Artistic License

Pep talk time. I am not neurotic. I am competent and in control. Okay, I’m a non-neurotic mutant artist. Out of my depth. What would my alter ego do? I had paper and pencil in my purse. I weighed scenarios of illustrating my escape. Why had I erased her spike heel boots and sketched Doc Martens? Why hadn’t I drawn stun bullets for the useless gun at my ankle?

I had escaped self-absorbed Todd. Followed a girl into the men’s room where she had disappeared, to where? Why would anyone be waiting for me in there?

If - no when - I got out of this, I’d draw Todd Davis with zits, a pudgy body and bad teeth, the traitorous bastard. The SUV sped past a two story mirrored building. Double damn it. Mirrors.

In the front seat, the still compellingly attractive, Mr. Blue Eyes flipped down the visor. His long fingers pulled open the vanity mirror and the deep ocean colored eyes watched me.

The driver slammed on the brakes, the Suburban fishtailing to a halt. A thin, disheveled man in a yellow trench coat stood in the road. The horn blared a warning but he did not budge.

“Move him,” ordered Blue Eyes.

“Just run him over,” snarled Goon Number Two on my right.

“No. Move him. Now.” He commanded, shooting a volcanic glare at the men.

They jumped out and I dove to my right but the door flew shut and the lock engaged. The driver honked again. I pushed my hair behind my ear. My fingers drifted to the brow stud. I hated piercings.

The goons trotted to the raggedy man. I gritted my teeth and jerked the stud out. Raggedy man's eyes flashed red. One of my captors dropped to the pavement, the other shrieked and convulsed, his body phasing in and out of time.

“What the hell?” The driver pushed his door open and evaporated. In his place sat Ms. Bleached Buzz Cut in a Hoodie. “Ready Robert?” she asked.

Blue Eyes nodded and she shifted into reverse. Using the rearview mirror to navigate we retraced our route. Robert reached back, pried the stud from my fingers and took my hand in his.