Connie and Clyde

NOTE TO THE READER

I've tried to write mostly incest fiction but wanted to try my hand at a pseudo-western based roughly on Bonnie and Clyde. This read includes smut of course, and the taboo makes the story what it is. But it also includes story. And characters. And crime.

And cruelty. And danger. And death.

Hopefully it keeps it all interesting. It'll be put together sequentially, and I'm hoping by the end, you get to have some wild thrills.

Including your Aunt Connie.

Enjoy.

***

The road keeps going

Still going and gone

Ain't no signs left on the road

Nothing but you and wind blowin'*

***

CHAPTER 1

"Clyde James, 'CJ' Halloran."

"Yeah."

"Step up to the window. Get your shit."

There's a saying; when you're born, you come into the world with nothing, and that when you die, you leave the world with nothing. I guess prison's a better deal than life itself then, because when you're booked, you get an orange jumpsuit and a whole lot of new friends. Then when you leave, you get to ditch those friends and never see them again. And you get your personal belongings back.

"One wallet. Two credit cards. Forty-eight dollars and thirteen cents. Huh. Can't believe that's still here." The prison guard read out my list and slipped them under the security window. "One identification. One white tee. One pair blue jeans. One denim jacket. One pair boxers. One pair shoes. One key for a Harley motorcycle." The key was the last to reach me. I picked it up and felt that familiar steel and took a deep breath. Life was in reach again. Thank god. A felony could only taint so much.

I went down the corridors to a spot where I could change out of the jumpsuit and put all my clothes back on. It felt good to be in real clothes, real cottons again. The guard led me out of there and toward the exit, into the lobby type room where people were released and given a last gasp of air conditioning before they had to face the big wide world, all by themselves. No more free meals. No more night lights. No fights in the canteen. Just you and the road.

I wished that I had my motorcycle still, but realistically, it was probably already sold by my family. I didn't mind it too much. Having just the key was enough. It meant freedom, symbolically. Even if it was probably in somebody else's garage by now.

When I got booked, there wasn't much in the way of money that my family had. Rural Kentucky, nothing much in the way of jobs. Decades of the opioid epidemic and NAFTA took the fight out of Riedland where my family and I lived, and enough bad luck took mom and dad out altogether. After that car accident, where it only left enough of the car frame and the little space where I was trapped in it, the extended family was out two full time incomes and now had to deal with a six-year-old orphan.

I had a couple cousins who raised me after that point. By this time now, they were out lost somewhere on the West Coast, stuck on Fentanyl or maybe dead. We hadn't heard from them in years, their last call to my aunt and uncle a request for a few thousand dollars; for what, they wouldn't specify, but I assumed it had to do with the way that they could barely string together any words. I consider them gone.

When you find yourself missing a whole lot of family, and there aren't any good examples to go by except your unemployed uncle, then you get into trouble. It's natural. You don't exactly get the talk from counselors or well-meaning dads telling you to go to college or to stay off drugs, and when your cousins fuck off after getting in trouble with the local police for boosting to feed their heroin addiction, you're left without any meaningful guidance. So I did what the natural and unguided instincts of any young man would push him to do.

The felony itself was a result of that. Not my fault. Not really, though I wish it happened on a day that wasn't my twenty-first birthday.

I had this girl, Allie. Tightest fucking pussy in the world, blonde and proud of it. She and I grew up on the same road where my cousins lived, and once we'd graduated high school I started to hang with her, watched as she climbed the economic ladder at the community college to get into some semblance of gainful employment, and a few certs later she was making alright money at a hospital doing blood work. I was working construction, traveling by motorbike with my tools boxed in to whatever city had anything going on, and even though it was a bitch of a commute, I wanted to stay close to Allie and to what was left of my family.

I had Aunt Connie and Uncle James Taggart close by, just a few miles off and close enough to either talk down my cousins when they were tweaking, or to feed me when things got messed up over there. They were a blessing, Connie and James. Well, mostly Connie. James was the kind of guy that you didn't want hanging around your family, but you knew he was there to stay anyway. He was the one that didn't have a job.

After graduation I got a little apartment with Allie, only a little further away. We were saving up, hoping to get some land at some point and to maybe build a house on it, though the way things were turning out with the economy I didn't have a lot of hope for that. We were thinking about packing our stuff and moving to one of the cities where the construction and hospital work paid better, locking ourselves into a rat race and hoping we could save cash faster than inflation and take advantage of the next housing crash. A guy and his girl can hope. As long as nothing goes wrong.

When I turned 21, we went out to Frankies, which was one of the dive bars we had around here. I knew some of the guys in there, people older than me I hadn't seen since high school, and after they recognized me and Allie, I ended up joining them for drinks. Unfortunately, there's no respect for a kid and his fresh, pretty girlfriend. One of the guys we drank with made a pass at my girl, groped her ass and then rubbed it in my face telling me I wasn't going to do shit.

So I broke his nose and ruptured his eye, and ended up stomping on his fucking head by the end of it.

The cops packed me up and settled me in the local jail before I was sentenced for aggravated assault and had a permanent mark on my record. It meant that when I got out, even though it was early and for 'good behavior', I'd probably have to stick to construction; the dirtier parts of it.

Nothing wrong with that. Just meant that I'd have to sweat for my money.

What was difficult was the fact that I got upgraded from jail to prison. And prison's a hell of a lot different than jail. In jail, you don't expect too many fights. It's a lot more orderly. Ain't no racial tribes, really. Just a bunch of losers who got caught up in stuff, or were too troubled from all the meth, or tried to rip off others a few too many times, and they've all got to get along since nobody else likes to start trouble where it's comfortable. Prison was more for the real dangerous crowd. The family wasn't rich enough to hire a good lawyer; Aunt Connie told me she begged James for just one more loan but I guess they were too under already. So at first it was five years set up for me.

I had to make sacrifices to stay alive in there. I joined one of the gangs, Lost Boys, made pledges. They tatted my fists and my arms and put teardrops and a knife on my face in black, signaled that I belonged to them for as long as I was in there, since that was what it took to stay alive. It didn't take long for me to learn how to fight better too. You had to. Aryan Brotherhood was vicious in there, and the gang I was in only managed to stay independent because we were willing to get bloody time and again.

Some died.

I consider it lucky that I wasn't ever rounded up in the aftermath of those fights and charged with anything else.

A month in and Allie couldn't take it anymore. I called her with the expensive inmate line that they had, hoping for a bit of consolation maybe. She said she had dreams and that even though she liked me, not loved me, she couldn't waste her life pretending that she could marry a felon.

So she was gone.

And that left only a little sliver of family, half of them not caring whether I got fucked up by a shank, and the other too powerless to do anything about it. Aunt Connie was the only little light in there. She'd call every other month, when she could.

Connie was a rarity; the kind of pretty Kentucky girl that grew up in a holler on the east side. My dad's sister. She had this bright red hair, a smattering of pale freckles that grew dark when she was young and free to roam in the sun, paling back up again as she grew up, learned about sunscreen, became a woman, got married to James and found herself living the housewife life. Connie aged pretty gracefully. She and James never had kids, but as I got old enough I started to realize that my aunt Connie was a woman; a real one with hips and a tight waist, and an ass that looked like heaven in a pair of tight jeans. She was slim for her age but somehow managed to develop these lovely fuckin tits that I liked looking at whenever I could. When you're a young man and she's the prettiest woman in the world, you can't resist.

She liked to wear whatever was comfortable in the summer heat and that meant I got to see her pale little belly button and the heave of her breasts under a tank, or whatever it was she could afford. By the time I went to prison it wasn't much.

James used to be a factory super, years ago. It meant that he made money hand over fist, compared to everyone else I knew; he was the guy with the clipboard, the button up with a tie, the actual house with a wood deck and a lawn he could afford to take the time to mow on a little green riding mower.

But when I was in high school, the factory closed without hardly any notice. And that's when things changed for them. Connie had to pick up odd jobs, to sell their belongings bit by bit. They stopped doing work on the house. James started to bloat out from the drinking and the stress of being unemployed. He tried to get different jobs doing this or that but enough of the town knew he was a fucking bastard to work under, so people steered him away from anything related to management, and he was too fuckin proud to do any sort of manual labor. So he remained mostly unemployed, on the government dole that he said nobody deserved, proud of the past, unable to handle the present, and settling more and more into the only lifestyle he could manage; as a drunk.

I and their neighbors knew James abused Connie. It was common enough that nobody really wanted to step in. I tried it a few times, happening upon their house when I needed to drop in for some food and finding instead a screaming James, red-faced, bottle in hand, raspily berating Connie who was either trying to sit with the dignity he demanded out of her, or on all fours, trying to clean up something he had broken, tears making her bright red hair stick to her face. Even when Aunt Connie was crying, she was beautiful. And maybe that was why I was so ready to fight James and to do something about how he was beating her.

Maybe it was how I learned to fight. You only needed a few tries to get the feel of it; the adrenaline, the sudden pain that knocked air and sense out of you real fast. I learned how to handle it pretty quick.

It ended in a beatdown anyway though, on me. I learned to take punches and to cover my head and neck. I learned to throw a real punch and how to guard my face with my bare fists, all useful stuff when I was locked up.

Once, he was slapping Connie around after I got to eat a little dinner at their place. Just a bit of chicken and biscuits that Connie whipped up on their food stamp supplies. He didn't like how she cleaned the kitchen, so while I was in the other room watching the TV, he started mocking her and then there was the sound of an open palmed slap. I heard Connie whimper after that.

It heated me.

I knew for a fact that Connie had made everything special, and it wasn't like she wasn't cleaning already. I think it was that James felt like he wasn't a man because the food on the table didn't come from him. Neither did he prepare it, neither did he do anything the whole damn day except polish off a case of beers. In his nitpicking he pointed out spots on the counter that had crumbs or bits of flour, stuff she hadn't gotten to, and I heard the first slap, and got up to see Connie with a hand hovered over her red cheek, her red hair hanging over her eyes and her head bowed. She still had the dishwashing gloves on, suds now in her hair.

I was mad enough that I didn't even announce anything to James. I went up behind him and pushed him over, and he tumbled against the kitchen table and managed to prop himself up on it. He didn't waste words either, swinging for me and then we were in a tumble, punching and smashing each other in the face. At some point he managed to grab a jug from the counter and rammed it against my stomach, doubling me over. The fight was done, the pain was too much for me to get back up in any meaningful time. He kicked me a couple times and then went to bed. But at least that night, he left her alone.

Or so I thought.

The next day, I dropped by again to make sure everything was okay. And on the surface it was. I saw James wave to me from the garage, looking a little less impaired as he worked on his car. Connie came outside and invited me in for a sandwich. I remember it pretty clear. Connie was wearing a long sleeve shirt that day, one of James', something baggy and dark. When I got past the door and into the hall, I felt her hand pull me off to the side in front of the pantry. Her hand was really gentle and soft on my arm as she led me where James couldn't see inside their deteriorating house from the outside.

Connie's voice that day was like an angel. Or at least, what I imagined one to be. Soft and with the subtle Kentucky drawl that wasn't intentional, just real and frank, but quiet enough to where you really made sure to listen. Her accent was clean, and judging by her tone nobody would have thought anything was wrong.

"CJ, I know you tried to keep me safe the other day. I know." Her breath was scented like apples. I hoped she was going to tell me how grateful she was. That I did a good thing. But her next words threw me off and made me realize that I had just made it worse. "You need to know what happens when James feels frustrated, things happen. And I'm not blaming you, I just need you to know." She pulled up the sleeve and on her pale, pale white skin where the freckles dotted along her upper arm, there was a mottled bruise that looked as big as my fist.

Connie looked at me with electric blue eyes, her lashes light, her gaze unhurt. "Don't try to save me. I'm not going to die, okay? If you want to help me, just let him get it out. Slapping is better than fists, and I'm alright living with it. I signed up for it. Okay?"

It wasn't okay. But I nodded and decided that I'd have to bear it just the same. She wanted it that way and I wasn't about to do anything to make things worse for her. Even if it meant she wasn't living the life she deserved.

You'd think I could just call the cops. But when dealing with a guy like James and in a town where the cops really did parse out justice based on who they knew and liked, there was no amount of calls by their neighbors that would get the cops to do anything about saving Connie or slapping up James. None of the police bothered to even explain to him that there was such a thing as a domestic violence charge. Maybe things were better in other towns. But in Riedland, it wasn't. The good ol' boys held everyone in their hands and let whoever they liked do what they wanted.

I was even arrested by one of James' friends. A cop named Hillman pulled up after I had knocked the other guy out and broke his cheekbones and a few other spots. I was calmed down by that point, realizing I had made a mistake. Allie was still screaming at me, calling me a fucking psycho and telling me I went too far. By the time Hillman arrived, I cooperated, and without too much fuss about it was cuffed and in the car. Like it was a matter of fact.

He was a square looking man. Big jaw. Eyes set a little far apart. Built like a combine. What was eerie about him was that he'd never really look at you. When he'd talk at you you'd get the sense that he wasn't really saying anything to you. The rights he recited were just words. He was like a mask on a man-sized box and the uniform on him was the only thing that told you that he was a part of society. Otherwise you'd think he wasn't anyone. Just a shell.

What was weird after was that Hillman testified at my trial and seemed to get the details a little wrong. I didn't like to think about it, but he said that I was aggressive, even with him. That I advanced on him, that he had to talk me down, and that it was obvious that I was in the kind of mood that made me want to hurt people at the time. The judge seemed to like that answer and after just a little bit of deliberating, I was sentenced to prison and considered a danger to society until I could prove otherwise.

So coming out the front door of the prison just a little early suited me just fuckin fine. I knew I hated the judge. I knew I hated Hillman. But what can you do when you're a kid fresh out of the clink and there's nothing going for you at all?

Evidently, there's just family, if you have it.

When the brightness of the sun hit my face, brighter than I was used to since I was always surrounded by the concrete walls or shaded by fences and never got the real, full sun in a few years, I squinted and almost cried because of how beautiful it was, to see light.

And then when my vision cleared up and I could finally see, there was the parking lot, black asphalt, a few rows of parking spaces and a distant fence of barbed wire.

And in front of all that, looking like she was sent from Heaven itself, was my aunt Connie, looking up from where she stood, leaning on James' pickup, eyes widening over her sunglasses, and realizing that her fucked up nephew had finally come home.

CHAPTER 2

She held me tight to her, and for a few moments aunt Connie was just crying.

Only crying.

I wrapped my arms around her, looked at the ink across my arms and felt a little ashamed. Not because I was tatted, but that I had changed. Aunt Connie didn't. She looked exactly the same, smelled just the same, clean, her hair just as deep red and vivid in the wine color of it. She was wearing one of her old plaid shirts, a few faded blues and pinks mixed in, the elbows fraying but still perfectly clean, tucked into blue jeans and fitting just as well as I remembered.

"Oh my god," her voice was a croak and she couldn't keep herself from shaking with each sob. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"Everything's good, Connie," I said. "Don't worry about me."

She leaned back and looked at the tattoos, her fingers going up and brushing at them. She wordlessly bit her lip and tried to suppress even more tears that were welling up.

"Really," I insisted. "Don't worry about me."

"You're marked," she whispered.

"I'm free," I said. It was true. Lost Boys were one of the only kinds of gangs where you were out when you were out. It was the last little handhold of freedom in the place where it was otherwise ruled by the Aryans and MS13. There was a lot of blood shed and a lot of Lost Boys dead to gain the respect necessary to stay free of the gang life after prison. I was out. I was myself. The only Lost Boys are in the prisons, and outside, they weren't lost any more.

"Really?"

"Really."

Connie drew me close again and I closed my eyes as I took in the only female touch I had experienced in years. Her breasts were pushing up against my chest and I closed my eyes to feel them better. Call it inappropriate. But I needed the release, something, anything feminine in the world. Connie and the way she held me was enough.