Gabe Tucker ripped the tab off his can of beer and gulped greedily, spilling some it on his t-shirt and pants. He gave them a cursory brush and took another, longer swig. The robbery of the diner had been a real bust, netting them a lousy ninety-four dollars and some change—and he'd wasted a bullet on the stupid waitress, although he could still feel the tingle of thrill as her face swam in his mind. He chugged down the rest of the beer, crushed the can in his fist and tossed it out the window of the car.

"We gotta get rid of this thing soon," he snapped at the woman driving.

"Gabe, I know you're mad but it was an accident. 'Sides, nobody prob'ly even noticed." Her concern was not so much that he might have shot someone but that she'd inadvertently said his name.

"You are one stupid bitch, Sandra if you think that guy back there didn't hear you."

"Then why shoot the waitress then, why not him... or both?" She was tired of his continual abuse.

"Just drive the goddamn car 'til I say stop, and shut up." Gabe knew she was right and it made him even madder. Something about the customer just made him want to get out of there and he had shot the waitress, which was nothing but a dumb attempt to show off. Hearing his name wouldn't help anyone; he didn't have a record or any place to check. The car was the problem now. They needed new wheels.

Sandra Lawlor pinched her mouth tight and stared ahead at the hazy asphalt. Ever since she'd reluctantly teamed up with Gabe Tucker he'd become more and more of a bully, taking liberties and always acting like she was stupid and useless unless it was under him in bed. Twenty-eight years old and already she was an ex con, a fugitive from a string of robberies across the country and now maybe even an accessory to a possible killing.

That wasn't so much the bother, it was his attitude and she was getting mighty tired of it. She brushed her hair behind her ear and rested her wrist on top of the wheel, admiring her nails, and relaxing slightly since he'd put his head back and closed his eyes. She let her mind drift and it automatically went to when they first met.

******

The roadhouse was the closest bus stop to the women's detention center from where she had just been released. Sandra pushed through the door into the dingy interior, assailed immediately by the reek of stale beer and cigarette smoke. She paused in the doorway, soaking up the unfamiliar smells of the world outside the prison.

Some country and western whiner twanged away on a noisy speaker system and when her eyes grew accustomed she could see the shapes of several groups at as many tables all adding to the toxic air. A couple of the shadows looked up as she came in but dropped back to whatever they were doing, interest satisfied. She went to the bar and ordered a tall glass of draft then stood and drank most of it while the bartender watched with a flat expression.

"Right out of Caulfield, eh? Just had to make here your first stop."

"This place was all I heard about." She said, bored, finishing the glass and indicating another.

He refilled her glass and held it in one hand with the other out for payment. "This ain't a welcome station; only money's good here."

She opened her small purse and pulled out the envelope she'd been provided with by the system and tossed a bill large enough to cover both drinks on the counter. "Such a pleasure to be out and back among caring citizens." She said. She picked up her change and her glass and moved to a small table in the corner. One year and twelve days for what Sandra called, shoplifting a pair of designer shoes from an upscale boutique. The court disagreed, saying her threat of bodily harm to the sales person upped the charge so the trade for the baggy, prison orange jumpsuit—had not been worth the crime.

Sandra needed to fix her life and after a year among a pack of women losers, it desperately needed reevaluation. The music changed to a female whiner with the same hard luck story and she closed her eyes letting the cold beer slide down her throat.

It felt strange to be able to sit unafraid and free. After a year in Caulfield where the long-termers abused and dominated all the newbies, she could actually let her body relax and not worry about being forced into a cell and manhandled by the bull dykes and even some of the guards. Sex, for Sandra, was now nothing more than a passive activity that could be used for advantage, certainly not for pleasure.

"Looks good."

She opened her eyes and took in the lean man standing at her table, one thumb hooked in his waistband. The sloppy shirt and the too tight jeans shouted, local stud, confirmed by the arrogant sneer and the obvious display of supposedly dangerous tattoos on both forearms. His eyes were dark and she could feel the leer as he wet his lips and shifted his weight to one leg.

"Can't say the same." She dismissed him with a sneer of her own and drank from her glass.

A huge grin softened his expression, taking away the smarmy look and several years from his features. "Gabe Tucker. What's your name?" He leaned his knuckles on the table.

"Una. Una-vailable."

He stared for a minute and she could see his mouth repeating the words then he put his head back and laughed. "Cute, very cute. Well, Miss Vailable, how about you let me buy you a drink." Without an invitation, he waved to the bartender, holding up two fingers, and sat down, tipping his chair back on its rear legs. Sandra filed him away with the hundreds of others that had delivered pathetic lines as openers for what they hoped to gain but the free drink softened her mood, and she let him ramble on with more of the cliché lines she'd heard from the guards in Caulfield. Better than drinking alone, she figured. At least for now.

Her new friend seemed to feel even more macho after learning he was drinking with an ex con from Caulfield and took up the rest of her evening with obvious lies and embellishments about his own background. The free alcohol quickly took control of her system, having been absent for over a year, and she began to slip into a state of fuzzy awareness—more fuzzy than aware. She even managed to enjoy some of his jokes and stories before slipping completely into a state of blank slate.

When she opened her eyes she saw a large poster advertising Sylvester Stallone in Rambo and heard water splashing close by. Discovering she was in a bed she knuckled her eyes and shoved herself up onto her elbows. A huge boulder rolled to front of her forehead and she moaned uncomfortably. On a chair across from the bed she saw her prison issued skirt and blouse and when she raised the sheet covering her she saw nothing else. "Christ, first night out and I'm shacked up with some- some...?" She sat right up and looked through the open bathroom door and saw her drinking companion from the roadhouse, washing himself in the shower. "Ah, great. Just friggin' great."

She crawled out of the bed and hunted around for her underwear and began dressing. The water stopped and she looked up to see him leaning in the doorway wearing nothing but his doofus grin.

"Goin' somewhere, sweetcakes?"

"Where's my bra?" She bent down and tossed the bedsheet aside.

"Well at one point it was around my ears," he laughed and sauntered over to her as she stood. "Panties too. We had some party, sweetcakes." He put his hands on her hips and leaned against her bare thigh.

"Back off... sweetcakes."

"No way to talk to your new partner." He shoved her toward the bed and stood staring at her brazenly.

"Partner?" She hacked a laugh. "I don't think so." She started to pull on her underwear.

"No? See this?" He turned and waved a hand at the dresser where an array of full liquor bottles stood. "And this?" He walked over and picked up a handful of bills, waving them at her.

"What the—"

"And how about this?" He tossed the money down and lifted a large pistol from the dresser, aiming casually in her direction.

"Hey! Point that somewhere else." She moved over to where her skirt and blouse hung on the chair.

"Didn't bother you last night when we knocked over that liquor store." He put the gun down and faced her again.

She stopped dead, stared hard at him taking in what he said. It seemed so incongruous with his lean, naked frame, and with her mouth open in stunned disbelief she did a slow inventory of his whole body before starting a string of profanity that included every ancestor he might have had even the faintest relationship to. He moved toward her quickly and slapped her hard sending her sprawling back onto the bed then knelt beside her and held her down by the throat.

"You got some dirty mouth on you, bitch. Get this straight, you took the lead in that heist by flaunting those boobies of yours at the poor jerk behind the counter and laughing like hell when his tongue was unraveling like a roll of paper towel. Then you banged his face on the counter and split his nose. I just filled a carton with booze, grabbed the cash and the gun from the till and left. You... sweetcakes... apologized by kissing the poor slob and leaving your prints and DNA all over him and the counter.

Give me one more ounce of back talk or trouble and your ass is back in Caulfield before you can spin once around. Got it?" He pressed on her throat until she coughed and then let her go. Sandra coughed again and massaged her throat as he strolled back into the bathroom, this time slamming the door.