Running never fazed me. When everything you love or thought you loved is taken from you, running almost seems like the perfect solution. It’s walking away that I never quite grasped. It’s walking away from your heart, the thing that makes life worth living—that hurts the most. It fucking kills. You try and do the right thing, you think your sacrifices will somehow benefit the people you love and then you’re riding to your death alone, wondering if you made the right decision.

I wanted to believe every word Ally said. I wanted to believe we could fucking disappear somewhere.

Just me and her.

Me and my ride or die girl.

I knew better though. I know no sin goes forgiven in this life. We all pay one way or another and Satan would love nothing more than to torment me. His perfect plan would be to give me Ally. He’d make me think we’re in the clear and then when we finally stop looking over our shoulders, when maybe we’ve settled down in one place with a couple of kids—that’s when he’d strike.

Yeah, walking away, it might fucking kill me but it’ll save Ally.

A slow death is never an easy one and while I ride to Jersey, I think about offing myself and cheating those motherfuckers out of their retribution. Not to mention, it’ll put me out of my misery sooner.

My desperation fades to anger and I decide to fucking fight. I won’t win, but why lay down and die when I’m not laying down for the woman I love. I should’ve told her I loved her instead of insinuating I did. I should have said the words. I thought giving that truth would only hurt when I couldn’t deliver the actions behind the words.

Anyone can say I love you, especially when they’re at the end of the line. It’s almost like saying I’m sorry when someone dies. It’s automatic and what you think should be said, but it doesn’t hold much merit. Love is only a word if you don’t get the chance to prove it, to live it, to breathe it.

Ally deserved more than loving and leaving.

She deserved fire.

I should pray she finds it but the idea of anyone loving her like I do makes me sick. Thinking about some other guy standing in my place drives me to the point of no return. I wonder if that’s why Clyde Barrow never let Bonnie go. Sure, he didn’t think he was good for her but maybe he was too weak to let her go. Or maybe he learned how not to give a fuck. Either way Clyde was a lucky motherfucker.

He got to ride to the end of the line with Bonnie.

Thinking about my own little Bonnie, I pull off the highway. Feeling reckless, desperate and let’s face it, a little sorry for myself, I do the first thing that comes to mind. Eyeing the all-night liquor store, I pull my bike up front and kill my engine before dismounting.

Reaching behind me, I pull out my gun and stare at the neon sign. A memory assaults me, blurring my mind and my vision.

“Does that mean you're my Clyde?”

“Depends, do you want to go rob a bank?”

Her smile flashes before me and I can almost feel her arms around my waist as I stride toward the store. Pulling open the door, my mind plays me and I hear her mischievous voice loud and oh so fucking clear.

“Is it bad that I’m not totally turned off by the idea?”

The bell chimes as my boots glide over the threshold and my gaze zeroes in on the clerk behind the counter. The poor unsuspecting bastard welcomes me with a smile.

“Maybe we should start small and knock off a liquor store.”

“I’m down. I’ll distract the clerk with my fake southern accent and you get the goods. Now, come on, Clyde, take me on a ride I’ll never forget.”

Wishing she was at my side, I raise the gun and pull back the safety.

“Open the fucking register,” I growl, as I cock the gun and aim it directly between his eyes. “Now,” I shout as I grab a bottle of the most expensive whiskey.

Fuck it.

The clerk flounders around, doing his best to collect the cash from the register.

“Please don’t kill me,” he cries and I laugh.

Because I’m a bastard through and through.

Because I’ve lost my fucking mind.

Because I want to pay homage to a great love story.

And I’m not talking about Bonnie and Clyde’s story. I’m talking about Alexandria Richardson and Caleb West.

“This is all I’ve got. It’s been a slow night,” he adds, lifting his palms full of cash.

Lowering my gun, I stare into his fearful eyes and shake my head. I don’t want his fucking money. I don’t even want the bottle of whiskey I’m clutching, but fuck that, this shit is over a hundred bucks a pop.

“Keep your money,” I growl, tucking my gun into the front waistband of my pants. Staring at me in utter shock, he seems to breathe for the first time since I stepped foot into this joint. “I’m taking the booze,” I warn, twisting the cap off the neck of the bottle. “Some men want a steak for their last meal, others want the burn of poison,” I tell him as I knock back a long sip.

“To each his own,” he stutters.

Dragging the bottle away from my lips, I swipe my forearm across my mouth, drying off any excess liquor.

“You have a good night, now,” I tell him before saluting him and walking out the door. I shove the whiskey into my saddlebag and throw my leg over my bike. The alcohol calms me, it warms me and it makes me dream of fire.

Twenty minutes later, I torture myself some more and park in front of Pops shooting range. Fighting back more memories of Ally, I sit on my bike and spray the windows with bullets. When the clip runs dry, I lower my gun and let my boots crunch over the gravel of the parking lot.

The devil is alive, coursing through my veins as I kick open the door and instantly the security alarm blares. Raiding the joint, I sling an AK-47 over my shoulder and shove guns wherever I can.

As I peel away from the shooting range, I prepare myself for war. Like any good soldier, I’m ready to lay it all on the line. I bite back my fear, forget my sorrow and stand with my boots planted firmly on the front line.

My life flashes before my eyes.

The good.

The bad.

The right.

The wrong.

Hanging on by a thread, I make my way back home, to the motel where the memory of Ally burns bright. Armed with a bottle of whiskey and enough ammo to blow motherfuckers from here to kingdom come, I step inside my room and am instantly assaulted by her scent.

Fucking coconuts.

Her.

Me.

It all comes rushing back to me.

I dump the guns on the bed I loved her on and pull up a chair.

With my memories and the bottle of whiskey I wait for death.

Come at me motherfuckers.

Take me to hell.

Watch me burn.