Confessed

by Nicola Rendell

  “Vince!” I whisper. “We’re in enough trouble already!”

  He palms the handle. He presses the door shut and takes two kneeling steps to the front tire, which he punctures with two ferocious, quick stabs. He does the same to the back tire and then flips his knife shut, tucking it into his pocket. Without turning to look at me, keeping his eyes locked on the minimart, he gets on the bike, puts one foot on the pedal, keeping the other on the ground. I bring my knees up high, with my heels on the pegs. He kicks the kickstand and walks the bike backward a few steps.

  “Hang on tight,” he says, handing the helmet back to me. “I mean tight.”

  I nod into the darkness of the helmet and then adjust it so I can see. Around his body, I clasp my wrists in my palms and feel the cuff dig into my forearm at his chest. I squeeze him with my legs. I hold onto him with all my might. I feel him tense and ready to spring under me. He lifts his leg and twists his hand. We shoot towards the empty road and head west with a mind-numbing, glorious rumble.

  We are free. We are together. We’ve done it.

  “Thank you,” I say into his ear.

  He revs the engine by way of You’re welcome.

  But before the minimart disappears, I turn and see Captain Khaki kick the fender of the used cruiser and scream, “Fuck!”

  The speedometer tips past 100 and Vince hollers, “Watch out for cops,” while he guns it past an ice truck. It’s a two-lane highway, and he passes on the left. The desert streaks past in one long stream. We’re going so fast, the dotted line in the middle of the highway becomes a solid blur of yellow.

  What I should feel is freaking terrified.

  What I actually feel is totally, outrageously alive. Like I’m made of sparklers and Pop Rocks.

  Blazing down the highway at dangerous speeds, nobody at all with this man who’s slowly becoming my everything in the world. I feel like me. I link my arms over his abdomen and squeeze his hips hard with my knees. I see him smile in the side-view mirror, and it makes my stomach swirl around.

  But in the other mirror, I see the faraway outline of lights on top of a sedan. I squeeze his pecs and shout, “Behind us!” Instantly, he drops the speed from 101 to 80, the posted limit. He eases in behind a Suburban hauling a horse trailer. It looks like a Lusitano, ears back. On the alert.

  The potential cop comes up behind us, but I see it’s not blue-and-red lights, but orange ones. Eventually, it passes and reveals none other than a mall cop, just like old Harold.

  “Sorry!” I yell.

  He shakes his head. “Better safe than sorry,” he answers and accelerates again. In no time, we’re at 100 again. The wind buffets his T-shirt, and even though it’s hot, my hands are freezing.

  I feel the occasional sideways gust of wind sting my skin with airborne sand. I feel it in my teeth.

  “I love this,” I yell, giving him a squeeze and tucking my chin against his shoulder.

  Vrrrrrroooooom to 110.

  After a minute, he leans back into me and says, “We’re gonna go back to the ranch and get the truck. We’re ditching the Beemer.”

  “Got it.”

  “When we get there, just the basics. Ditch everything. Got it?”

  And I press my hands to his chest to say, Copy that, Captain.

  But as the miles pass and the mess I’ve gotten myself into sprawls out in front of me, I realize more and more that he’s giving up so much—so much—to be with me. He already has his place for a new life. And now here I am dragging him into a disaster that isn’t his at all. I wouldn’t wish my life on anybody. Least of all him.

  So when we pull into the garage behind the barn, I pull off my helmet and say, “Let me go on my own.”

  If looks could kill, oh my God. He’s still on the bike, biceps tensed, shoulders rounded. He’s dirty from the drive and looks more sinister than ever. “What the fuck did you say?”

  His anger startles me. But I meant what I said. I swallow hard. “You should stay here. This is my mess.”

  He narrows his eyes even more. “Lucy, you don’t get it.”

  I feel this wave of something undefined roll up from the pit of my stomach. That’s the look of a wolf in the wild protecting his mate. That’s the look of a male lion about to fight a competitor. That’s the look of a guy who’s not giving up on his woman. My breath comes out in a jagged patter. “My life, it’s complicated. You don’t need that. You have all this.”

  He slings his leg off the bike. With two strides, he’s got me pressed up against the fender of the old truck. He cages me in with his arms, and I lean into the metal behind me. He brings his face close to mine, just an inch away. I smell his sweat. That musky, rich scent that drives me insane. “Don’t fight me,” he says.

  I’m speechless. Just speechless.

  With his fingers, he holds my jaw again and stares down at me. “Without me, you’d be a hundred miles closer to Connecticut.”

  I’m trembling. “I know… But Vince.” I glance out at the ranch.

  He kisses me then, pressing his knee between my legs. I feel my body flutter for his body. I feel my heart thump for his heart. And my admittedly flimsy resolve vanishes.

  “It’s nothing without you. Some things, they’re just fucking meant to be. You and me, that’s one of them.”

  And then he lets me go.

  Vince pops open the storage compartment under my seat and hands me my purse without looking at me. I can’t tell if he’s furious, or turned on, or both.

  Then he goes around to the driver’s side of the truck and leans inside. It doesn’t turn over on the first try. “Motherfucker,” he growls. I hear him take a deep breath, and I watch him turn the key again. The Escher birds flutter on his forearm and the truck starts up.

  He stares at me. “Go get your stuff. Bare minimum. We’re starting from zero.”

  I make a mental inventory of all the stuff in the BMW. None of it matters. None of it means anything. I get in the truck and watch him through the windshield.

  It’s a long stare. Somehow, it feels like a point of no-return stare. We either commit to this now, or it falls apart. With my eyes locked on his, I buckle up.

  He thumps the hood with his fist. Yeah. Fuck yeah.

  He gets in next to me and slams the door. He backs it out of the stable and makes a quick three-point turn, and we’re off. Out in the daylight, I see the windshield has a spider crack on the right side. Behind me, I see a peeling, faded KOREA POW sticker on the back window. An old rosary hangs from the window, and I realize this must’ve been his dad’s. Piece by piece, I’m learning about him, even if he’s a little shy in telling me. I kiss him on the cheek.

  He grabs my thigh but doesn’t look at me. He’s scanning for the Khaki King and so am I.

  Even still, I lean over and buckle him in. He gives me this eyebrow to say Really?

  “Get used to it,” I say and smile at the road.

  He rubs his nose, and I notice it’s healed enough so that he doesn’t wince. Thank goodness.

  “Where to?” I ask as we approach the crossroads.

  He brings the truck to a stop, reaches over, and pulls my face to his. The kiss, this time, is tender and gentle.

  Then he lets me go and focuses back on the road. I see that he’s hard through his jeans. I’m wet for him already. But he’s focused. It’s game time. We’re on the run. And he says, “To get some passports.”

  27

  We head south on I-25 with what’s now just shy of seven grand. Hardly anything. But I’ve got her. She’s what matters.

  “How far is it?” she asks.

  “Three hours,” I say, “Maybe more if we hit traffic.”

  She’s quiet for the first few hours. Thinking, planning. I’ve spent a shitload of time with her in the last week. I know her silences, and I like them.

  But as we’re passing Santa Fe, her hand finds its way to my cock and she rubs me softly through my jeans.

  “I want you,” she whispers.

  I
grip the wheel because fuck. I glance at her. “Here.” I don’t make it a question. We both know it’s not a question.

  “Yeah.”

  The rubbing gets harder. She unbuckles her belt and slides closer on the bench seat. She draws her tongue up my ear. I keep one hand on the wheel, but with the other, I reach in between her legs. She’s wearing a tiny denim skirt. Easy access. No underwear.

  “That’s a bad girl,” I growl at her, and she snickers in my ear.

  “You get to pick out my underwear from now on,” she says.

  “Fuck. Fuck.”

  She slides off the bench seat onto her knees. There’s no console between us. With her little fingers, she undoes my fly. My dick is actually out of my boxers it’s so hard, so when she opens my pants, the tip comes free.

  “God, I love your cock,” she says, raising those eyes to me. And then bringing her mouth around me.

  Jesus Christ, she’s fearless. Road head on an interstate. Those lips, fuck. Those lips.

  “This is so exciting, Vince.” She’s got her head on my leg, and she’s cupping my balls in her hand.

  “Yeah. Road head’s pretty exciting.”

  “Oh, you ass,” she says, laughing.

  She brings her mouth back down on me.

  It feels so fucking good, it’s so goddamned dirty. I haven’t gotten road head in years. She takes me in her mouth, drawing her tongue up and down the base. She pins the foreskin back and works the sides with her tongue. Her eyes never leave my face, until that moment when she starts really moving up and down. Then they close like she’s in heaven.

  Fucking fuck. Why? How? This girl.

  I try to keep an eye on the speedometer. It’s not going to be easy and this truck is not exactly equipped with cruise control. “Touch yourself,” I tell her.

  What does she do then but shake her head no with my cock in her mouth.

  I feel the anger inside me stir up. God, does she know how to get to me.

  She takes me deeper. Deeper. Up and down, the perfect speed. The anger vanishes, and I focus hard on the road, trying to make sure I’m going the speed limit, making sure I’m not tailgating but holy fuck when she licks that place between my balls and my cock, I’ve got no choice—my eyes close all by themselves. “Jesus Christ.”

  On and on she goes. She draws it out, and out. One mile, ten miles. Fifteen. Fucking twenty miles, she works me up and then lets me go back down. I place my hand on the back of her head, and she smiles up at me, cock still in her mouth.

  “That okay?” I ask.

  She nods. My frenulum slides against her tongue, and her lips tighten.

  “Fuck. You have to let me come, Lucy. I can’t…”

  She takes her mouth off my cock and goes back to my balls.

  Again and again, she takes me right to the edge. Edging, over and over. So fucking close, I can feel the tingle in my spine once, twice, three times. But she stops me every time. It’s fucking torture. Daylight, highway, road head torture.

  Then she scoots a little closer. Takes me deeper, takes me so deep her gag reflex makes her body fight me a little.

  I keep her head right where it is. I knot my fingers into her hair. I keep her below the steering wheel because I can’t take it anymore. The edging, the teasing, the fucking hour-long road head.

  “Let me come,” I groan. “Lucy.”

  She shakes her head, nice and slow.

  I growl at the roof of the cab. “Please. Fucking please.”

  Now she nods, and for the first time, she really deep throats me. Her body bucks back, compressing her neck against the wheel. But she fights it. She’s a fucking fighter. And as her throat opens for me and she gags again, I say, “Don’t you dare fucking stop.” I feel her esophagus slap against my head, and finally, fucking finally she lets me loose down her throat.

  I realize that now and for motherfucking ever, this little pistol will have me by the balls.

  As we drive into the vast, dismal expanse that is Albuquerque, I feel like I just did way too much weed. My brain is fuzzy. That blowjob was epic. She licks my cum off me. I rub my eyes.

  “Jesus.”

  She gets off her knees, sits next to me, and wipes her mouth with her hand. “I know.”

  So. Fuck. I rub my face to try to get my shit together. It’s not working. But whatever. Albuquerque. Here we are. It’s way bigger than I remember, but still with the same bumpy highways and billboards alternating between PSAs about chewing tobacco—holy fuck, divert your eyes—and ads for personal injury lawyers with numbers like 1-800-NOT-UR-FAULT.

  “It looks like a tiny LA,” she says, pressing her nose to the window.

  Albuquerque, man. You either love it or hate it or both. I used to hate it, but right now with her beside me, I find I don’t mind it so much at all.

  “Amazing.”

  “What?” she says.

  “Even the dullest shit looks like magic to you.”

  The best place for fake documents in the whole of New Mexico happens to be at a tailor’s shop on Central called SEW WHAT. I haven’t been there in years, but I’m pretty sure the guy is still in business. Everybody uses him. Word is, even the Mexican government has him on speed dial.

  “Does he have a name?” Lucy asks once I tell her where we’re headed. Her face is flushed, and she’s looking like she’s having the time of her life. Also, she’s wearing this black V-neck, and I can see the edge of a black bra peeking out. The road makes the truck rumble, which makes her tits shake, and I find myself thanking God for the New Mexico Department of Transportation for the first time ever.

  “He’s called the Tailor.”

  “Oh, that’s very original,” she says.

  “Right?” I exit the highway and wait at a stoplight. Next to her window, a homeless guy is standing there with a cardboard sign that says, “VEGAN. PLEASE DONATE.”

  “Man, this place has changed.”

  “At least he won’t get dysentery from my father,” she mutters.

  I take a right on Girard and then get on to Central.

  “Route 66!” she squeals, pointing at the sign. “Oh man!”

  Her little hands clench into excited fists, and she turns to look at me. I can’t help but smile. To her, it’s a street in a song. To me, it’s meth dealers and gunshots. She might be a little naïve sometimes, but I like the way she looks at the world a whole lot better than I do.

  I park on the street, and Lucy gets out to feed the meter. “Parking is so cheap here!” she says. “A half hour for a quarter! Are you kidding me right now?”

  I reach out my hand to her. “Yeah, and you can get two beers for eight bucks at the fanciest place in town.”

  “Shut up.”

  I make the Boy Scouts’ salute. “Hand to God.”

  SEW WHAT is the best kind of front of all, because it’s not much of a front: It’s a functioning, money making, tax-paying tailor’s shop that also dry-cleans furs for some reason I’ve never really understood. Fur in Albuquerque? But whatever. We walk through the door and a bell dings. Behind the desk, there he is, the Tailor. Real name, Ira Greenstein. Horn-rimmed glasses, white hair, little suit, yarmulke. Old-school. Original. Criminal Jew.

  He looks at me like he thinks he knows me. He looks at me through the bifocal edge of his glasses and shakes his head.

  So I say, low, under my breath. “Russo.”

  He holds up one finger, saying, “Ah. Indeed.” He sticks out his hand. I give it a shake.

  Then he looks at Lucy and his eyes get as big as golf balls. “Aren’t you…”

  Lucy slumps a little bit. “Fifth Amendment.”

  The Tailor blinks about thirty times and then adjusts his glasses. Lucy is squeezing my hand so hard I can feel my knucklebones compressing.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Vargas,” the Tailor says to me like he hadn’t recognized Lucy at all. The guy is smooth as butter. In one second, he’s recognized Lucy, figured out why she’s standing here in his shop, and apparently, I�
��m going to be Mr. Vargas now.

  “And how are you enjoying the desert, Miss Colburn?” he asks Lucy.

  I can’t see her eyes, but I watch her eyebrows furrow in confusion. I can almost hear her wheels spinning at warp speed. Now she’s got it. She smooths out that pretty forehead and nods. “I like it very, very much,” she answers.

  “Excellent,” says the Tailor, putting his fingers to his keyboard. “Now, what kind of alterations can I do for you today?”

  The guy is a notorious conspiracy theorist. Never actually says things like passports or driver’s licenses out loud. Seems a little over-the-top, but he’s the one with the talent and I can’t argue with that. The thing is, you gotta speak in code or else he won’t do business with you. I say, “The whole package. Hems, linings, zippers, the works.”

  “Buttons?”

  Lucy cocks her head.

  “Full wardrobe cleaning,” I say.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  He leads us into a back room, which is full of different kinds of furs on hangers in dry-cleaning bags. He passes through them, and then I make an opening for Lucy. She’s looking at me like, Is this for real?

  I nod. You fucking bet.

  The Tailor does my stuff first, taking my picture in front of a white screen, just like at the DMV. He pokes his head up from the camera and points to his face as he smiles.

  I shake my head. Do I look like the kind of guy who smiles for photos? No, I fucking do not.

  The Tailor, though, he looks annoyed. “Mr. Vargas, what’s the new fashion?”

  Alright, alright, I got it. He wants the opposite of what I usually look like.

  But the thing is that for me, smiling isn’t easy. Not like I can just slap one on. Then I look over at Lucy and I can just feel her happiness in the air. I think about her in an assortment of positions and a big grin springs to my face. The camera makes a digital shutter noise, and now it’s Lucy’s turn.

  “Stay serious,” I tell her.

  She nods. She adjusts her posture, she does this thing where she brings her chin down a little. She pouts those sexy fucking lips.