Jason
“Fuck! Buckle the fuck up, Kitten. These motherfuckers aren’t playing!”
The car that slammed into us, almost tossing us into a spin, recovered just as fast from the impact as I did. Whoever made us is hot on our tail, and the speeds are hitting close to 100 mph.
“I hope this fucking piece of shit holds onto the tires. Look behind us and see if you can tell how many are in the car,” I growl out. My voice is demanding, but I’ve never failed, and I won’t now.
My eyes are on the road ahead as Kat unclicks her seatbelt for a minute, checking the back window.
“I think two, but the window isn’t clean. Hard to tell with all that dust.” Kat’s voice is shaking when she speaks.
“Belt back on. Now. Hold on. I’m taking that turn off up there.” I point out toward the small dirt road that’s about a hundred feet ahead of us. They won’t expect that. How fucking stupid could someone be to go off-road in a Trans Am?
“What the hell was his name?” My voice is that of an insane man. She wouldn’t even know what I was talking about.
“Huh? Whose name?” Kat looks over with a blank stare.
“Smokey and the Bandit. What the hell was Burt’s name in that movie?”
Of course, she still doesn’t know who I’m talking about, but that movie made cars like this famous.
“Bo. The name was Bo.” With that, I make the sharp turn down the dirt road, the tail end of the car swerving back and forth.
“Shit, they followed us,” I say, my voice even. I won’t let her know that we’re this close to fucked.
Not yet, at least. Not ‘til I’m sure of it.
“You know how to shoot?” I ask her. I’m sure she does. Girls like Kat are eye candy, not badasses. Except Kat.
“Yeah, I do.” She laughs, and I smile. That’s my girl.
“Grab the gun out of my boot. I want you to try to shoot out the tires. Not ours!”
Sticking her tongue out, Kat reaches down, grabbing the small handgun in my boot. Her hand is shaking.
“Roll the window down. I’m going to slow a little. When the car gets close, shoot the fucking tires.”
“Got it. Hey, can I call you Tex? You know, like this is some gunfight at the OK Corral?” Her voice is filled with nervous laughter.
“Sure, call me whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t miss, okay?”
Rolling the window down, Kat leans out as I slow the car to 50 mph. It’s a chance we have to take.
“Can you get a clean shot?” I ask. I’m just hoping she doesn’t drop the fucking gun.
“Yeah, I think... I can,” she says, the gun resting in her hand as she aims it at the car behind us.
POP!
“I HIT IT. I HIT IT!” Kat screams out. She fumbles with the gun, almost dropping it.
I yank her back in the car by the back of her shirt. She’s laughing out of some manic combination of euphoria and fear when I do.
She settles herself back in the seat in a state of shock.
“You got the sum, bitches. Knocked that car clean off the fucking road. I think I’ll call you Candy Apples.” I cackle with laughter. I slow down and watch the two guys in the other car rant and scream.
“Did you get cut when the window blew?” I ask her. I was concerned before, but there was no time to say anything. Fight-or-flight took over.
Grabbing my smokes from the dash, I tap out a Marlboro red, perching it between my lips. Pushing in the car lighter, I hope it works. This car is, like, ancient, and I forgot my lighter back at the place we stayed at.
Pop. The lighter signals it’s hot. I light up my cigarette; the cancer stick is needed in times like this.
“Bad habit, but fuck, so is dying,” I say as I inhale, the smoke filling my lungs with toxic fumes.
“That stinks,” Kat spits out, reaching to yank the cigarette from my lips. Placing it between her own lips, she inhales, leaning back when the smoke consumes her.
“Fucking hell, Kat!” Growling, I have the cigarette back before she can complain.
We drive for hours, until the sun is making its way slowly toward the horizon.
“Where are we going?” she finally asks. Her feet are now hanging out the window of the car, the road finally back to paved.
“I know a place where we can stay tonight. If anyone finds us, well, let’s just say this—they won’t find us.”
A hundred more miles pass before we reach the destination. We reach a biker bar called Whiskey Pete’s.
No one would venture into this place without a death wish. You have to know someone to even make it through the parking lot.
We’re stopped by two armed men. I look over at Kat for a minute. “Stay put, okay?”
She nods, but I don’t trust her. Not for a minute.
Turning the ball cap on my head backward, I get out, and I’m met with two old friends.
“Jason, that you?” the bigger one of the two asks. He’s about forty, with a pot belly, and balding. The gun on his side makes up for his appearance.
“Yeah, me and the old lady.” I stop for a minute. I hate to lie to them, but they don’t need to know everything. “We need to lay low. She blew the wrong guy back in Texas, and, well, we need a place for the night.”
“You fucking liar!”
There she is, not following the fucking rules again. Standing at my side, this crazy woman is going to blow it all. Why the hell doesn’t she listen? Why?
But I still fucking love the fuck out of her, even if she can’t keep her mouth shut.
“Yeah, we can put you up for a day or two, but put that bitch in her place. You know the boss doesn’t like mouthy women.”
With that, we’re waved through.
“I told you to stay in the car. I asked you nicely. Why can’t you just, for once, listen to me? These guys are not a cake walk.”
Driving to the front of the neon-lit bar, I ask again, “Please, let me handle this. I’ll get us a room, and you can finish that blowjob you started in the car.”