Pulse A Mafia Romance

Eliza

My heart pounded as I tore down the broad boulevards of the main drag through town. I knew I was going over the speed limit and that it was only a matter of time before a cop pulled me over.

But I didn't care. The only thing on my mind was getting away. Making my escape.

My life depended on it.

The light changed red at the intersection ahead, small storefronts on both sides of me. I considered gunning the engine and blasting through the red light, but I quickly realized that this would draw even more attention to me. Maybe even send me crashing into a car coming the other way.

I slowed down and came to a halt, my fingers gripped on the steering wheel. As I sat still, I glanced to my left at the large glass front of a corner bank. I could see the reflection of the car perfectly, noting its garish hot pink color.

Ricky, my ex, had bought the car for me. He hadn't given me any say in the color, however. He'd gone with pink, telling me that he figured it was "girly." I'd always hated it, and even more, the color made me stick out like a sore thumb.

Even if I managed to make it out of town without Ricky finding out, all it'd take was for him to put out a call to his boys, telling them to look out for a hot pink car. With only one highway out of town, I'd be spotted for sure.

I needed to either ditch the car or change the appearance. As the red light went on, I weighed the pros and cons. Ricky'd put the car in my name when he'd bought it, and it and the belongings that I'd hurriedly stuffed into the trunk were the only things I now owned.

No, I had to keep the car. No matter where I ended up, I'd need it, and the few possessions I had, to start a new life. That meant I had to change the car's appearance. But how?

I drove on once the light turned green, keeping an eye open for anything that could help me.

Then I spotted it. Up ahead, on the left, was an autobody shop, the words "full-body paint jobs" written in gaudy letters on a plastic sign. That'd be it-I could have them do a quick paint job on the car, making it safe to drive out of town.

I pulled into the parking lot of the place; the two garage doors opened and I could see a team of men inside working on the cars within. I had no idea what to do-cars had always been Ricky's thing, not mine-and I hoped the stories of women going into car places and getting totally screwed weren't totally true.

The bell chimed as I stepped into the waiting room of the place. The room was small, the walls lined with plastic chairs, and a TV was in the upper corner, playing some daytime TV soap. The lights were harsh and the smell of paint was thick in the air.

At the counter was a man in his thirties, heavyset with a head of greasy black hair. He was dressed in a black and white jumpsuit that read "Vin's Auto" in small, clear letters. The employee looked me up and down as I entered, as if trying to figure out what he was in store for.

"Vin's Auto," he said in an accent that sounded like it was right out of Brooklyn. "How can I help you?"

"I need a paint job," I said. "For my car."

"Not for yourself?" he asked, letting out a barking laugh at his own joke.

"No," I said. "And I'm in a hurry."

The man raised his bushy dark eyebrows.

"In a hurry, huh?" he asked. "And what we working with here? You got a little scratch or something that you need taken care of?"

"No," I said. "I need a full paint job. For the whole car. And I need it done in the next couple of hours if you can."

His eyes went somehow even wider.

"Are you serious?" he asked. "Lady, I don't know what you think painting a car is like, but it's not a small fuckin' thing."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Painting a car's not like painting a wall or some shit. You want a quality job done-the only kind of job we do here-then it's not going to take a couple of hours, or be something we can do quickly on short notice."

He went on, and I felt my stomach tighten by the second.

"We take all the parts off the car-doors, fenders, the hood-and spray each part individually. We take our time, and we get it right. I'm the manager of this place, and no car's going off our lot with some third-rate shit."

I collapsed into the cheap plastic seat behind me.