Page 8 of The Romance Adventure

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.