"There could be a sniper down there to pick up strays," I pointed out. "Besides, the hideout is a deathtrap by now. You could never get in – and, if you did, you could never get out."
"But the others – I was their leader…"
"Correction," I said evenly, "you were their leader. They've all been barbecued by now."
I had become incredibly calm in the eye of the crisis. At the same time Chinga had swerved into irrationality. Our roles had been temporarily reversed and I was the dominant one.
"Come on," I urged, "we've got to get out of here."
"Whichever side it is – they'll find us," he cringed.
"Why should they?" I grinned sardonically. "As far as they know, we were lost in the fire. They won't be looking for us if they think we're dead."
He got hold of himself and thought about it. "Yeah," he rasped, his confidence reemerging in the huskiness of his voice, "dead men tell no tales. We could move around the country like we were invisible."
"Then let's get started," I said, turning my back on my respectable past for a life of sex and crime. I had never felt so alive.
That night, we used what remained of the cover of darkness to work our way through the woods away from the smoldering hideout. By morning we reached the outskirts of a small town. It was then we both realized I was still stark naked.
"We gotta get you some clothes," Chinga said, and then paused to screw up his face with perplexity. "Christ, here we are partners and I don't even know your name."
"Angie," I told him. "Just plain Angie. Forget about the rest of it – I'm trying to. Now, you tell me, what's this mysterious Chinga stand for?"
"Fuck you."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Fuck you," he broke up laughing. "It's Spanish for fuck you."
"How'd you get a nickname like that?" I giggled like a schoolgirl.
"My old man was a Mexican. And it was about all he ever said to me the whole time I was growing up. I heard 'chinga' so much I just gradually took it for my name."
"What's your real name?"
"Rodney, from my mother – I'm trying to forget that, too."
"Good, so will I." I batted my eyelashes at him. "I like Chinga. Now what about those clothes – it's chilly out here."
His plan was simple. He had a gun, so he was going to rob a clothing store. Then he was going to steal a car and drive around to the edge of town to pick me up. He assured me that the way he could drive nobody was going to catch us.
It sounded all right when he originally proposed it, but I started to have misgivings when I heard the shots, I hadn't figured on Chinga shooting up the place.
The gunfire was followed by the rumble of commotion in the street. Chinga had succeeded in stirring a sleepy little rural community into a hornets' nest. His style was definitely confrontationist.
More shots rang out and then an engine started. It was such a small town that the sounds were all distinct. With the screeching of tires, I figured Chinga had gotten his car.
Sure enough, it came squealing around the bend just a couple of minutes later. As I piled into the front seat of the Camaro. I noticed a pile of jeans and sweaters in the back.
"I got all different sizes," he informed me as he gunned us away from the hysterical town. "Just find what fits you and toss the rest out the window."
Later, after I was dressed, I asked the inevitable question. "What happened back there?" I put it to him directly. "Was anybody hurt?"
"Yeah," he replied as he hunched over the wheel like a stock-car racer, tearing up country roads at over 80 miles an hour. "Had to waste a couple of guys who got in my way."
"I thought murder was too heavy for you," I said. "I overheard you tell that to the others when you were explaining how you got into the Parker mess."
"That was business, Angie," he replied. "This is survival. There are no more rules to obey. We're free."
"Free to run," I sardonically abridged his estimation of our status. Each dusty mile melting by us was further proof of the fury of our flight. I couldn't help wondering where it would all end.
The police roadblock that abruptly loomed on the horizon didn't help my piece of mind, either. However, it didn't bother Chinga a bit. Accepting it as a challenge, he rammed the accelerator to the floor and drove right through it.
It all happened so fast, it seemed like a dream. It seemed more as though I were watching it in a movie than participating in it.
However, several miles later, I discovered that the bullet holes in the windows were definitely real. "Christ, they were shooting at us!" I blurted.
"You better believe it," he chuckled. "Those Highway Patrol dudes are always trigger-happy."
"But we could have been hit!"
"But we weren't. This is our trip, baby, and nothing's gonna stop us."
He was talking in that commanding tone of voice again. When Chinga turned on the charisma he was irresistible, no matter how outrageous.
"Danger's the ultimate turn-on, baby, don't you know that?" he leered. "Check your pussy – I'll bet the excitement made it soaking wet."
It was a dare I couldn't resist. Unbuttoning my jeans, I pressed my hand against my panty-less crotch.
Chinga was right. It was a swamp down there!
"Well?" he awaited the results.
"My cunt is dripping," I informed him through a Mona Lisa smile. "Pull the car over to the side of the road and fuck me."
A bulge suddenly arose from his lap. At the same time, he slammed on the brakes, throwing the Camaro into a looping skid. By the time we came to rest, we were off the road, rutted beside a tree that we had narrowly missed.
By this time the pace of our impulsive relationship had me panting. "Get out your cock," I hurriedly rasped. "Get out your big cock and fuck me with it."
Fortunately I had not littered the highway with the clothes that hadn't fit me. Still in the back, they provided a soft bed for us when we crawled back there to really get it on. By the time Chinga had his prick in working order, I was back there with my jeans off and legs spread and he dove over the seat to fuck me.
We were like teenage lovers, unable to keep from making love whenever the urge hit us. Humping away in the back seat of a Camaro, we could have been a couple of kids at a drive-in instead of outlaws.
"Mmmmm, wiggle your big prick around inside me," I cooed when he was splitting me to the hilt. "It makes my cunt feel so good when you move."
And, of course, he wanted me to squirm my ass as much as I wanted him to play tricks with his cock. Vigorously obliging, I shimmied so that it seemed I would twist his brittle joint off at the root.
All of the sadism and violence of the night before had disappeared. Locked in my embrace, pumping his dick into my pussy, Chinga was fucking me like a lover rather than an abductor.
"I love you," I whimpered with joy as he speared me to the depths. "I love your big, strong cock."
Already I was coming. Even though we had just begun screwing, orgasm was buzzing within me like a swarm of bees. This was the fastest I'd ever come while fucking a man. Even the symbolic rape of the night before hadn't started me spasming this soon.
As I accepted surge after surge of Chinga's thrill-producing hard-on, I couldn't help but think about the way it had been in my old life. It all seemed so long ago – all that meaningless fucking to no orgasm. Sure, I had some misgivings about my life on the run with Chinga but with his stiff cock making my pussy come, they all seemed meaningless.
I wondered if I could ever go back to the suburbs. When Chinga began to pour sperm into my cunt, I guessed not.
"Your cum feels so hot in my pussy," I congratulated him. "There's so much I can already feel it leaking down my ass."
"I'm really horny today," he informed me of the obvious. "Close-calls do that to me."
"You mean you weren't sure you could get through that police barricade?" I asked incredulously, stroking his cock with my fingers to keep it hard.