CHAPTER 3
After the disastrous encounter with Mr. Muffin, Allie generously gets me a replacement smoothie.
Like a normal person who knows how to walk on two legs, Gina grips her cup and the lid remains on her peanut butter banana smoothie with a cocoa cream drizzle.
“Well, that was a meet mess,” Allie says with a sigh.
“A meet what?” Gina asks.
“You know, like in those romance movies when two people—”
“Exactly,” I say, then tell them about how while I gazed up at Mr. Muffin, all swoony-eyed and smitten by his smolder, he had the opportunity to wipe the smudge of strawberry shortcake smoothie from my face.
“Ooh, then he’d lick it?” Gina asks.
“Not that kind of movie,” Allie says. She explains how often the prospective couple will meet in a funny or endearing way. “Like the classic collision in the hallway where papers go flying everywhere, then as they’re picking them up, their eyes meet, and they fall in love.”
I snap my fingers. “Just like that because it’s the movies, unlike real life.” Then again, I haven’t been able to forget about those pewter eyes.
“You don’t believe in love at first sight?” Allie asks.
After my recent breakup, I’m struggling to believe in love at all. “Well, the smoothie went flying everywhere and there was eye contact, but not of the love-at-first-sight variety. More like he ran away as fast as he could at first sight.”
Gina and I help clean up. I thank Allie for not issuing a permanent ban on my entering the Smoothery.
When Gina and I get outside—the only place I’ll trust myself to consume liquids from now on—she and I clink cups.
“To memorable moments,” Gina says.
“Memorable moments that are a reminder to hold fast to my New Year’s resolutions.”
We’re about to leave when Allie rushes after me, waving some napkins.
She says, “Almost forgot. I’d been hoping to see you so I could give you these.” Allie passes me napkins and a few pieces of paper covered with ink—names and numbers, it looks like.
“No less than six guys wanted me to give you these.” She waggles her eyebrows.
My forehead ripples with confusion.
“I could’ve given them your contact info, but I don’t think they wanted murals painted, if you know what I mean.”
Gina giggles and elbows me. “They were hitting you up. I take it you didn’t paint that piece up there after hours.”
“Nope. We’re open seven days a week from seven until nine, so that would’ve made for a very late night,” Allie says.
I wave my hands. “No, no, thank you. I recently got out of a relationship.” And by that, I mean I just barely escaped. “Also, the meet mess was an apt representation of the current state of my life.”
“Well, I’ll hang onto them for safekeeping.” Gina winks. “Maybe we can check out these guys’ social media accounts and see if any of them are worth messaging.”
“One of my New Year’s resolutions is to remain single until further notice.”
“I sense a story here,” Gina says.
“The relationship was broken well before the breakup, if I’m being real. The writing was on the wall when Dax literally wrote the phone number of a guy who insulted him on a restaurant’s bathroom wall, along with a rude message.”
“Man child,” Gina mutters.
“Exactly. But I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.” Which is a bad habit I have when it comes to men.
“As for these love connection contestants, I could do some prescreening, see if there are any candidates here,” Gina singsongs as we return to the Clip and Curl.
“But I’m not looking.”
“If you were, who would be your ideal guy?”
“The opposite of Dax. So, tall, dark hair, distinguished. Stable job. Big earner. Smart. Honest, especially that.”
“I take it Dax betrayed you.”
“In more ways than one,” I mutter.
“Sounds to me like you were describing Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome from the Smoothery.”
“You mean Mr. Muffin?”
“You, an artist, of all people, should know that doesn’t quite paint the full picture.”
I jitter my shoulder. “I wasn’t, um, describing him.”
“Emphasis on handsome.” She bumps me with her hip.
“Might I remind you of my New Year’s resolution, namely the one that has to do with dating?”
“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself of something.” Gina unlocks the salon door and, once again, she gushes over the mural.
I appreciate her enthusiasm, but my thoughts wander. Someday I’d like to be in a healthy and fulfilling relationship, but so far, I’ve only attracted duds, no studs. Plus, I’m only twenty-nine. There’s plenty of time to find the one.
After gathering up the last of my supplies, I head out to my junky pickup truck parked in the alley behind the Clip and Curl.
I take a moment to organize everything in the various boxes and bins I use to store my materials in case it rains.
Clouds rolled in, so it might even though this is a relatively dry time of year.
The wind blows and shivers creep across my bare arms. It’s silly, but I sense someone watching me.
When I came out here, only a pigeon pecked around.
Otherwise, I was alone. I glance over my shoulder and a matte blackish-purple car idles perpendicular to the alley entrance and then pulls forward.
Hopping in the truck, I back out of the alleyway. I don’t see the sedan and I imagine it was probably just a coincidence. Turning on the radio to get out of my head, the knob pops off. I try to catch it and swerve slightly as it rolls onto the passenger side floor.
“And yet another thing to fix, along with the rest of my life,” I murmur.
At the next set of lights, I peer into the rearview mirror.
My stomach pricks because, if I’m not mistaken, the sedan from the end of the alley is a few cars behind.
As an artist, I have an eye for color and notice it everywhere I go—shades, hues, and gradients.
That thing is like an old eggplant with rust spots.
Biting my lip, I change lanes. It does the same thing, still keeping a ways back. I can barely make out the silhouettes of two males in the front of the vehicle.
“Too many paint fumes, Isla,” I mutter under my breath.
Failing to distract myself with thoughts about a job well done at the Clip and Curl, I take a turn and the eggplant on wheels does the same.
If this is about the almost-forgery, I didn’t know.
See, the ex asked if I could replicate a photo on his phone.
I accepted the challenge and it wasn’t until I was doing some color research, so I could get it exactly right, that I realized it was a rare piece by DaVinci.
The authorities don’t know that I almost committed a major crime.
That was a red flag. When I found Dax’s search history on my laptop about minting money and then he inquired about my skills with ink, a flashing red light appeared in my mind that Dax had bad intentions.
It’s probably not a good idea to return home, but I’m already on my street, which is a dead end.
Instead of going in my driveway, though, I pull to the side of the road opposite my bungalow.
The car cruises by. Unfortunately, I don’t get a look at the two guys, but they keep going, so I hurry inside.
I don’t imagine Dax would send a couple of goons after me, but I recently learned that he’s not the laid-back loser I thought he was. Okay, he’s the biggest loser ever and is a lot worse than I could’ve imagined.
The side door to my rental is open slightly and the pricking in my stomach races up my spine. My body stiffens as I nudge the door the rest of the way open with my foot.
My cute little boho bungalow is torn to shreds. Cushion stuffing strewn everywhere, drawers open, my stuff scattered and in heaps.
Panic seizes me, but I don’t freeze. Options run through my mind.
Going to the police is the obvious choice, but I already did that. They’re investigating Dax for various fraudulent wrongdoings. Unless...a lump forms in my throat.
Unless that was an undercover team following me. What if they think I’m part of his schemes? I’m not sure which would be worse—Dax’s henchmen or the cops.
Actually, there is a worse option. What if the two guys in the car work for Dax’s enemies? He didn’t follow the ‘ole adage to keep them close. No, he just made it his job to make his enemies multiply in number and reasons to hate him.
That leaves the other choice. Get out of town. Thinking on the fly, I’ll go to my sister’s for a while. I grab a bag and peek outside. The eggplant-colored sedan idles at the end of the driveway.
Dodging away from the window, I hiss, “This is all Daxel’s fault.”
But that doesn’t matter. I have to take responsibility for my role in dating him a day longer than I should have.
No, scratch that. I shouldn’t have said yes to his puppy dog request to meet him for dinner in the first place—I’m ashamed to say I picked up the tab.
Nothing wrong with that, but it set a trend.
Though he was terribly cute with those baby browns. Emphasis on terrible, as it turns out.
The fact that my apartment and all of my worldly possessions are in tatters tries to catch up with me. I rush through the rooms as I rifle through and find my important documents, some paintings, and clothes. I can’t fathom what they were looking for, but the only item missing is my laptop.
Good luck getting that thing to stay on for more than five minutes. It decides to nap at will and then, like a cranky old grandpa, won’t wake up until it’s good and ready.
This situation is already bad news, but what’s worse is I’ll have to run out on my rent.
Gina paid me, which would’ve covered it, but Dax drained my account, so that cash will have to feed my gas-guzzling truck.
I leave a nice painting of the bungalow in return.
Maybe someday it’ll be worth something. Here’s hoping.
After hoisting my bags, I square my shoulders and march outside to where the pair of thugs sit in their car, watching me like a couple of sharks. I sense blood in the water, or maybe it’s just paint.