"

Before I could get an answer out of her, I heard something at the top of the stairs. I looked up, and Connie pulled away from me, her head snapping upward and looking to the top in fear. I could see James staring down at us, his fist balled over the banister, and his eyes dark.

"I think it's time for you to get the fuck out of here," James said, in a detached tone. "You fucking told him, didn't you Connie?"

She tried shaking her head. "Told me what?" I asked, trying to cover it up, "Connie was just telling you that you guys are having some problems." I tried to sound normal. "If I can get a job, maybe I could pay rent to stay. That could help." I stared at him and his eyes bored into me.

"You did tell him," he said threateningly as he started down the stairs.

Connie helplessly croaked no, and I could see her shrinking while James advanced. I moved to get between them. My mind turned over my chances fast. I was aware that James's face was a soft, fleshy target. If I hit him hard enough, I could cave in his face, blind him, disorient him. James stopped an arm's distance between us, and I kept my eye on his body language, waiting to see if he would throw a fist.

He looked at me, narrow eyed, and said again, "Get the fuck out. You want me to call the cops? I think it'd look awfully bad if I were to charge with trespassing. Or assault." he snarled.

I lifted my hands, saw Connie out of the corner of my eye, and saw her crying. I remembered those words from her, telling me that if I didn't step up, things would be easier, that he wouldn't hurt her seriously. She was already going through enough. I backed away, grabbed my bag, and stepped slowly towards the front door, being watched by James the whole time. I turned to Connie really quick and said, "bye Connie. I love you."

"Love you too," she said, tears in her red eyes again. I went to the front door, let myself out into the night. I hoped to God that nothing worse would happen to her.

It was a hellish week. The whole time that I roughed it, trying desperately to find some kind of work and some kind of shelter, I had this horrible pit in my stomach. I mean, damn. I was worried to death about Connie.

After a couple tough days trying to find a place that would take me, I was able to secure a job at a dairy, milking cows, using a mess of tubes and machinery and buckets of iodine, daubed on udders and rigged up to fill the tanks. It required that I would wake up at three in the morning, ending my first half of the workday around eight, then coming back in the early afternoon for another four hour shift. It was rough, having a split shift like that, and I got paid under the table, which I guess was a condition.

With wads of cash handed to me at the end of every other day, I was able to go to an electronics store and buy a phone for myself. The first thing I did with it once it was signed up for service, was to call Aunt Connie.

"Hey," I said, my heart pounding, hoping that she had avoided the worst. I felt sick as I asked her if she was okay.

Connie was quiet for a second, but I heard in a genuine and honest tone, "It's alright. I'm doing okay."

I was still nervous. I said through my teeth, "he hasn't made you do anything worse, right? Not yet?"

"No," I heard her say with a little bit of nervousness. "Not yet." Then she asked about me. "You found a place to stay? A job?"

I told her little bit about the milking operation, and how the strange hours made it difficult to sleep, no matter where I was. "But I got a couple hundred saved up. I'm getting close to being able to rent a room, someplace. Just need to save up a little more for a deposit. But it's cool," I said, "I'll have enough in a couple days."

"What are you doing for shelter right now?" Aunt Connie asked, worried.

I told her about a little spot at the edge of town, where I could climb a fire escape and get onto the roof of the bakery. "They throw out bread, sometimes. That helps a little bit." My focus went back to her. "Listen to me," I said, slowly and seriously. "If James tries to hurt you, or if he's about to make you do something that's really bad, I'm begging you to give me a call." I tried to include as much seriousness in my voice as I could. I knew that once I had a place to stay for myself, that I had a shot at actually keeping her safe. "You're not alone anymore," I said. "At some point I'll have enough in order to help you get away from him, if you want."

Aunt Connie didn't say anything in response. I listened, breathless for a minute, while she breathed softly on the other end of the line. Then I heard her, her voice small. In a slightly hopeful tone, she said, "okay."

We said our goodbyes, and hung up.

It was almost different after that point, since everything was starting to look up. Almost.

I knew that Aunt Connie was still doing the thing that she hated, but I knew for a fact that if she was in any kind of real trouble, that she was going to call me. And as I continued to make money at the milking job, I saved up enough to actually put down a little deposit on a single bedroom at a tweaker's house. It wasn't a great place, but it was a straight shot to work and cheap enough to where I knew I could save some money and keep dry with the way the weather was around here. I paid with a little wad of 20's at the end of every week, and kept the rest of my money on me at all times. Had to. I knew those fuckers would go through my stuff and into my room, but I knew that as long as I never let them actually search me, that I'd have everything I actually needed. They wouldn't fuck with enough of my stuff in order to make things difficult.

Another couple weeks passed. After a couple conversations with guy that ran the whole milking operation, he told me that could I do some extra work for him, fixing fences, driving things around, running errands. Easier work, same pay. "I guess you've got an advantage, huh?" He said, looking at me a little smugly. "Since you're the only guy that speaks English on the worksite." Lucky me.

I started doing extra work for him, and the wad of cash that I kept against my chest grew and grew. After little bit of time, I finally had enough, a few thousand. I was gonna be able to buy an absolute garbage heap of a used car. Then maybe I could live in that, find a job that paid better, and save enough to put down on a real place. And since I was saving, when push came to shove, I could put down some money on a room for Connie since I'd be saving on rent.

It was funny. I started to feel hopeful around that time. That I could save Connie, that I could get my life together, and that I'd live reasonably ever after. I'd find a girl, maybe, once I had a job that

But you know how life goes.

It all came crashing down.

Wasn't exactly a pretty vehicle, but it was what it needed to be. I looked at the Jeep Cherokee and marveled how small it was, how it could barely be classed as an SUV instead of a slightly oversized sedan. But I was happy to buy it, knowing that I could squeeze a cushion or a wad of blankets in the back, that I had a little bit of space to store my stuff, that I was finally moving out of that tweaker's house. The best part was that I had a couple thousand left over. Turned out when you bought a used car that had sat on a lawn for over a year, you could negotiate down. Way down.

It was exciting. I handed over to the seller a wad of hundreds, and after he counted them, he handed me the keys, the title, and told me that I needed to get the rest of the paperwork figured out at the DMV. Not a big deal. I wasn't about to complain when buying a used car for two grand.

When I put the keys in the ignition and turned them, the starter clicked a couple times. At first it struggled, but the engine finally sputtered and roared and I was set. "The tires are a little stale," the seller told me behind sunglasses. "The breaks are old, and honestly, I wish you some real fuckin' luck. This thing got hit with a couple storms and I guess it's no good for tires to be parked in one spot for a long time. But that's why it's only a couple thousand bucks."

"I'm all right with it," I said. "It's enough." In truth, I was hyped. It meant freedom.

The first thing I did with it was drive over to the tweaker's house, grab my stuff, and then I dipped before they could see me. I really wanted to avoid any goodbyes with them. It wasn't like I appreciated that they went through my stuff every couple days.

I realized that one of the benefits of this car was that I was free to move to whatever spot I could park, and wherever it was could be my home, for however long it needed it to be. Living on the road meant I was mobile. It was flexible. I guess for a guy that needed work, or at least better work than the milking operation, that wasn't a bad deal.

It was a little weird, driving around in the car that was now my home, but I figured I should celebrate anyway, driving to a real diner and buy an actual meal for the first time.

The diner was one of the last little holdouts from the steady encroachment of all the corporate chain restaurants that took over the South. It was a smudged place that was a real greasy spoon, where the windows were filmed up and the vinyl in the booths was torn, and the springs in the seats were all broken and made you sink way down when you tried to sit. I picked up one of the menus that they left on the table by the entry, with a sharpie written sign that said 'take one, seat yourself'. I guess it was a way of saving a little bit of money on greeting staff. I went to the counter, right by the kitchen, and as I sat I decided I'd get an honest to God cheeseburger and fries for the first time in years.

The waitress came out, looked me up and down. I felt a little bit of excitement as I got to look her up and down too.

Fuck. A real fucking girl with some real fucking curve.

She was young, maybe about my age, dark brown hair tied up in a tight bun, but with the sparkling brown eyes and the sway to her cute little hips, I found my jaw aching and myself staring. She dropped by, and offered me a coffee. All I could do was nod. I couldn't stop looking. Her apron almost looked like a short skirt.

A lone worker was in the back, the smell of a griddle wafting through, as I drank in the warmth and the dryness and the smell of pancakes, even in the evening, and listened to the subtle murmur of the locals that came here. The waitress came back with a pot of coffee and leaned over the counter from behind it, poured a stream of it into the mug, and tapped a pretty little finger in front of me. "What'll you have?"

She was really pretty. I felt my cock stiffening a little bit. It couldn't help itself. The first real contact with a pretty girl, and I was moving up in the world.

As I ordered, and took in the way that she looked, a youthful smile and long lashes and thin lips that covered sparkling white teeth, she went through her whole routine of smiling and flirting in order to make me feel at home. I felt a little embarrassed as I realized that living in the car meant that I wasn't going to be able to ask her on a date, or invite her to stay at my place anytime soon. But it was fine.

As I looked at her, I resolved that I was gonna get a place. A real one. I was going to get a better job, the kind that actually meant I could pay rent, by the month, have an honest fucking lease. I was going to rebuild my life, settle down, marry somebody.

And I swore to myself that I would treat whoever it was a hell of a lot better than James treated Connie.

Ha. Maybe was the loneliness. As looked at this waitress I dreamed about what life in a house would be like, what it'd be like coming home to that smile, imagining her talking to me the same way as she asked me what I wanted, but I was able to snap out of it in order to at least look like I wasn't dreaming about her. She smiled, took the menu and left. Maybe I was delusional but she seemed to like me too. I mean, I couldn't count on it. It was her job to flirt, I guess.

I heard my phone ring.

I almost didn't realize it was my phone, since it was new and since nobody had called me yet. I pulled it out and saw Aunt Connie on the caller ID, and answered it as quick as I could. "Hey," I said. "What's happening, Connie?" I didn't hear anything back at first. "Got some good news; just bought a car."

First it was quiet, then I heard faint in the background, the sound of somebody yelling.

I froze as I listened little bit more intently, forgetting that I was even in the diner, and then almost stood up as my adrenaline crashed against my skull.

Then I heard a soft sob from Connie.

"Hey," I said, louder, "are you okay? What's going on?" I listened for another second, hearing the yelling grow louder, and realized that it was James.

The last thing I heard before the phone hung up was Connie's voice, small and scared.

"CJ," she breathed. "Please... please help me."

James' yelling got louder and I heard him threatening her, heard him say the words that he was going to hurt her unless she did it. Whatever 'it' was.

Then the phone hung up.

I stood up then, jammed the phone in my pocket, and as I was about to turn around, I saw the waitress walking toward me with a plate full of food, one eyebrow up, looking confusedly at me. "You're leaving already?"

I pulled out my wallet and threw a $20 bill down, telling her to keep the change, and without waiting to hear what she said, I turned around and booked out. A couple of the people in the diner laughed as they saw me running out, out to the car, jamming the key into the starter, cranking it and getting it to start with a prayer, and then screaming out of the parking lot and onto the highway.

My heart was pounding in my ears. I could feel rage coursing through my fists, my arms, my face, and the highway itself seemed red.

Once I made it up their road, sliding over the gravel, I jumped out of my car, slamming the door open, looked around, hoping for a clue as to where they were. I heard Connie screaming from inside the house, and James screaming back. I ran in, upstairs, slamming into the door, almost breaking it off its hinges and blowing it wide open, and listened, hearing them up the stairs, on the top floor, where there was a scuffle happening. I jumped up, two steps at a time, clenching my fists, ready to break James's face and whatever else I needed to.

Their bedroom door barely ajar. I threw it open and saw what was happening. James was standing, breathing heavily, on one end of the room, his big fists clenched, and with blood on his knuckles. Tables were overturned, drawers torn out, clothes everywhere. There was broken glass on the floor where somebody had broken the window. Even the bed was out of place.

Connie was in the corner, crying, but her hands were up, her face was bloodied, red pouring from her nose, and her left eye swollen and dark. James had actually beat her bad this time.

Then I saw the gun. James' gun. His favorite. The one he liked to wave around when he was so goddamn drunk and boast that he'd only used it once on another person.

But the gun wasn't with James.

It was with Connie.

Her little hands were thrust in front of her, wrapped around the handle of the revolver. The gun was shaking in the air.

James turned to look at me, I saw that his eyes were crazed, and he was almost staggering from how drunk he was. When he looked at me, it was almost like a shark, or a bull, staring me down, leveling itself to charge.

His breath was hot through his voice. He raged at Connie but looked at me. "You crazy fucking bitch. You called him here, didn't you?" His eyes went to my hands to make sure I wasn't holding anything. Then he looked back at my face and ground his teeth. "You'd better get the fuck out of here before I kill you," he said, his voice loud and booming through the bedroom. Then he turned back to Connie, as if I was gone. "Fucking defying me--you don't get to fucking defy me! You're going to fucking do it, I'll fucking make you! You want me to fucking hurt you some more? I'll fucking KILL you--don't point that fucking thing at me!"

Connie was crying, begging. "Please James, no more. No more! Just stop!"

"You're my fucking wife, you'll do what I fucking tell you!" he screamed. I carefully shifted. I knew if I could tackle him right, I could send him through the window. That kind of advantage was all I needed, and it probably wouldn't kill him. In a case like this, where the husband was so drunk and the woman was so battered, I felt maybe the cops would understand if he broke his back falling out a window. I readied myself for it.

Connie struggled to stand up, the revolver still pointed straight at James. "I worked so hard," she said, her voice a pained sob. "I did everything you asked me, but it's too far, James. You want me to go too far. I thought--I thought you loved me, James!"

That set him off. He raised his hands, and advanced on her before I could react.

From there, everything moved slow.

Against reality.

Against time.

I saw Connie's eyes change.

She was a pleading, scared woman.

And then she was unbound.

Something triggered in her, a scalding, blasting rage. I saw her teeth bare, her eyes flaring, insane and murderous as the vow of her life was broken by the man she loved, and so like logic, her hand squeezed the handle, the gun shuddered as her soft little hands made the gun give a mechanical click.

Then there was the flash.

And the concussion noise of the pistol and James with his own eyes going wide and his mouth opening to yell out. But there wasn't a sound, not really, just a low groan that mixed with a whistle.

Everyone froze after that. James looked down, staggering back. There was a bright red spot that discolored the black fabric where it was all burned to shit from her shooting him so closely. He looked up at her, in disbelief. Then at the gun, then back down at his shirt, now darkened a heavy red. His hands went to it, and he opened his mouth, slumped over, collapsing onto the ground like a doll.

In Connie, the anger faded as quickly as it flashed, and once again she was full of fear, and now, shock. A moan escaped from her mouth, and her hands were shaking even more, and she looked like she was about to drop the gun, even though it was still pointed at James.

"Connie," I breathed, shocked, my mind spinning with what just happened. And then my mind went to the implications.

She just fucking shot him. We had to call the fucking police, and we needed to call them now, if we had any chance at looking like the victims. That was a hard lesson learned in prison, from people who said that in self-defense, you needed to call the cops first. Otherwise, you'd go in for assault like they were.

Luckily, James looked like he was still alive, groaning suddenly coming up from his body, but everything about him holding still.

"Connie," I said, trying to get her attention, stepping toward her with a hand up. Connie looked at me, panicking, and pointed the pistol at me.

I froze.

"Jesus Christ," she cried, still panicking. "Don't fucking move. Don't fucking move, CJ!"

I raised both my hands. "Connie, it's fine. It's okay." I went for my phone. "If we call the police now, we can --"

Connie shook her head violently no, tears burning from her eyes, and her grip tightening on the gun. "No, no," she moaned, "they're in it together, they're all--"

"If we don't call now, they're going to get the wrong idea--" I said, trying to explain, but she cut me off, screaming, the pistol shaking in her grip.

"Don't you fucking call them! I'm not going to let it happen to me--oh god, I'm not going to let them do it to me--"

I lowered the phone, not calling, and looked at her, confused. "Connie, what the fuck is going on?"

Connie started sobbing, the gun still pointed at me, her head still shaking, and she moved to the side, and motioned with the gun for me to step away from the door. I complied. Connie slipped past me, the gun still pointed down my chest, and then booked it down the stairs.

"Wait!"

I ran after her, and finally made it out of the house. I was almost right behind her as she got into the truck. She stuck the gun out of the window, and pointed it at me, tears streaming down her face, while her other hand fumbled with the key to start the truck. Her lips were trembling, she was shaking her head and desperate to get James' truck working. She was panicking.

"Connie, fucking listen to me!" I yelled at her, "if we don't call 911, James is going to die, and you--you're going to go to fucking prison! We need to call, right now!" As much as I fucking hated James, I knew that if this was a homicide investigation, it would create a hell of a lot more trouble than we were already in. On top of that, I didn't know how Connie was going to be okay after everything that she had done for him.

Without answering, Connie pulled the gun back inside the truck, shifted the truck in reverse, peeled out behind her, the back of the truck slamming into the outbuilding. She shifted into drive and sped off, leaving me out there in the gravel with my hands still up.

I knew I couldn't risk it. Being a felon, witnessing a shooting, and then Connie fleeing the scene was a huge recipe for some kind of terrible thing to happen. I didn't know what kind of story James would have. Or if he bled the fuck out upstairs. But I made the call anyway, hoping to God that after all the time that I'd spent in prison that maybe there'd be some part of the emergency response that wouldn't be corrupt.

I got into my own car, starting it, and talked with the dispatcher, hearing a calm voice on the other end of the line. I could see Connie's truck up ahead, as I tried to follow it, I saw her peel onto the highway, narrowly missing a couple cars. I gunned it after her, about to tell the dispatcher which direction she was driving. Call it a panic-informed decision, but I decided to withhold a little. Connie had said something about them all being in on it together.

So instead, I told the dispatcher that I heard gunshots at their address, and then hung up. I felt this deep pit in my stomach as I realized that only talking about the shots, and not about who pulled the trigger, was going to make things way more difficult. James had seen me. But something told me to not give away where Connie went, which highway she was on, the landmarks we were passing as she fled.

The only thing that was certain, was that I had to do something to help her, and to keep her safe. Even if I was already in extreme trouble.

The chase was wild and unpredictable, Connie was veering in and out of the different lanes of the highway, narrowly missing semi's and other cars, and I pushed the car to a roaring limit, barely keeping up. She made a sharp turn, off the highway, onto a sloped logging road that cut up and into the woods to the right of the highway. I followed after her, seeing the spray of gravel behind her car and in my rearview.

There were a few bends, but she didn't make it that far, and as she tried making another sharp turn, the truck slid on the gravel, and the side of it slammed into a tree. I saw her form, even in the shadow of the forest, snapped to the side.

I felt scared, more scared than anything I'd ever felt before. When I pulled up, getting out, running towards her, screaming her name, I could only hope that she was still alive. I made it to the truck, right as Connie fell out of the driver side door. She collapsed on her hands and knees, the gun nowhere to be seen, and she looked up, her nose still bleeding. She shook as she tried to stand. I went up to her, telling her to sit down, but instead she leaned up against the truck, staring at me with a horrified expression.

"I shot him, didn't I?"

She looked so scared.

"Yeah," I said, "you did."

"Is he still alive?"

"I don't know." I came up to her, looked her over. "Are you hurt?"

I moved fast, asking her if anything hurt, how many fingers I had up. Her face was pale, and she was breathing heavy. But nothing seemed broken.

"I'm so sorry," I said, feeling a horrible crush of guilt and a frantic, nervous fear. "I called 911. I couldn't let James die."

Connie suddenly made a screaming groan, her hands going to her eyes, and covering them, her whole body dropping down and crouching, "oh my God, oh my God..."

"Connie, please, you have to explain some of this to me--" I stammered, "I couldn't let him die, if we just left him there, he would have bled out, I don't know if he's bleeding to death now--"

"He was going to pimp me out." Connie's face lifted, I could see her eyes squeezed shut, her face in a grimace of acute emotional agony. "He was going to make me fuck Hillman." She started to bawl.

I felt the cold chill go to my spine as I realize that by calling the cops, I invited that kind of police interference into the situation. If it was Hillman, then yeah. They'd be on it. They'd be in on it together.

"I'm so sorry," I said. My head spun.

"You didn't know," she said, voice choked.

Then Connie looked at me, frantic, pleading. "Oh god. Oh, God! What the hell am I going to do?" She cried.

"We could get in my car," I said, thinking fast, "I could drive us over to the next county. We could go to the police there, maybe we could explain the situation, and maybe if we turn Hillman in, show everyone what James has been making you do, then we could --"

"No, no," Connie moaned, her arms going around her, "it's the whole damn force in region, CJ--it's every single one out there, not just the county, they're all in it together, they're running these... these trafficking rings, drugs, guns, fucking--people--if we find one good cop, there will be three others that are bad and know exactly where we are. Oh god," she sobbed, "He said that if I didn't fuck Hillman then he was going to have me drugged and sent somewhere, I don't know where, he was going to fucking sell me," she was screaming by this point, her crying uncontrolled.

My eyes widened as I realized this ran a hell of a lot darker than I expected. I thought maybe that James was only involved in maybe some stealing, that despite the fact that he was a piece of shit that would force his wife to cam for money, that he wouldn't be involved in something so insane. But I believed her. I wasn't about to fucking ask any more questions.

"We need to run," I said, hearing the hollow realization in my voice. "We need to get the fuck out of here."

Connie was still crying, unable to listen.

"We have to get the fuck out of the county, out of the state," I said, thinking fast. "If they're all in on it together, then I need to get you the fuck out of their reach. If things run as deep as you say, then they won't just arrest you."

They would fucking kill her.

In prison, I could hear enough from some of the gangs about the kind of shit they did. You learned what was common as far as crime went in the area, as far as the operations that they ran, nothing too specific, but the from the way that they talk, it was damn clear that these gangs and corrupt networks had their fingers in fucking everything. And when they were buddied with cops, their involvement was more free to be so fucking evil. If I knew one thing about these kinds of people, it was that they didn't play fair, and they killed whenever it was convenient.

A chill went through me as I realized that since James had seen me, that they were going to try to kill me too.

"Where's the gun?" I demanded.

Connie was rocking back and forth, crying.

"Where's the fucking gun, Connie?" I screamed at her. Connie looked up at me, shaking and scared, and pointed towards the truck. I went over to it, pushing past the deflated airbag, and found it, grabbing it and shoving it into my waistband. "Is there any more ammo?" I yelled at her.

"No, no," Connie said, her hand over her mouth.

"Come on," I said, running over to the Cherokee. "Get in the fucking car. NOW, Connie!"

She obeyed, running to the passenger seat, climbing in, and as I pulled out of the logging road, turning onto the highway going west, towards Missouri, I gunned it as fast as I could and thought with the funniest little bit of personal irony that since my car was a new sale, there was nothing that officially connected it to me.

And that meant that to the police, the car was invisible.

Hillman's boots ground into the gravel. The lights from his car circled red and blue and red and blue, making the shithole that James lived a strobe of decay and brokenness. He stepped up the porch stairs and observed the door, ajar, the sad clean poverty inside. Nothing like the studio he had James build for his wife. That was supposed to look suburban, a comforting disguise for the viewers that wanted to think a housewife with a real house was humiliating herself for them.

Hillman held the gun on his hip, calm and calculating. He listened at the entry. Nothing yet.

The dispatcher told him that a kid had called, had said there was a series of gunshots. Gave the exact address. Only one person could have made that call, and Hillman figured it was the fucking kid. Especially considering James wasn't answering his phone. James always answered. It was the only fucking thing he was good at.

Hillman pulled the gun out of the holster and cocked it. His mind ran through the calculations. If the kid called, then he wouldn't have been the one to shoot. CJ was too weak, too willing to go along with the authorities. It was how it was so damn easy to get him convicted and to get the kickback from the for-profit prison. And now the dumb fuck had turned in... something.

The door was caved in, but Hillman knew it was already on the verge of crumbling. Otherwise, there was no sign of struggle, not downstairs. If the kid was involved and called after the fact, then it had to do with him, and that likely ruled out any involvement by the rival gangs that Hillman and his crew kept out of the county.

That left James' hot fuckin' wife. Hillman's teeth bared unconsciously, his eyes widening and his smile emerging like that of a shark that smelled blood.

He cleared the lower level of the house. Nothing yet. Then he went up the stairs, gun drawn. An ambulance and a firetruck arrived in the driveway, and he ignored the sound of them as he listened for something up there.

When the sirens of the other cars shut off, he could hear a pained moaning.

It was James.

Hillman stepped through the upper hall and then into James' bedroom and everything became clear. Damn clear. James was face down, sputtering in his blood. The room was a disaster. He'd clearly gotten into something with his wife and then, somehow, James got himself fucked up and shot. He coldly looked at the whimpering mass on the floor and holstered his gun.

"What happened, James?" His tone was empty of feeling.

James moaned in response and Hillman hissed and kicked at his leg.

"Tell me what fucking happened before you pass out."

James struggled to speak. "Help me... fuck, please, help..."

Hillman sighed. Then he wound up his foot and kicked James harder, smashing his boot into his thigh, and James choked and groaned in the agony of it.

"That fucking--agh, that fucking cunt, Connie, she fucking shot me..." James rolled over, the blood smeared and soaked through his shirt and leaving a drying red mess on his cheek where his blood had ran over the floor and he lay in it. "CJ must have... put her up to it..." He rolled his eyes and passed out when the paramedics came up the stairs, shifting nervously past Hillman and attending to James.

Hillman left the room and went outside. CJ. Connie. The Taggart truck was missing from the driveway. He saw another set of marks in the gravel where a second car had been here, easily today, and in a hurry based on how deep the marks were.

Tire tracks. Two sets.

Different from each other, meaning that it truly was a second car and not the truck parking in different areas. He took some photographs and stood by the outbuilding while the paramedics carried James out on a stretcher, bandaged, listless, delirious from all the bleeding.

Hillman didn't care if James died. He was a fucking failure anyway, a sack of human shit that didn't deserve to live and didn't make him any fucking money anyway. If he lived, he'd just be another body that could hold a gun. He could be pointed on the trail after CJ and Connie, but that would be his only purpose, as a hunting dog.

But why bother?

As James disappeared in the doors of the ambulance, Hillman watched his pale bloodless face and then wondered how much he had revealed to Connie.

Knowing James, it'd be too much.

And that meant whoever was with Connie would know too much at the same time.

He'd have to kill them both.
​

***​

We needed to cross the state lines, and we needed to do it now.

Without stopping for gas, we drove west and through hills thick with pine, until we crossed into Missouri and the land changed into the swamps and wetlands that filled the place and made it miserable. I figured that's why they sometimes pronounced the state 'misery'.

Connie's black eye was looking pretty miserable too. I wanted to get her something to wear, soon, since she had nothing but the clothes she was wearing. The wad of cash I had tucked up against my heart was all that we were going to live on maybe until we could figure out... something. But a few thousand would only last so long.

What was there to do?

What the fuck could we do? Run? Hide?

My mind churned through the possibilities, and the new dangers we were in. The cops would be after us most likely. It was assault, plain and simple, attempted mur*er, and if James was dead, that'd be mur*er in the first degree, and it didn't take much for a cop to get all kinds of self-righteous feelings on arresting somebody accused of that. I realized it wouldn't take long for there to be a full-on police chase, or at least some sort of effort to track us down and to have us locked up.

And if Hillman was half as corrupt as Connie thought he was, and if he was anything like the guys I had met in prison, then there was a chance he'd personally come looking for us.

I hoped to god he wouldn't.

It was night. The forest was pitch black, only the headlights giving us any clue of the road. The trees loomed over us, the highway stretched on, police cars were scattered through the hundreds of miles, ignoring my car, letting us pass. I drove the speed limit perfectly, just in case.

We drove until morning, and then we drove more. I was damn careful with the accelerator, only going to the speed limit and no more and no less. There was nothing about my driving that would have attracted the attention of a cop.

Connie was silent through the drive. She fell asleep in the chair, all wrapped up in a hoodie that I had pulled from the back, occasionally moaning or shifting, restless in her anxiety that seemed to bleed into her dreams. When the morning dawned and the sun started to come up over the highway, and there still wasn't any sign of a roadblock or anything that would have trapped us, it seemed that for now, we were home free.

Somehow.

The light grew stronger and I cracked the window. Clean, fresh air, dewy and pure.

"Hey," I said, nudging Connie's leg with my hand. "You need to eat."

She stirred and looked at me from her chair, her eyes heavy and the black eye turning bright purple.

"Maybe I should get us something from a drive through. What do you think?"

"Is it safe?" She asked, her voice sleepy.

"It'll be safer if we make sure you can't be recognized," I said. "Let's get you some sunglasses. And maybe a little more."

I pulled into a gas station that looked like it was big enough to hold onto more than just cigarettes and beer. I was right. The place had a stand of sunglasses, some promotional hoodies toward the back where they proudly blazed 'Missouri' across the front, as if it were a badge of honor. I bought one, along with the biggest pair of sunglasses I could find, something to help cover up Connie's obvious mark.

Outside, I tossed her the hoodie and then put the sunglasses on her side of the dashboard. Once we were set with that, I pulled us through a bit of fast food, and we were able to get a coffee, a hot meal. Connie was ravenous, her hands shaking as she tore open her sandwich and practically inhaled it with her coffee.

"You alright?" I asked. "You were out for a long time."

"Yeah," she said, quiet. Her legs pressed gently together, pale. She looked around at the sun coming through the interior of the car. In the gold of the morning it seemed heavenly. "Is this real?" I could tell from her tone that she wasn't questioning the beauty of the light. She was shocked and horrified that everything had changed and that we could never, ever go home.

"Yeah," I said. It was hitting me too.

There was no more home. There was no more James to greet. There was no more house. There was no more talking to anyone. I started the car and got back on the road. Had to.

We were fugitives.

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

While I was driving last night, I was thinking. How could I do anything but think? Considering the situation we were in, it was going to take some kind of radical change, something to get us out of the path of Hillman and whatever he was working with. If they were looking. But the more I figured it, the more I knew they wouldn't let somebody shooting one of their crooked buddies go. We had to get the hell out.​