CHAPTER 3 #2
Inspired by the bold colors on the mural I painted for Gina, I stash my bags in the bed of the pickup truck and then hurry inside to grab one more thing. Three things, to be precise.
I won’t be intimidated by these guys and by extension Dax. Well, not too much. Supplies in hand, I knock on the car’s window. The man in the driver’s seat needs a shave, and it’s not even five yet. A shadow crosses his dark eyes as he looks up at me.
I gesture that he rolls down the window.
When he doesn’t, I holler, “Is this about Dax? He’s my ex and if you’re looking for him, sorry, I can’t help you.
If you think I have something to do with his schemes, I’m going to emphasize the word ex.
As in ex-boyfriend. As in big-ex-mistake.
Like one of the biggest ex-decisions I’ve ever made.
I said ex-goodbye. See you never ex-again. Understand?”
The guy opens the window and says, “You’re Dax’s girlfriend, Izla.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s Isla. Pronounced eye-luh.” Why am I telling these thugs how to say my name?
His companion, with a tattoo on his meaty arm, says, “I told you. It rhymes with playa, the Spanish word for beach.”
The guy in the driver’s seat thwacks him.
“Anyway, did you hear anything I said? Dax is my ex, ex, ex to the tenth degree.”
“He wishes that ain’t so,” the driver says.
“That’s not what he—” The passenger starts before getting a sharp elbow jab in the gut.
Mine pricks with nerves. I toss them each a popsicle.
“I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. Thank you for making yourself comfortable in my home. I presume you ransacked it. I brought these for you as a housewarming gift. Now, if you’d be so kind as to pay my rent and damages, that would be great.
Okay, going to go meet my crew—Ali and Tyson.
They’re my boxer buddies. You know, Monday night fight training as usual.
Toodles.” With my popsicle in hand, I give them a wave and race across the street to my truck.
As I crank the ignition, I say, “Who says toodles?” Never mind that, I’m not acquainted with Muhammad Ali or Mike Tyson, but in my rambling panic, I guess I figured they’d be formidable against those two foes.
In a flurry and fright, I’m not sure what those guys in the eggplant on wheels intend, but given the state of my apartment, I don’t want my own stuffing strewn everywhere.
Before I put the vehicle in drive, I tap my phone to call my sister. She answers on the first ring and I get into gear.
Trying to sound as casual as possible, I use my usual greeting. “Hey, big sis.”
“Hey, little sis.”
“So, how do you feel about murals?” With the phone on speaker, I pull onto the main road.
“I love your murals.”
“Would you like one at your café? Think of it as a complimentary donation.”
“No, I’ll pay you.”
“No need.” I glance in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, the dark purple sedan is a few car lengths behind me.
“This is great timing. You’re going to love it.”
“Wait. What?” Bean asks.
Somewhat distracted, paraphrasing an old movie we watched when we were kids, I say, “If you envision it, I will come.”
“What?” she repeats. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Traffic.”
“Oh, you mean you’re coming now?”
“Right now.”
“What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hold on—” I make a sharp turn, hoping to lose the guys who’re tailing me.
“We can talk later if now isn’t a good time,” Bean says, ever cautious about multitasking when it comes to me—I’ve proven that I’m not a proficient juggler.
“Now is a great time to visit you. I meant to hold on to your hat because I was making an evasive maneuver.”
“But I’m not in the car with you, Isla.”
“Oh, right. That was a reflex.”
“Why were you making an evasive maneuver?”
“Oh, um, my defensive driver training.”
“You drive like a granny in that old truck of yours. What are you talking about?”
“We’ll have plenty of time to chat when I get there.”
“Are you sure everything is okay?”
I accelerate as I try to make a pregnant yellow light. “Yep.” But I’m not because the car continues to pursue me. Nope. Not okay. Not at all.
“Well, drive safely,” Bean says, and the phone slides across the seat and disappears in the gap next to the passenger side door.
“See you soon!” I holler as I near the next yellow traffic light. But it’s too late. I have to stop.
I’ve reached the outskirts of town and there’s no more traffic. It’s just the assailants and me on the road. This could go one of two ways. Terrible or horrible.
“Think, think, think, Isla,” I say, drumming the steering wheel. Glancing at the hodgepodge of items on the floor, I unbuckle my seatbelt and reach for three large containers of paint in vibrant neon colors.
As the light turns green, I roll down my window, and then get up to speed.
With the car still on my tail, I hold the first container of paint out the window, the lid facing backward, and squeeze it.
Like a kite in the wind, ribbons of paint stream through the air and then splatter the eggplant-colored car’s windshield. They swerve but don’t slow down.
I do the same with the other two containers until I’ve created a modern, interpretive art design. Can’t say I’m a fan, but there’s a first time for everything.
The sedan’s windshield wipers smear the paint and the car plows into a vacant bus stop.
Ironic, since the city recently contacted me to inquire about an urban improvement grant in conjunction with the high school art department to paint the bus stop shelters.
I’ll have to let them know I’ll be out of town for a while.
And mention Daxel Norris’s name if repairs to the Smith Street stop are necessary.
Taking a few irregular turns, I don’t breathe until I’m off the Charleston peninsula.
I check over my shoulder as I head southwest on Route 17.
When I reach the entrance to the interstate, I don’t see a clown car trying to run me down.
My shoulders inch away from my ears as if unsure whether the coast is clear.
As the sun sets in the distance, my grip on the steering wheel slackens. “I’m safe. Everything is okay.” But I blame Dax because those guys weren’t undercover police. Either his goons or his enemies are after me and I’m not collateral for his crimes.
That wasn’t one of my New Year’s resolutions.
I’d like to pull an all-nighter and cruise all the way to my sister’s, but fatigue soon replaces the adrenaline coursing through my system.
The oncoming headlights blur and my head aches.
Not too far into Florida, I stop at my favorite rest stop slash mega country store on the interstate.
To be cautious, I pull between two tractor-trailers who’re overnighting in the lot.
This is the best I can come up with for a safety measure in case the driver of the neon eggplant comes looking.
Locking the truck and bedding down on the bench seat before I can rehash my wild ride out of Charleston, I doze off and dream about muffins.