2freakd

𓆰♱𓆪 ⛪︎

It's not that you got used to the idea of robbing or harming someone, but eventually it started to make sense. And sometimes, some people had it coming. Like the old man who offered help when Hollis's car died.

You were in the middle of nowhere, somewhere along the interstate in between Colorado and Utah. The nearest light you'd seen had been a gas station sign about forty minutes back, and before that, nothing — just the highway cutting through dark flatland, the kind of empty that makes you aware of how small you are. You'd been sleeping until you heard Hollis cursing and felt the car slowly pulling to a stop.

You woke to Hollis stepping out and lifting the hood to check the engine. You stepped out after him.

"Get back to the car," he said.

"No," you answered simply, and he sighed. You reached his side, looking down at the engine as if you understood any of it. "What's wrong?"

"It's probably the water — it overheated." You nodded, still with no clue. "I didn't check back in the last city."

"And what are we gonna do?" You raised your eyes to him.

"I don't know," He looked back at you with a tired stare — he'd been driving the whole night. "I'm calling a tow truck."

Half an hour went by with Hollis trying to get through to a tow truck. You honestly didn't even know how far you were from the nearest town, but judging by the landscape — stretches of grass and the odd solitary property sitting dark and still in the distance — you figured it was far. It was also the first time in quite a while that you'd seen Hollis using his phone; most of the time it stayed off, and he made you keep yours off too.

"Fuck," he roared at the screen, about to dial again when you stepped closer.

"We can sleep in the car tonight and look for help tomorrow." You reached for his face, both hands cupping it gently, fingers brushing his cheekbones. His gaze softened as soon as he met your eyes, and he smiled — softly.

"Sounds good," he said, and you smiled back.

He left the backseat for you. You didn't want to sleep in comfort without him, but he insisted he was too big for the backseat anyway — though truthfully, he was too big for the front seat too. Even reclining back, he had to curl into his own frame just to lay properly.

You watched him from the back, his cap pulled low, arms folded across his chest in the pale moonlight, while you searched for your own sleep. It never came. You listened to an owl somewhere far off, the wind shaking the tall grass and bending the trees, the occasional car passing down the road — none of it pulled you under. You were already resigning yourself to staying awake the whole night when the knocks came.

You heard them before you fully understood what they were. Three slow knocks, evenly spaced, like someone who'd been standing there a while before deciding to announce themselves. It immediately startled you but Hollis didn't so much as stir. You looked out the window before waking him.

The man was standing too close to the car. Not the polite distance of someone passing by who'd noticed trouble — he was right up against the glass, and he'd positioned himself so that the shadows fell across most of his face. Middle-aged, greasy, and odd-looking, to say the least. Something about the stillness of him, the way he wasn't shifting his weight or looking around the way a normal person would, sat wrong in your stomach even before he smiled.

"Holli," you called, poking him through the gap in the seats.

It took a moment, but Hollis woke. He looked for you first, then for the man knocking at his window. He reached into the glove box for his gun and kept it hidden at his hip. Only then did he lower the window — about a quarter of the way, just enough for the man to hear him.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Good night, son," the man said, a strange smile revealing rotten teeth. "Something wrong with the car?"

"Yeah — it just died, but I'm calling a tow truck first thing in the morning," Hollis answered, dry and suspicious.

"I see." The man looked a moment longer, then somehow found you in the backseat, past Hollis. Hollis frowned and shifted his body to block you from the man's line of sight. "My house isn't far from here. It's not safe to sleep out in the middle of nowhere."

"That's real nice of you, but we're fine," Hollis said quickly.

"I'm saying it on account of the lady — people from all over pass this road. It really isn't far, my house. And come morning I can tow your car with my own truck."

The proposal wasn't bad, and maybe you were only judging by appearances. You knew Hollis would refuse — out of pride, out of caution — but you reached for his shoulder and touched it lightly, just enough to suggest what you had in mind.

"Give us a sec," he said before closing the window in the man's face. "You're not actually thinking of saying yes, are you?"

"It's just for the night, and he said he'd help with the car," you whispered.

"He's weird," Hollis said plainly — and he was right.

"It's just that we don't even know if there's a tow service anywhere nearby." You pouted, and Hollis held your gaze for a moment. You knew that look — he was weighing it, and you were tipping the scale just by staring back.

"Fine," he said, and you kissed his cheek quickly.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

The stranger's truck smelled like an old house and something dairy you couldn't quite name. It was a three-seat cabin, and Hollis positioned himself in the middle, between you and the man — when you'd moved to climb in first, he'd caught you by the waist and put you by the window instead.

You were nearly asleep again before long, head resting on Hollis's shoulder while the stranger talked at him. You paid no attention to the conversation, only to Hollis's hand resting on your leg and yours settled over his.

Until you heard it.

"Is she your sister? Or girlfriend? No offense," the man said.

"My wife," Hollis said, and you pressed back the smile, squeezing his hand instead.

"Wife? Aren't you a little young for that?"

"Not really — we met in college a few years back and married as soon as we graduated." He was flat-out lying, just for the fun of it.

"And where are you headed?"

"Arizona. Small town called Bisbee — visiting her family." You had to fight not to laugh.

"City folk meets a small-town girl and ties the knot quick — I can see why, honestly." The man laughed. Hollis didn't.

"She's a good girl." His hand tightened around your leg — possessive and protective in equal measure.

The man went quiet for a moment, eyes back on the road, and then almost to himself: "Yeah, the good ones you gotta hold onto. Things have a way of — disappearing, if you're not careful."

Something about the way he said it made you open your eyes. But his expression in the rearview was unreadable, and Hollis's thumb had started moving slow circles on your knee, and you told yourself it was nothing.

The house wasn't far, no more than a twenty-minute drive down a side road — a wooden house, nothing unusual for the region. But it was surprisingly cozy and neat inside. The man showed you to the guest room, and you felt the tension leave your shoulders the moment the door closed. There was a key in the lock. Hollis turned it.

"See? We're fine," you said, watching him shrug off his jacket. When his shirt lifted at the hem, you caught the gun still holstered at his hip.

"We're really not — that guy's weird." He sounded genuinely irritated. He lay down, and you followed.

"He's gonna help us and we'll be out of here first thing in the morning." You crawled toward him. "You sleeping with that?"

You poked at the holster, meeting his eyes. He reached for the gun, lifted it, turned it over in his hand. You couldn't deny what the sight did to you — you felt it everywhere, across your skin, down your spine, and unmistakably elsewhere. When he set it on the nightstand you moved over him, one knee on either side of his hips.

"Am I your wife?" you asked, and he grinned.

"Yeah, my beautiful wife." His hand found your nape, then slid into your hair, gripping it to pull you closer.

"Just for tonight, though," you said, a pout on your lips.

"We’ll see about that" His gaze dropped to your mouth and you bit your lower lip as the grip in your hair tightened. You liked when he was rougher. You liked when he handled you like that.

He kissed you with that same roughness — relentless, his lips fitting yours with ease, his tongue taking over in a way that had you surrendered to him completely. You rested your hands on his chest, then slid them down to his abdomen, fingers grazing lightly across it.

It took no time before you were moving on top of him, grinding on his lap. The mere friction of your panties against his jeans had you whimpering against his mouth.

"Hey," he said, seriously. His other hand came to your hip, trying to steady you, but you kept moving, rolling your hips back and forth. "We can't fuck here."

"Why not?" Your voice came out frail, almost pleading.

You dug your nails into his skin as you kept moving on top of him, your pussy twitching, getting soaked by the minute.

"Fuck it," he said, his voice coming out hoarse, and you smiled at your small victory.

Hollis's grip slid up your thigh until it reached your ass, helping you move, pressing you down over his crotch. You bit your lip to keep from moaning when you felt his growing length beneath you. It felt so good against your cunt that your whole body burned with it. But it wasn't enough. Your hands rushed to unbutton his jeans and drag the zipper down. You raised your hips just enough to push his pants out of the way.

"So fucking greedy," he said, and you glanced up at him briefly. He wore that same devilish look you'd first noticed when you met him — the one you'd grown so fond of — and it made your heart skip and your cheeks flush all at once.

You went on, pulling down his underwear until his cock was finally within reach. You wrapped your hand around the base and began to stroke him slowly. You bent forward just enough to spit on his tip, wetting him so it was easier to work him with both hands. You loved how he throbbed under your touch, loved the sound of his sharp breaths, the way his chest rose and fell, the way his gaze gleamed down at you. You loved it so much.

As he watched you, you stopped and raised your hips. First you slipped out of your summer dress, then your panties, until you were completely naked in front of him. It still made your cheeks warm, mostly when he looked at you with that much attention, his heavy-lidded eyes moving over every detail of you. When you lowered yourself onto him again, you took hold of his cock once more, this time to line him up at your entrance. You said nothing, just bit into your lip to stay quiet as you sank down on top of him, his cock filling you inch by inch. It still caught you off guard — how good it felt to have him stretching you open like that.

You struggled to find your rhythm, but Hollis made it easier by taking hold of your hips and guiding you into it. Slow at first, then the two of you settled into a pace that made staying quiet feel like torture. Desperately, he grabbed you by the neck and pulled you close, kissing you so hard it drew a whimper out of you.

If you'd struggled to hold back when you were leading, the moment Hollis began thrusting up into you, you had no choice but to bury your face against his neck to muffle the sounds escaping your mouth. He wasn't faring much better — between the heaviness of his breathing and the low, hoarse sounds he made from time to time, it was clear how much it was getting to him too. His hands gripped your hips and waist so tight it ached, fingers digging into your skin without restraint, his body slamming up into yours again and again.

When the first spasm tore through you, you bit down on his shoulder — not caring whether it hurt him, just needing to keep your mouth shut somehow. Even so, you cried out and clenched tight around him. It drew a moan from Hollis, but he kept thrusting, relentless. He grew faster, his movements turning sloppy, and you knew. He tried to lift you off him, but you leaned back and sat up straight on top of him, rolling your hips as you held his gaze.

"Baby, I'm gonna—" he said, his voice wrecked, fighting his edge.

"I know," you said, low.

And you kept moving anyway — faster, grinding down on him as you felt him throbbing inside you. You pressed both hands to his chest for leverage and rode him properly.

Hollis fell back against the pillow, lips parted, hands gripping you tight, and you rode him until you felt the first of him spill inside you — just a moment, just enough to make you gasp — before he grabbed your hips and lifted you off him, finishing across your stomach with a rough, wrecked sound. The warmth of it spread across your skin and you stayed still, catching your breath, watching his chest heave. 

"You're insane," he said finally, spent.

"I'm not." You leaned down and rested your head on his shoulder. Both of you panting and slick with sweat. "It just felt so good."

He hummed and pulled you close. His kiss pressed to the top of your head was the last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under, still wrapped in his arms.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

The next morning, Hollis woke you early. You were a light sleeper, so you got up without much trouble.

"Get dressed," he said.

You nodded and did as he said, moving slowly and groggy. You cleaned yourself up, put on your dress, fixed your hair as best you could, then just waited for him.

The two of you went downstairs, his hand in yours the whole way. The man was in his living room, watering plants or something like it. He greeted you both with a wide smile, his eyes sliding over you in a way that turned your stomach, and you shifted slightly closer to Hollis.

That morning he went with Hollis to tow the car. You stayed behind and looked around — scattered the whole place, really.

You started with the basement. The staircase creaked under every step and the smell hit you before you reached the bottom — something damp and organic, like soil and something older beneath it. The space was crammed: old furniture stacked against the walls, a workbench covered in taxidermy tools and unlabeled chemicals, the kind of setup that would have made sense for a hunter if it hadn't felt so deliberate. The stuffed animals were everywhere — squirrels, rabbits, a fox with glass eyes that caught the light wrong. Along the far wall, lined up with a neatness that contrasted with everything else in the room, were women's shoes. All different styles, different sizes. You counted twelve pairs before you stopped counting. Your breathing had gone shallow without you noticing, and you stood there for a moment just listening to the silence above you before you made yourself keep moving. Beside the shoes, a wardrobe. You pulled it open and found women's clothes — a lot of them, folded or hung with care, different sizes too, as if collected over time rather than belonging to any one person. You closed it carefully, like you hadn't been there at all.

On your way back up you noticed the rocking chair positioned directly beneath the single hanging bulb — its armrests worn completely smooth, almost polished, like something had spent a long time sitting there. You didn't linger.

The living room and kitchen were just as neat and unremarkable as the night before, which almost made it worse — the contrast. You moved quickly through them, opening drawers without finding much, until you pulled open the one beside the kitchen sink. You hesitated before you looked inside, some part of you already sensing you wouldn't like what you found. A stack of Polaroids rubber-banded together. Candid shots. Women at gas stations, women walking through parking lots, one taken through what was clearly a window. None of them looking at the camera. None of them knowing. You put them back exactly as you found them and shut the drawer, and then you stood very still for a moment with your hand still resting on it, staring at nothing.

Upstairs, past the guest room, his bedroom sat at the end of the corridor. You pushed the door open slowly and the smell reached you before anything else — stale sweat and something sweet beneath it, something wrong. You breathed through your mouth and stepped in.

The walls were dense with photographs — family portraits, him alongside a woman, two children, a dog. Ordinary enough on the surface, except the woman looked hollow in almost every one of them. Not sad exactly. Hollow. Like something behind her eyes had quietly gone out. You told yourself you were projecting.

There was a vanity table against one wall that stopped you cold. Women's perfume bottles arranged in a careful row, a hairbrush with long dark hair still wound through the bristles. Unmistakably a woman's things — but nothing else in the room suggested a woman had ever lived here. You picked up one of the bottles without meaning to, turned it over in your hand, set it back down.

Beside the bed, a stack of letters tied with twine. All from the same return address, all in the same handwriting — a woman's. All unopened. The most recent postmark was only a few months old. You thought about the clothes downstairs. The shoes lined up too neatly. You thought about what he'd said in the truck — the good ones you gotta hold onto, things have a way of disappearing — and your mouth went dry.

You crouched and looked under the bed. The corner of a suitcase was just visible, fitted with a heavy padlock. You were working out how to get it open, fingers already reaching for it, when you heard the engine outside.

You ran.

You heard the truck before you saw it. You were at the front door before it had even fully stopped, and the moment Hollis stepped out you crossed the porch and walked straight into him, arms wrapping tight around him, face pressed to his chest. He said nothing — just closed his arms around you and brought one hand up to your hair, fingers moving through it slowly.

You wanted to tell him. The shoes lined up along the wall. The Polaroids in the kitchen drawer. The vanity with someone else's hairbrush. The letters, all unopened. The suitcase. The words sat right at the back of your throat — and then the man was already stepping onto the porch behind Hollis, wiping his hands on a rag, filling the silence before you had the chance.

"Got her hooked up no problem, I figure it's an easy fix, few hours at most, maybe less. Just gonna call the mechanic, he’ll be here in no time" he said, moving past you both toward the door. "You two hungry? I can make something before you head out."

"Sure," Hollis said, and you felt the word vibrate in his chest against your cheek. His fingers hadn't stopped moving through your hair.

You tilted your head just enough to look up at him. He was watching the man's back, expression neutral, but his eyes cut down to yours for just a second — brief and quiet, reading you — or trying to. You gave him nothing back. You couldn't, not yet. So you pressed closer and he let you, his arm tightening slightly at your waist.

"I remember being your age," the man said, you did not turn to look at him. "Right about your age when I met my wife."

"Is that so?" Hollis said, his tone easy, unbothered.

"Yeah. Course she was younger than your lady." You felt your jaw tighten against Hollis's chest. His fingers grazed your scalp, unhurried, and the steadiness of it kept you still. "Different time. You get me?"

"Sure," Hollis said.

"Enjoy it while it lasts is all I'm saying." He laughed — wet and nasal, an awful sound. "Soon she won't be this clingy. Won't even look at your face. I'll tell you that much."

Hollis's hand paused for just a fraction of a second in your hair. So small you almost missed it.

"My Nancy?" He used a random name as a disguise, you figured. "Doubt it. She's just soft like that."

"They're all like that at first, all over you, then running like the plague." His tone had shifted, the lightness gone from it entirely. "But what do I know? Maybe you two are the lovebird type."

You thought about the shoes. The one detail that kept coming back, quiet and insistent — twelve pairs, all different sizes, lined up like they were waiting for someone to come back for them. You pressed your face a little further into Hollis's chest and said nothing.

Hollis only hummed in response, and the air between them thickened. He kept brushing your hair back with his fingers, slow and deliberate, and you understood that he knew something was wrong — you could feel it in the way he held you, slightly closer than usual, slightly more careful — but he didn't push. He just stayed there with you, solid and warm, while the man kept talking like the silence was something that needed filling.

Tankfully, the man excused himself, said he was making breakfast, and when it was ready he called you both in. You looked to Hollis for some kind of out — you didn't even want to touch the man's food — but you sat down at the table anyway and pretended to be occupied with your plate while he talked without pause. Until knocks came at the door.

"Must be the guy," he said, pushing back his chair. "Come on."

He waved at Hollis, who stood. You moved to follow when he stopped you. "Finish eating — we'll be back soon."

So you stayed. The two of them disappeared through the door and you sat there, poking at your food, glancing around the room. You were genuinely starving, but you couldn't bring yourself to eat the scrambled eggs. You wondered if you were being unfair — maybe he was just a sad, strange loner and not the villain of some horror film. You felt a little mean for thinking it. Then you thought about the Polaroids and stopped feeling mean.

"Aren't you hungry?"

You looked up. The man was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Woke up feeling a bit off, actually — no offense," you said, keeping your voice low and polite.

"None taken." He smiled. You hated that smile. "I think this is the first time I've actually heard you speak. That man of yours talks for you every time."

"Does he?" You laughed nervously. "I'm just shy. He knows me well."

"Yeah? He ain't the controlling type, is he? Not keeping you hostage or anything?" He burst out laughing at his own joke. It wasn't funny, and the laugh was repulsive — that same wet, nasal sound. You forced a smile so as not to be rude. You didn't feel like you had the upper hand here.

"No, he's very sweet, actually," you said.

"I'm sure he is. But with a girl like you, you can never be too careful — you know what I mean?" He was still smiling, still staring in that way that made everything in you recoil.

"I don't, actually," you said, and rose to your feet.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He waved a hand. "Just playing around."

Even so, you stayed standing, your eyes flicking to the doorway behind him. If you wanted to leave, you'd have to walk past him.

"Where's my husband?" you asked. "I'm really not feeling well."

"He's outside with the guy checking the car." He leaned against the doorframe. "No need to worry — I'll keep you company."

Your gaze moved restlessly around the room, your mind already mapping exits, weighing options. The back door through the kitchen. The window above the sink. How fast you could get past him if you ran. 

"Relax — the man's not gonna leave you here." He stepped forward, and your stomach turned over. "He ain't that dumb."

He kept coming toward you and you stepped back behind the table, keeping something between the two of you. You thought about the knife in your boot, still out in the car. You thought about how the table would only hold him off so long.

"Playing all shy now, but I heard you last night." That smile didn't move. "Bit of a freak, aren't you?"

Your eyes went wide. He kept closing the distance and you had already made the decision — the window, you'd go through the window if you had to — when a sound split through the room.

A gunshot.

A fraction of a second, and the man was on the floor, clutching his leg. You looked to the doorway. Hollis was standing there, gun in hand.

No thought crossed your mind except to run to him — and you did. But just as you neared the door, something locked around your ankle.

"You little slut!" The man groaned from the floor, one hand soaked red, now smearing blood up your leg as he grabbed higher — your thigh.

You yanked against his grip and screamed. You were twisting toward Hollis when the second shot came. This time you didn't look down. You kept your eyes on Hollis, your whole body locking up, and then you felt the grip on your thigh go slack and fall away. You weren't just startled — you were stunned, shaking, and just when you thought you couldn't move, Hollis's arms came around you. He pulled you into his chest.

"I got you. You're okay," he whispered. "Let's get out of here."

Too dazed to speak, you followed him, but at the front door you stopped. "Upstairs, under his bed, there's a suitcase with a lock on it. We could... check it."

Hollis looked at you and smiled. A proud smile. He rubbed your chin with his thumb. "Good girl."

You stood rooted at the door while he took the stairs two at a time. He was back in moments, the suitcase in hand, the lock broken open. Neither of you said anything when you saw what was inside — a bundle of women's driver's licenses held together with a rubber band, different names, different states, different faces. Beneath them, a thick fold of cash. A lock of dark hair sealed in a plastic bag. You felt your throat close. You didn't cry, didn't speak — your hand just found Hollis's arm and held it, and he let you. He took the money and left the rest. Neither of you looked inside again. You got back on the road, out of there.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀

Shock wasn't even the right word for what you were. Mostly you were scared — and not for the right reasons. Every time you glanced at Hollis beside you, all you felt was dread on his behalf. A man could be dead, and all you could think about was the trouble he'd just walked into — because of you. It was all pressing in too hard, your head buzzing, the sharp smell of blood rising from your stained dress and leg, and if you'd eaten anything earlier you probably would have been sick.

"I need a shower," you said, out of nowhere. The first words you'd spoken in over an hour.

"We're almost at the next city, baby. Hang in there," Hollis said. Calm as anything. How was he so calm?

When you finally pulled into a motel your whole body loosened with relief at the thought of washing it all off. The blood, at least. Your dress was another matter — it had set too long; the stain wasn't going anywhere.

You found Hollis on the edge of the bed doing something with his gun when you came back into the room. You were toweling your hair dry, wearing nothing but one of his shirts — you always liked sleeping in them.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

"Just checking," he said, glancing up at you with an obvious look that had nothing to do with the gun. "You okay?"

"Are you okay?" you asked back.

"Me? I'm fine." He shrugged.

"How are you so calm?" You crossed the room toward him. "You just — that man could be dead."

"Probably," he said, just as plainly. "He had it coming though."

You thought about the driver's licenses. All those faces, all those names and the unopened letters and you thought — yes, he did. You knew that. And still something about the easiness of it, the way Hollis said it the same way he'd say anything, made the ground feel slightly unsteady beneath you.

"Hollis, what if—" Your voice cut out. Your throat felt dry. "What if someone comes after you?"

"I don't think anyone's going to notice that man missing anytime soon." He almost sounded amused, setting the gun aside. "He was a complete loner; told me himself when we went to get the car. No family, no kids, no friends to speak of. The mechanic said nobody in town really talked to him. They only knew him because he came in for groceries."

He said it with something close to amusement, like it was almost funny, while you'd spent the last two hours feeling like your insides had been rearranged. You exhaled slowly and stepped closer. His hands came up to meet you — your thighs, your hips, your waist. You looked down at him where he sat on the edge of the bed.

"We're fine," he said, softer now. "You're fine. That's all that matters to me."

You pouted at that and nodded. He pulled you in until you folded into his lap. He held you tight enough that you finally felt the tension begin to leave your body — and you let it, even knowing what you knew, even with the contradiction of it sitting somewhere quiet and unspoken in your chest. The man who was holding you together was the same man who hadn't flinched. You didn't know what to do with that yet. So you just held on.

"I was so scared," you said — and only then did you realize you were crying. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there."

"But I was there," he said, rubbing slow circles into your back. "And I'm here. No one's going to hurt you while I'm right here."

You held him tighter. In that moment you believed him more than you'd ever believed anything — more than any passage from the Bible your mother had made you memorize as a child. And maybe that should have frightened you too. But it didn't. It just felt like the truest thing you knew.