Page 88 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
He narrows his eyes, and I get through the rest of the night knowing that I’ll have the satisfaction of proving him wrong. Everyone, especially me, sees through his veneer of charm.
But when I walk into the pub after we close, Mike is kissing the redheaded Catstrike, and all I can do is stand there, staring.
Oh…I feel ill.
I need to leave. I need to run. I need to do anything besides stand here gawking as this voluptuous Catstrike presses her lips to Mike’s.
It’s not lost on me that this is exactly who I believed Mike to be. He’s spectacularly proving every point I’ve made. He’s an actor. He’s a flirt. He’s a pretty pair of lips with gorgeous eyes and the most introspective, intelligent student of Shakespeare who has ever graced—
Oh my gosh! I’m doing it again—letting the man I see on the page blind me from what is right in front of me. If I keep standing here, watching him kiss another woman, I’m going to burst into tears.
Me. Beatrice Hero McKinney.
I don’t cry. I never cry.
The door to the pub opens behind me, and a rowdy group comes in. The noise is enough to break whatever spell Mike and Catstrike are under, because they separate. Abruptly. The redhead beats me to the door, rushing past me.
That’s when Mike sees me. He goes white. I go red.
“Bea!”
And then I’m running. Out the door into the street.
“Bea! I can explain,” Mike yells.
I don’t want an explanation. I don’t need an explanation. If Mike wants to kiss strangers, that’s completely fine. Why should I care about where his lips have been? Will be?
My eyes prick with tears, and I run faster. I take a shortcut through a back alley.
“Bea!”
He can’t catch me. I won’t let him, even in these stupid heels. I can’t have this conversation.
I’m panting when I reach my car. I had to park two blocks up. “Who the freak invented heeled boots?” I dig through my purse and find my key. Yes, I regret my decision to buy a vintage Porsche. No auto unlock happening here. I’m still fumbling to get my key in the ignition when Mike bangs on my window.
“I can explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Beatrice. Can we talk about this?”
“So you kissandtell. No, thanks.” My engine revs, and I screech out of there before my eyes start to sting. I squeeze them tight at the first red light I come across. After I hit my steering wheel and scream first.
That’s when I see Mike in my rearview. He’s barreling down La Jolla Boulevard on a motorcycle.
Oh my gosh. No! Maybe if I look straight ahead, he won’t see me.
No such luck. He pulls up right beside me. “Bea!”
The light turns green, and I hammer my gas pedal. My squeal has nothing over the screech of my tires.
It’s then I realize I’m in a car chase. I’m literally in a car chase. Mike Benedick is on a motorcycle, and he’s chasing me.
And I cannot get caught.
I swerve down Avenida Cresta. He follows.
I look for a place to pull in and park where he might not see me. But he is right behind me. If there were more traffic outtonight, this might be possible, but it’s Thursday at eleven p.m. The streets are quiet.
