1930s Chicago. Notorious gangster Tom "Tommy Gun" Holland has been storming his way through Cook County, robbing banks and breaking hearts. One day you find yourself in the wrong place, at the wrong time when he makes a hit on your bank. There's...
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"Shake a leg, dollface. We gotta go," Tommy said flicking his cigarette butt onto the ground. The urgency in his tone sent your pulse racing.
You looked up from the trunk of the car, your makeshift closet for the time being. You opted for the navy blue dress this time. It didn't scream like the red, but it sure did hug you in all the right places.
Tommy slid off the hood and threw his jacket on in haste. His eyes never left the horizon, scanning the road up ahead. You followed his gaze and saw the reason for his urgency. Something flashed in the distance, a glint of sun bouncing off metal. An upkick of dust left a trail in its wake.
Tommy slammed the trunk shut and gave you a pressing look.
"We got company."
You nodded quickly and hurried into the passenger seat. Tommy sped off before you even had the door shut. You held onto the door, craning your head out the open window.
"Who is it?!" you shouted over the wind and roaring engine. Tommy yanked the gear stick and wrenched the Buick to the right. You swore the whole thing was gonna tip right over on its side, but Tommy didn't break a sweat. His eyes were narrowed and threatening, focused on maneuvering the metallic beast. They cut over to you with a sinister smile.
"It don't matter who, darling. They ain't friends," he said and gave a wink before turning his eyes back on the road. You wondered what he was so worried about then. They weren't coppers. You would have heard the sirens by now.
You turned around and could clearly see an outline in the dust. It was big, like an army vehicle, and it was lumbering towards you faster. How many people were after this guy?
Then you felt a cold weight plop in your lap. Tommy's gun. Your immediate reaction was repulsion. You held your hands up like it was a some deadly spider crawling on you.
"You ever shot one?" Tommy yelled. Your heart was pounding in your ears. You almost weren't sure you heard him right. Have you ever shot a submachine gun? Yeah, sure, all the time - right after Fred Astaire takes me tap dancing.
You stared at it, then looked up at him. You shook your head frantically. Maybe you weren't as tough as you thought. Surely he would get rid of you now, one way or the other.
Tommy reared a corner with a skid. The truck was closer now and looked like it had no intention of stopping. You took a deep breath and picked the gun up in your hands. The weight was something else. That's why they call it iron, you thought. And here I thought it was a just metaphor or whatever that word is. When something's supposed to symbolize something else. But this was no symbol. It was purely lethal with the heft to match.
Tommy glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, sizing you up. Both hands were on the wheel and that smile was back, touching the corner of those naughty lips.
"It's simple - point and squeeze. Think you can handle that?" he asked with a smirk.
You slithered closer, hugging the gun to your chest and breathed in his ear.
"I think I know a little something about squeezing, Handsome, wouldn't you say?" you purred seductively.
Tommy bit his lip and gave an audible gulp.
"That you do, doll."
You laughed and slid back to the window. You pivoted your body around to face behind you and propped your elbow out the window, holding the heater with both hands.
"Di...," Tommy gripped your knee. You turned to him, eyebrows raised in question.
"Hold it tightly. The kick will knock you on your ass," he said seriously. You nodded and licked your lips.
"And, Di...," his tone turned even more somber. You looked back at him.
"Aim for the car, not the people," he looked back at the road. His jawline clenched and you swore you saw the corner of his eye brim with sadness.
