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“You playing hockey.” It certainly makes more sense than Turner, the sensitive artist. Although he does have the tortured thing down pat. “Your size––for one thing. Were you any good?”
All I know about hockey is that most players are large, bearded, and have missing teeth. In other words, nothing that interests me.
“I was alright.” He goes back to cleaning his brushes.
“We can’t all be superstars, right?”
“Right,” he answers, and if my eyes don’t deceive me, tightly.
A full two minutes pass without a word exchanged. Conversation is akin to waterboarding for this guy, and I’m losing the will to try.
“What do you do?” he finally says and part of me feels a tickle of pride. Getting him to engage is no small feat, and I accomplished it.
This is how low my standards have sunk. That I get a thrill out of this guy reluctantly asking me a question.
I watch him arrange tubes of color, his fingers smeared in bright blue, red, a rich royal purple. He dips a rag in a clear solution and wipes his fingers clean with it.
“I’m a reporter,” I automatically answer. Because I still am––regardless of what Ben or his overlord think of me.
Standing upright, Turner’s head whips around, his speculative gaze meeting mine. “A reporter?” His face takes on a peculiar expression.
“Uh-huh, yep. A reporter.” I’m not about to explain all the failings of my life to a stranger. I can barely explain them to myself.
“You’re a reporter?” he repeats, expression morphing into borderline disbelief with a side of simmering anger.
This is weird.
For a second I question whether he recognizes me from my profile picture. Heck, maybe the guy is an NFL fan and was following the story. “Umm, yeah,” I reply with less confidence. Lord help me if he’s on Twitter. I really don’t want to hear all the things he would do to the holes in my body. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like it.
His eyes narrow as he silently stares at me. This is probably the worst glare he’s leveled at me thus far and it’s beginning to worry me. He finishes cleaning his paint-stained hands with the rag and slaps it down on the cart. Then he squares up, turning to face me, hands on his hips, his sweatpants dropping below his hipbones. And I can say with absolute certainty that having this man’s undivided attention is not something anyone would want.
“Who sent you?” he growls, his voice raspy to the power of ten.
That’s a curveball I wasn’t expecting. I’m not sure what to make of this question. Or his demeanor. “What do you mean?”
He takes one step closer and my back goes stiff. Slowly, I push off the stool and stand, fight or flight kicking in. I’ll go with flight.
“Who sent you? Who do you work for?”
This is starting to get seriously scary. The Uni-Bomber gag was only a gag until this very minute. “No one. No one sent me,” I answer, head shaking, my heart thumping loudly under my breastbone. Without thought, I carefully throw a sideways glance over my shoulder to the wide open door and calculate how far I can get in my Pumas in multiple feet of snow should the need arise.
“Bullshit––” He takes another step forward and stops, every muscle in his body taut. This is not looking good for me. “Tell me right now who sent you or I’ll throw you out.”
WTF?? In the middle of a snowstorm? At night? Most chilling is the deadly quiet tone he’s using. I’m vacillating between disbelief and outright pants-crapping fear. This guy is unhinged. I knew there was something wrong with him.
And yet something has happened in the last 72 hrs that has altered my genetic makeup. Because a growing sense of anger at the injustice of it all is trying to shove the fear aside. I refuse to shrink from this. I’ve done a lot of shrinking lately and this is where it stops. He may do his worst, but he will not see me cower.
“Look, pal, I don’t know what you’re talking about, so let’s calm down––”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” he snipes back. “I am so sick of you people. I want to know who sent you.”
“I swear, no one sent me.”
His eyes narrow into two indigo slits. “Tell me or I’ll toss your ass out.”
Huh? My jaw is hanging. This guy is certifiable. A real nut job. Another wave of anger hits me. “No one sent me, you psycho! Who would send me anyway? No one!”
He balks at my calling him a psycho. As if I’m the first person to ever do that. Yeah, right. And I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.
He regroups quickly, however, and shakes off the surprise. “You’re lying.”
That’s when I lose it. “The FBI sent me! Okay? That’s who. And if you hurt me, if you harm a single hair on my head, they’ll put you in jail for life! ”
