Obsessive Compulsion by CE Kilgore

drawing for so long.
    And my drawings? Ian has a gallery of my
artwork on his wall. I think he’s had them there for a while, too.
I guess that should creep me out a little bit, but it doesn’t. I
find it kina flattering, like the way I kept catching him staring
at me. He thinks I’m beautiful and he likes my artwork.
    Actually, now that I think about it, I think
he said he fell in love with my charcoals. The man loves my art and
I fled from his apartment after telling him I’d been checking into his mental health problems.
    Running is safer, Charlotte, or don’t you
remember the bridge?
    Of course I remember. Bitch. And don’t call
me Charlotte.
    How could I forget? Neil made me promise.
Neil made me promise, and then he left me.
    I pull my car over to the gravel shoulder.
I’m only a few miles from Brandon’s estate, but the tears are
making it too hard to see the road. I’m just glad it’s a quiet
little country road where no one will see the crazy redhead hitting
her forehead against her steering wheel.
    Ow.
    Leaning back into my patched pleather seat,
I take in large gulps of brisk winter air, rolling down the window
with the manual crank. The gears protest and grind, threatening to
get stuck again. This old car’s seen better days, but it was the
best I could find on my budget when I came back to Dallas. My
parents and Emma have both offered to help me get something better,
but I’ve never been able to accept assistance, even when I know it
really is coming from the heart.
    I glare at the check-engine light on the
dash as it pops on for the third time this week. It’s a faulty
oxygen sensor, or so the mechanic said. He also said the alternator
is about to go, I need a new timing belt and I should really just
consider taking the car out to a field with a shotgun to put it out
of its misery. I affectionately pat the dash of my poor little
clunker, and it chooses that moment to stop running.
    “No, no, no…” I turn the key. The
dash-lights dim and the engine refuses to turn over. Pausing, I
count to twenty, pump the gas twice then try the key again. The
engine turns over, revs then promptly dies.
    I sniff the air from my open window. The
country odors of cows and winter-wet hay fields has now been mixed
with burnt oil. Getting out, a puff of visible frustration exiting
my lips, I crouch down and look under the carriage. Sure enough, a
nice, oily black pool has formed. With my luck, it’s the head
gasket and I won’t even be able to get this car into a field for
the recommended shotgun burial.
    A car horn startles me and I jump up,
tightening the closure on my black trench coat. I’d already been
running late, so I’d dressed at my apartment and packed my normal
cloths in a duffle bag. I was now standing on the side of a country
road with a coat covering bondage gear. Wonderful!
    Turning around to face the car, my gut
drops. Of course it’s a cop car. No, wait, correction. It’s
the damn Johnson County Deputy! Ten bucks says he takes me in for
indecent exposure, twenty bucks says he hits on me and a hundred
bucks says he’s gonna think I’m a prostitute.
    As he pulls up behind my car and gets out,
I’m running through all the excuses I have. Costume party? No, it’s
almost Christmas. Birthday party? Not unless I’m the one coming out
of the cake. Well, that’s better than a bachelor party where I’m
the one…
    “Need some assistance, ma’am?” he swaggers
over.
    And man, does he swagger . The guy
could give Kyle lessons. Putting on a smile, I hug my body tighter.
“My car seems to have finally gone to pasture,” I joke with a
nervous laugh.
    “I could call you a tow,” he looks down his
nose at me, his grey Stetson shading my face from the fading sun.
“Where were you headed? Not much out this way.”
    “The Peters Estate,” I offer. “Visiting
some… friends .”
    He grins and tips his hat at me. “In that
case, I can give you a ride to The Stables, ma’am, and I’ll call a
tow