"There," Elizabeth said. "We need to get off there!"

Tom batted her hand away. "Hey! Hey! Driving is not a community property experience!"

"But that's the cut-off to Balmorhea, and—Oh, shit. Now you've passed it. Turn around, Tom. We need to go back."

He kept his hands at the ten and two o'clock positions. "We said we'd get to Van Horn tonight. It's only, what? Another hour?" He glanced sideways at her. She was rubbing her temples and had that expression she got just before they had an argument.

Not that they had many. And he loved her even when they argued. That was the point of marriage, though, wasn't it? To make it through the arguments and get to the good stuff.

"We didn't say that? When did we say that?"

"This morning. You were in the shower and I was brushing my teeth and I said we should get as far as we could today."

"And in case you hadn't noticed, today's over. We're into tomorrow now. So let's stop at Balmorhea."

"We can make it to Van Horn. Balmorhea's off the highway. We have to go out of our way. The interstate goes right through Van Horn. Besides, you agreed."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "You do that, you know. You start whole conversations when I'm in the shower and I don't even know what I'm agreeing to."

"Clearly, you need to pay more attention to your husband."

She scowled.

He lifted his hands off the wheel for a second. "Just kidding."

"Even if I did, we don’t have to stick to the plan like glue," she said.

"But the whole point of driving to Disneyland was so that we could watch America roll by outside. And trust me when I say that this part of Texas is better in the dark. My dad used to take me hunting in West Texas. It's a whole lot of nothing."

"Hunting?"

"Hey, Texas boy here. Handguns and rifles and an oil well in the backyard."

She laughed. "You're so very typical."

"Nah, just lucky. Anyway, if we make it to Van Horn, then most of tomorrow is New Mexico and Arizona. And those deserts are much prettier."

"I'm a Texan now, too, remember?" Her fingers brushed his hair, and when he looked over the expression was gone, replaced by that sweet, vulnerable face he fell in love with. "That means I love every part of your state, even the dusty, dry parts."

"I'm very glad to hear it." He smiled at her, still not quite able to believe she was his wife. Wife. Man, his parents were going to shit bricks when they found out. "Let me see it."

She cocked her head. "Tom."

"Please?"

She shook her head, then released an indulgent sigh as she held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger.

"My mother's going to want a big wedding, you know," he said.

"Seems silly since we're already married."

"Married by a judge in Austin doesn't cut it for her."

"If it's good enough for the great state of Texas..."

He laughed. "I'm just warning you. She's going to love you. But she's going to want to get you in a frilly white dress with flowers and a preacher and a huge reception afterwards. I'm pretty sure magnolias will be involved. And a cake."

"Hey, it's your family's money. If she wants to spend it on a big party, then more power to her. Just so long as we're clear that the white dress is the traditional style and not a statement as to my purity. Because, sweetheart, if I wasn't already completely impure, I plan on seriously kicking it up a notch once we reach Disneyland."

He feigned shock. "But it's a family resort."

"I'll tell the kiddies to divert their eyes." She was silent, then, and he glanced over to find her looking at him, a curious expression on her face.

"What is it?"

"I was just thinking. About vows. 'Til death do us part, and all that. Do you think we'll go to Disneyland when we're eighty and using walkers?"

"Count on it."

"Do you think we'll still be having sex?"

"God, I hope so."

Her laugh filled him as much as it filled the car. "But you realize that was kinda my point," she said, when her giggles stopped. "It's going to be, what? Almost two before we even get to Van Horn. And what if we can't find a room? What then? It's another long haul to the border, and I do not want to crash at dawn at some shithole motel in El Paso or Las Cruces." She leaned over and pressed her hand on his thigh. "Shithole motels really don't get me in a honeymoon kind of mood."

He had to at least silently concede that she had a point about the motel. He'd been driving for ten hours already today, and the thought of going past Van Horn was making him a less than happy puppy.

"Do you really want me to turn around?"

She let out a long sigh, then shifted in her seat, looking out at the stretch of highway lit by their headlights in front and the wall of black behind them. "No, we're already a million miles from the turn-off and we'd have to find someplace to double back."

"On we go, then. Tunes?" He had some classic Lyle Lovett in the CD player and cranked the volume. "Why don't you go online and see if you can book us a room," he suggested, as Lyle crooned about M.O.N.E.Y. "You can do that, right? Wasn't that the point of buying that thing?" He nodded vaguely in the direction of her purse that sat on the floorboard at her feet.

"That," she said, "is a Coach bag. And the point was to look awesome." She flashed a model-quality smile and he laughed.

"Well, it works."

"Thank you very much. This," she added, pulling an iPad out of the bag, "is for checking my Facebook page on the road, thank you very much."

"You're very welcome."

She smirked, and he laughed. She'd bought it before they set out on the road, her first purchase as his wife. "I guess I don't have to say thanks anymore, do I? I mean, now it's community property."

"Yours, mine, and ours. For richer or for poorer, so don't buy too many of those toys or we'll be hitting the poorer side of that equation." Not exactly true. He had his trust fund money plus the cash he'd got when he'd sold his stock options at the height of the tech boom. He was barely past thirty, had a beautiful wife, and never had to work a day again. Life was good.

She ran her finger up the inside of his thigh. "It's not the things I'm interested in. It's you. When we get to Van Horn and I'm dead tired, just remember who insisted we go on."

His cock twitched, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "You're evil. You know that, right?"

Those fingers worked some sweet magic. "I know," she whispered.

He cleared his throat. Forced himself to concentrate on the road. "Besides, I have a feeling I can wake you up."

"I'm sure you can." She eased back to her side. "Just for the record, I'm getting a massage before we ride any rides, sing It's a Small World, or have breakfast with Mickey."

He laughed. "Fair enough."

"Let's see what I can find, then." She tapped on the iPad and the screen illuminated the interior of the car in a glowing blue. The light flashed in his rear view mirror, and he flinched.

"Tom?"

"Sorry. I—" He rubbed his eyes.

"What?"

"The light's playing tricks on me. I thought I saw a car behind us."

She shifted in her seat. "It's pitch black back there. Doesn't Texas have the money for a few lights on their highways?"

"Like I said—middle of nowhere. And it must have just been a trick of the light. Any luck with the room?"

"There's no signal. It's a great toy, but it's not connecting to the internet, and we're not making phone calls. So don't get a flat, because there's no way we're getting through to Triple A."

"The car's fine. Don't be paranoid. People drove across the country long before cell phones were invented."

"And iPads and CDs. Can you imagine? Eight track tapes? I mean, what kind of world was that?"

"My dad had an old eight track player in the garage," he said. "I used to—Fuck!"

Lights flashed on behind him—right behind him. Filling his rear view mirror and getting bigger by the second.

Beside him, Elizabeth yelled, reaching out to steady herself with a hand on the door. "What the—oh my god. He's crazy. He's right on your ass!"

"I know! I know!" His heart was pounding in his chest. He told himself this was no big deal. The guy was drunk. He was being an ass. But all they had to do was let him get by and they'd have the road to themselves again.

He lifted his foot off the accelerator.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was high, terrified.

"I'm slowing down. Letting him pass."

"I don't think—"

Wham!

They both jolted forward as the car behind them—no, it was a truck—tapped the rear bumper.

"Jesus, Jesus," Elizabeth said. "Do you have a gun? A weapon?"

"I don't have shit." He had his knife, like always. A folding blade that was springloaded and pretty much lived in his pocket. But that wasn't much good against a crazy pick-up truck. "Fuck. Call 9-1-1."

"There's no cell service! I just told you!"

Wham! Tapped again, and this time from an angle, so that his sweet little Mercedes shifted a bit to the right. "Just fucking try again!"

"Do not yell at me." Her voice was tight, and it sounded like she was going to burst into tears at any moment. "Don't do it, Tom. Do not yell at me."

"Babe, I'm sorry. I'm freaked is all. Okay, look. I'm going to floor it." He did as he was talking. "We're small and fast, and see? We're already pulling away. So just watch the phone and the second you get a signal, you call. Okay?"

She nodded, and he kept his hands tight on the wheel and his foot flat on the floor.

And for a second—one beautiful, wonderful, fabulous second—he thought it was going to work. And then the gap started closing. Those lights started growing bigger. And soon the truck's headlights consumed the small back window of the Mercedes.

Tom tensed. Waiting to feel another smack against the bumper. But none came. The truck just tailed him. Ten, maybe fifteen inches away from the back of his car, tracking him as they whipped down the highway.

The minutes sagged by.

"Signal?"

Beside him, Liz shook her head, her eyes wide and terrified.

"Restart the phone. Sometimes it finds a network when you restart."

She nodded and rebooted the phone.

"Do you think it's over? He's just going to tail us all the way to Van Horn?"

"It's at least a half an hour away," Tom said, which technically didn't answer her question. "But he's stopped hitting us. Maybe he's just drunk."

"I bet he's drunk as a fucking snake. Bastard."

"So, we just drive, and we breathe in and out, and we will be fine."

The lights behind them snapped off, leaving a gaping black chasm behind them.

"Is it—Did he—?"

Tom reached over and grabbed her hand. "I don't know."

That's when he heard the sharp crack.

"What was that?" Elizabeth asked.

"I don't know."

Another crack, and that time Tom figured it out, because the car skidded, then started to fishtail. He tried to steer into it, which was easier said than done, but they just kept skidding in a circle, right off the road until the car tumbled sideways into a ditch.

His right arm was thrust sideways across Elizabeth's chest, a protective cage. She was breathing hard, her fear filling the car along with his.

"He shot out the tire," he whispered. "The crazy son-of-a-bitch shot out the tire."

"What do we do?"

"Stay here. Maybe he's had his fun. Maybe he'll just go. Is there a signal yet?"

"Oh, God." Panic made her voice raise. "I dropped it. Oh, shit." She bent over and scrabbled on the floor board. He could hear her murmured, "Please, please, please." Then, "Shit. No signal."

"This is what we're going to do. We're going to stay in the car. Simple. Straight-forward."

"Do you see him?"

He twisted in his seat, scouring the darkness behind them. "No, I—"

And there he was.

Not some drugged out kid, or some bearded, wild-eyed desert survivalist. Just a dude. In a white button down over a denim jacket and jeans. He had a crooked grin and he didn't look the least bit psychotic.

Tom didn't move a muscle.

"Hey!" the Dude called. "Are you okay? Shit! That fucker blew your tire right out!"

Tom glanced sideways at Elizabeth, who was staring at past him at the Dude, her mouth open as if she couldn't quite believe this.

"You—you saw it?"

"Shit, yeah."

Tom swiveled in his seat, trying to see through the oily darkness. "How?"

"My car," the Dude said, pointing vaguely behind them. "I was sleeping—too much driving, you know—and I saw the crazy bastard rail down on you."

Tom rolled the window down—but only about half an inch.

"You—you saw him? Where did he—"

"Floored it right on by while you were spinning. Man, he's probably in New Mexico by now."

"Do you have cell service? Can you call a cop? A tow truck?"

"Signal picks up in about five miles. Right now, it's like the wild, wild west."

"Could you—I mean, would you drive ahead? Call someone?"

"Sure thing." He took a step back, then stopped. "Or, you know, I could help you change the tires. This ditch ain't so deep, and this car's not even as heavy as my sister."

"I don't know..."

Beside him, Elizabeth shifted. "I think it's a great idea. I don't want to wait here, Tom. What if that freak comes back?"

"Lady's got a point. He lit up my car playing chicken with you two. Wouldn't surprise me at all if he comes back to see if I've done just that—gone off to get help for you guys."

"I only have one spare."

"And I got one. Won't be a perfect fit, but I got tools. We get it on, and it'll hold you to a gas station."

He glanced at Elizabeth, who eyed the Dude with a frown, then nodded. "Yeah. I want to get out of here."

"Right. Okay." He felt the weight of the knife in his pocket as he shifted to turn off the car. He had the keys in his hands, keeping them tight between his fingers. Neither the keys nor the knife would do much good if the gun-toting maniac came back, but it made him feel a little safer.

He shifted the keys to his left hand and grabbed Elizabeth's hand. Her side of the car was sitting at an odd angle, and if she opened that door, she'd tumble out. "Just slide over. I've got you."

He opened the door, and the Dude stepped back, then moved forward again as Elizabeth scrambled to get free. The Dude took her elbow. "Here ya go, ma'am. I got you."

She flashed him one of her rare smiles, almost flirtatious, and Tom swallowed, feeling like an idiot because what the hell was he jealous about? He wasn't. He was just on edge, was all.

"We're newlyweds," he said, showing the Dude his hand and his ring.

"Hell of a thing to happen on your honeymoon," the Dude said. "Come on. My car's a few yards back. We can get my spare and a jack."

They started walking that way, Elizabeth using her phone as a flashlight. It barely cut through the inky black, but Tom could tell they were easing off the shoulder and onto the Texas rock and scrubby bushes. "You're off the road?"

"Shit yeah. Park on the shoulder and some sleepy-ass truck driver will rear-end you before you know it. There she is," he said, as Elizabeth's beam caught the front edge of a truck, its bumper scraped with red paint.

Tom grabbed her hand and took a step backwards.

"Aw, dammit. You found me out." The Dude pulled a Rossi revolver from under his jacket. "What a fucking inconvenience."

"Look, just—just let us go. I have money. What do you want? A thousand? Ten thousand?"

"Sounds like a start. But maybe I want the girl."

Tom squeezed her fingers even as an invisible hand clutched at his heart. "You leave her the fuck alone."

The Dude stepped closer. "Yeah? You're telling me what to do? Who's the one with the gun here?"

Tom swallowed. "That would be you."

"And don't you fucking forget it. Walk." He waved the gun toward the darkness further off the highway.

"No." Tom clutched tight to Elizabeth.

"No?" The Dude thrust the gun out and down. Then blam! Rocks and sand went flying at Tom's feet before he even had time to think about it.

"Are you fucking crazy?" Elizabeth screamed.

"Me? Crazy?” He waved the gun. "Hell no."

"Hush." Tom kept his voice low, calm. "Don't provoke him."

"That's right, Liz. Don't provoke me."

A chill shot down Tom's spine. "How do you know her name?"

"I think the more relevant question is what the fuck are you doing married to my girl."

"Your gir—" But that was all he got out. He heard the crack of the gun, felt the push as the bullet hit him in the chest. He stumbled back. And in the soft glow of the light from Elizabeth's phone, he saw her release his hand and pull her fingers free.

He landed on the ground, and as he looked up at Elizabeth's scowling face, he parted his lips to ask a question.

But the question didn't come.

* * *

"Are you insane?" Liz snapped. "How long have we planned this? How much time did we spend working out every fucking little detail?"

"He pissed me off," Eric said.

God save her from idiot lovers. "He's fucking dead, you moron. How am I supposed to pull anything from his bank accounts when we don't have his goddamn account numbers and access codes?"

The plan had been to get Tom in a hotel, get him tied up, get the information and then kill him. Eric would pistol whip her, fuck her hard, and then get himself gone while she called 9-1-1. After that, she could draw from the account without having to wait for all the probate bullshit, bullshit which would undoubtedly leave some of her money with his pedantic, pain in the butt relatives.

Much nicer to be on her own with cash in her pocket, and his too nice, I-don't-have-to-work-and-can-stay-home-all-day-and-be-a-pain-in-your-butt body out of her life.

And then the braintrust here had to go and screw it all up.

"You're still married. You'll still get it."

"Think, Eric! Think." She pressed her hands to her temple, then scowled at him again. "And you smell like a damn brewery. Are you drunk? Are we seriously doing this while you're drunk?"

He actually looked sheepish. "I was bored. You guys took your damn time."

"Honestly! And quit waving that thing. You're making me nervous." She held out her hand and he slapped the gun into her palm.

"You got a real bitchy attitude sometimes, Liz. You know that right? Sometimes you just need to chill. Go with the flow. It's all gonna work out just fine, and we're gonna be soaking in the sun on some foreign beach by the weekend."

She drew in a breath, nodded. "Right. You're right. I'm just a little freaked. I wasn't expecting the backup plan."

"That's why they call it a backup, baby." He'd been waiting in the truck at the turn-off to Balmorhea. She'd known she couldn't push too hard, not and be Tom's adoring little "Elizabeth." So Eric had waited, and if they passed the exit, then he was supposed to come after them. Smooth as silk.

And in a lot of ways, so much better.

She smiled. "Sorry. I'm okay. You're right. The account numbers were just to speed things up. No pre-nup. I'm his little wifey. I'll get my share, easy squeazy. My share, and a lot of sympathy. Car jacked on our honeymoon? How fucking rotten is that?"

Eric spread his hands. "I'm the man."

"That you are."

"So, I need to get out of here," he said. "But you gotta be a little fucked up. Pistol-whipped and all that shit. Just like we planned at the hotel. Gimme the gun back."

She held it out to him. "Don't hold back. When you hit me, make it look good."

"Shit, Liz," he said, stepping close to take it. "Didn't nobody ever tell you about not pointing that thing at people?"

Blam!

Even in the dark, she could see the blood spread across the bright white cotton of his shirt. "Sorry, Eric," she said as he fell. "Nobody ever said a word."

* * *

She realized her mistake right away. She should have let him fuck her, let him whack her on the cheek a few times to raise a huge bruise. Because now she was going to have to do at least a little damage to herself.

She'd tell the cops the car jack story, but she'd say that when he was trying to rape her she got the gun from him. Managed to shoot him, and then escaped in his truck.

Nice and neat, except for the fact that she didn't have a mark on her.

She turned the flashlight app on and shined a light around the area. She found a rough rock and used it to rip her jeans, then she sat on her ass and dragged herself along the ground, wincing as the gravel and debris cut at her knees and hands.

She'd had a manicure before they left, but now she clawed at the dirt, fighting a pretend assailant who was dragging her off, ripping her cuticles, breaking her nails. Not really a problem, since she could pay for a lifetime of manicures now.

She wasn't looking forward to messing up her face—much easier to have someone else do it for her. She shined the light at Eric's lifeless body. No help there. And as for her dear, departed husband....

Her light found him, too, his shirt stained red, his eyes open in surprise, blood bubbles forming at his moving lips—

What the fuck?

She stepped closer. It had to be a trick of the light.

"E..za..beth."

"Oh, shit, Tom. Why the fuck aren't you dead?"

His lips moved again, but she couldn't make out the words.

Dammit all, she didn't need this shit. "Look, I'm really sorry. I mean, you're an okay guy and all. But I'd have to slit my throat if I stayed married to you. Nothing personal. Really."

Again, the lips moved. Again, she heard nothing.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She got closer. "What is it? You want to tell me the account numbers? You're probably in a lot of pain. Tell me, and I can make it all go away."

He nodded. Or she thought he did. Not that easy to tell, really.

She got down close to him, the gun in her hand. She could smell the blood. She'd thought Eric had got him in the heart, but now that she was closer, she could see he missed it. Probably got a lung, though. Poor guy was probably drowning in his own blood.

"Nine...ven...teen."

"Hold on, baby. Say it slower, say it louder. Just say it, and I'll make it all be over." She bent closer, her ear near his mouth.

"Fuck...you..."

She jerked away, but it was too late. His arm was already up, that damn knife of his already out, and she gagged on blood as he thrust the blade deep into her throat.

Fucker!! She screamed, or she tried to. She was gagging, choking, and with her free hand, she yanked the knife out, tossed it aside, and clutched hard at her neck as warm blood pulsed out between her fingers. She was on her knees, swaying, her head like a balloon about to lift off into space.

Dead. He was fucking dead. She lifted the gun, got it right in his face, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Just click.

In front of her, through the haze of gray that was fast overtaking her, she saw her husband smile, and this time she heard his weak whisper. "Rossi's a five-shooter, bitch."

And as she tumbled sideways, her blood spilling out onto the warm Texas dust, she heard his voice one last time. The last words she ever heard. "'Til death do us part, Elizabeth. 'Til death do us part."

* * *

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