Page 9 of The Romance Adventure

“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.

Royal

CHAPTER 4

Not going to lie, last night I drove the BMW rental car hard and only stopped when I needed gas. And fine, I was also exhausted. It was probably the early morning wake-up call, jumping out of an airplane and parachuting onto an island, playing four-man flag football for several hours, and then getting a smoothie dumped on me, but my body ached and my eyes were heavy.

After a pit stop to use the facilities, I returned to the parking lot and didn’t even make it to the gas pump before I passed out cold. Not usually like me. Working (and fine, playing) as hard as I do, I prefer to recover (and overnight) in luxury accommodations. My body literally creaks as I peel myself out of the driver’s seat. I’ll text Angela later and have her book me a massage.

Here I am, waking at dawn in a parking lot somewhere south of Charleston. I check the GPS. Looks like I barely made it into Florida last night. After several more hours at a high rate of speed, I’ll reluctantly reach my destination.

But first, coffee.

The air is dry and relatively cool this time of year and I take a deep breath. Diesel and the scent of sausage fill my nose and my stomach rumbles with hunger.

After using the bathroom, I peruse the breakfast selection. Not going to lie, it smells good, but to stay in top form, I usually avoid roadside food—and muffins. Yesterday was an exception.

There are some hard-boiled eggs, but those seem risky. The brown bananas look like they’d do better to use in a prank to make someone slip on the peel than provide a satisfying breakfast.