My Story – Natalie chapter 5

“I’d love to hear about your muse. What inspires you?” Day three of accidentally running into Price. Her face flushed as it always did when I asked about her art. Coffee one – three days ago – she’d tried to tell me her art was private. Yeah, right. No one would exhibit private works. She wanted them to be seen. After all, it was why I was here. Coffee two – she thawed a little, enough to tell me she was pleased by my reaction. Well, who didn’t want to hear that their work mattered?

Yesterday, I’d skipped a day.

Today, she’d come to me. I shifted ever so slightly, my lips parted with the hint of a smile.

“Oh I…” She looked away. I followed her gaze to the outside of the cafe through the smudged window. The sun was shinning, but it had not yet reached the heat of the past few days. Cool enough for a light jacket. I hummed a sound to draw her focus back to me. I traced a fingertip around the lip of my coffee cup and, as I expected, her gaze rose straight to my mouth.

“Go on,” I urged.

“It’s just in my head, I guess.” Her voice was soft still I heard the crack. She was uncomfortable. Me or something else? I didn’t understand creative types. Their behavior was governed by unpredictability. Feelings. Logic and facts were better. Cold truth. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Basic necessities. They drove everyone – everyone except for the intuitive types, the makers, builders, imaginative dreamers. Wrong hierarchy. The pieces didn’t fit the mold. It was very annoying. I needed her trust and the quickest way to achieve that was via flattery. Let’s stroke her ego a bit.

“I wish I could see what you see,” I said keeping my tone wistful, gentle, needing. “Your work is just so memorable. I think of it – the yellow piece?”

“Dream Daisy – oh yes, I love that piece.”

“Me too,” I tell her. “It comes to me when I’m feeling oh, lost. Is that a good description?”

Her cheeks pinked further. She nibbled on her lower lip. “I’m not explaining myself well.” I looked down, focused my gaze on my clamshell nail polish, worrying at an invisible chip.

“No, its okay, I like that. I mean -” she coughed, embarrassed. “Art is supposed to make you feel.”

“How does it make you feel?” Was it too soon to ask so directly? I stared into her eyes examining her uncertainty war with her ego.

Ego won.

Hardly a surprise.

“Honestly, amazing,” she gushed. There was a light in her eyes I couldn’t hope to understand. Passion. “It’s like something inside me takes control of the brush, half the time I watch myself like I’m watching someone else. Its not me but it is me. Coming from somewhere inside that not even I have access to unless its through my brush. Oh, its hard to explain.”

“I think you’re doing an excellent job.”

“Oh.” She stopped again, looking away. Damnit. Tilting her cup she shook it lightly. Nearly done for today. Could I get away with anything more? Should I try? Watching her face for a clue I saw the moment her brows creased. Her lips tightened. Confusion with a hint of fear. I snapped my head to the side, eyeing the street, searching for the danger Price had spotted. A car, tinted windows, idled outside. I scratched my neck to explain the angle and then made an aborted gesture to my watch.

“Oh darn. Mr. Peterson will be furious if I’m late back again. Same time tomorrow, Millie?” I wanted a look at that car. Something about it frightened her. This might be what I needed. I headed for the rear of the coffee shop, and once out of sight of my mark I dropped the pretense of a mild mannered PA. I sprinted for the road, grabbed hold of a downpipe and flipped up, tangling my hand in the rope I’d dangled from the roof two weeks ago. In seconds I was on the roof using the sight from my pistol to stare down at the car. Noting the make, model and registration plate I could also see blond hair behind the wheel. A man’s cut – wide shoulders. Millie was being watched.

And not only by me.

 

 

TBC…

Go back to the Start of My Story – Natalie

 

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