Painting With Fire (20 page)

“I’m right here,” Stan hollered through his squad car’s window. He leveled his shotgun at the SUV and shattered the windshield with his first shot.

Three stunned security guards poured out the front entrance with their weapons drawn.

The SUV had already rolled backward down the stairs, and unhinged the remains of the Nissan. Through a barrage of bullets, Alice put the Chevy into drive and accelerated on wobbly wheels back to fifty, sixty, seventy miles and hour with a smoking engine and one flat tire. Claudia stared at the tail end of the SUV as it accelerated down the street. It had a small, gray “Jesus Saves” bumper sticker.

Stan trailed Alice in his black, unmarked squad with lights flashing and siren blasting. He took three shots and watched as the
SUV
clipped a truck past the stoplight and spun around back and struck a utility pole. The wood snapped in half and the transformer on top fell to the ground with a bright yellow flash of light, then darkness.

He braked and swerved to miss the pole
and hit the curb with a jolt that travelled up each vertebra in his spine. Stan staggered out of his police car and watched as the SUV caught fire. The transformer sat on top of the metal hood like a warning beacon.

Wild f
lames licked the metal, lapping quickly, as the ambulance pulled up. A fire engine’s siren echoed in the distance.

She was twisting and turning in there.
Even though she was a killer, it felt like a kind of murder to leave her trapped in a burning vehicle. Stan wanted to pull on the door handle, but he knew the skin on his hand would blister against the melting plastic and he could be electrocuted. The door was crushed inward like an old aluminum can. The flames built up higher and devoured the dash and airbag, the seats and her. He had to step back from the hellish roar of heat.

Plumes of smoke rose into the sky, and the
arms of the fire split out of the SUVs broken windows. The sun had already set with the last of its orange and red streaks spilt across the bottom of a dark sky. It looked like all that was left of the world, Stan thought. It looked like the whole world was on fire.

Chapter 42: Making It Up

Tom and Claudia stood staring at the remains of their car, a surreal hunk of metal outside an art exhibit. The hazard lights were blinking in the dark. The art exhibit attendees came outside and pointed at the wreck. Some still carried their wine glasses.

Claudia couldn’t wait to get out of there. The
EMTs had asked her and Tom if they wanted to go to the hospital a million times. “Are you sure you are ok?” they had asked.

She held onto Tom’s arm and said she thought she was. It was actually kind of hard to tell. There were pangs
and bruises from the stairs that hadn’t shown their colors yet. Tom reached into his pocket for his cell phone and found it had been smashed into pieces of black plastic.

“All I want to do is go home,” she said to Tom.

“I just want another drink,” he said.

Someone brought him a glass of champagne and
he took a swig in front of the remains of the old car. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s art now,” he said. “What a way to go.”
He threw his glass at it and it shattered. “Why don’t we sell this, too?”

“Don’t litter,” a nearby cop barked.

“What does it matter?” Tom shouted back. “It’s a mess anyway.”

Claudia laughed
, too. She was relieved to be alive. “Come on,” she said, pulling Tom up. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

She walked in front of the line of people waitin
g for cabs and stuck out her hand. None of them said anything to her as they stepped into the cab. Tom’s crutch was spread across the back. Neither of them wore their seat belts. There was no way fate would keep fucking with them like that, she thought.

They pulled up in front of their new building and climbed the old, creaky stairs.

While she was fumbling with her keys to open the
wooden door, Claudia could hear the landline ringing on the other side over and over. No one important ever called on that line, just creditors robo-calling the wrong number.

Af
ter kicking off his shoe, Tom hobbled over and answered the phone. He put his crutch against the wall and leaned one hand against the bookcase for support.

“My agent,” he whispered. “Yep. Sounds great. Thanks.”

Claudia hung up his suit jacket for him in the closet and then wandered into the bedroom and took off her borrowed earrings. She threw a sparkly crystal necklace on top of the dresser.

She
wandered into the bathroom and washed the makeup off her face with cold water until the black splotches of mascara beneath her eyes disappeared. She wiped the water droplets off her face with a soft, new towel. She pressed it against her closed eyes and tried not to think about the evening they had had. Instead, she took in a deep breath and smelled the scent of lavender detergent. She brushed her teeth and took out her blurry contacts. They were all automatic actions, things she did all the time, but they felt different. They felt heavier. The adrenaline had worn off.

“I’m rich and famous now,” Tom staggered into the b
edroom and lay down on the king-sized bed. “Do you love me more?”

Claudia
followed him and let the dress drop onto the floor into a puddle of brown fabric. She kicked off her heels, slipped under the sheets and put her arms around his wide shoulders. The heaviness floated away the instant she smelled his skin.

“You know I’ve always loved you,” she said. She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her
hands under the wrinkled cotton, touching his warm skin.

“That’s news to me,” he said, putting his good arm around her. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

She frowned and ran her fingers across his smooth jaw, turning his face towards hers.

“Tom, I swear, I have
for a long time,” her voice sounded scratched after all they’d been through. “It kind of scared me how much. It crept up on me a little bit more each day. And I’m sorry it took me so long to admit. But almost being killed a few times has put my life into pretty sharp focus. I don’t care about money. I just don’t think I could live without you anymore.”

She gripped his arm.

“But how do I know that’s true?” he said, turning away from her and facing the wall. “If I wasn’t good enough before?”

“You were always good enough before,” she said.

“But you don’t understand. I’m fucking colorblind.”

“I know,” she said, rubbing his arm. “It doesn’t matter. You just see the world differently.”

“The critics will tear me to pieces when they figure it out, without all the distractions. And how am I supposed to follow this? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to paint like that anymore. Will you still love me when the money and fame fade away?”

It bothered her that she couldn’t see his eyes. She sat
up and pulled him back toward her.

“You’ve saved my life, Tom. I’m here now. You just have to believe me.”

“I don’t know. That pile of paintings just sold for $1.4 million.” Tom bit his lip and smiled. “Are you a gold digger?” He laughed uneasily and stared ahead at the empty white wall.

“Shit. I’m gonna have to spend the rest of my life proving that I really love you, aren’t I?” she murmured softly.

“Yep. But don’t worry. I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me.” He laughed and turned off the light.

About the Author

K.B. Jensen is an author and journalist. “Painting With Fire” is her debut novel. As a reporter, she has written extensively about crime in the Chicago suburbs. Jensen grew up in Minneapolis and currently lives in Chicago with her husband, daughter and rescued border collie/lab mix. In her spare time, she enjoys teaching downhill skiing and traveling the world.

For more information, visit
www.paintingwithfirenovel.com
.

A note from the author: If you liked “Painting With Fire,” please consider taking a moment to write a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Reviews are greatly appreciated and really help get the word out for new authors. Also, if you would like to strike up a conversation about the book, feel free to get in touch via Twitter @KB_Jensen or on Facebook under K.B. Jensen.

Copyright

Copyright © 2014 K.B. Jensen

Published by Crimson Cloud Media LLC.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Illustration by Zoe Shtorm