When a Mullo Loves a Woman

Excerpt

“Is he still behind us?” I nudged Celeste’s pink lycra-clad ribs to steal her attention away from a store window. No use. The mannequins decked out in scanty outfits mesmerized her. I nudged her again. She shrugged and pointed to a little black number clinging to a plastic body.

“I bet that would look great on me. What’d ya think?”

“Really, Celeste? I mean, really? We’re being followed, and you’re picking out outfits?” I scanned the sea of tourists stampeding through the palm tree lined streets of Carmel-by-the-Sea, California. The would-be purse snatcher, who'd been behind us for four blocks, was hard to miss with his dark and grungy attire.

The early evening breeze skimmed his hood, throwing it back to expose a stare laced with purpose, eyes deep, soulful. He caught my gaze, and a look of recognition hit him. He picked up his pace to a jog. Friggin’ Nora. I focused my attention ahead, my breath fast, my pulse pounding.

“Maybe he wants a date?” Celeste giggled, her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. She cocked her head to one side and smiled. My heart sank; certain madness would follow that cunning smile.

“Look, he’s all dressed up for you and everything. You should totally buy this dress. You could wear it on your first date with him and loan it to me for the weekend.” She flipped open her purple purse and rummaged through it. “Here, you should put some lippy on before he catches up. I bet he’s a frosty pink guy.” Celeste produced a lipstick. “Voila.”

“Arr, ey, Celeste. Pack it in.”

“Someone’s upset.”

“Nope. Just concerned.”

She honed in on me, eyes alight with mischief.

“You are too. I can tell. Your Liverpool accent always comes out when you’re peeved.”

“Seriously, pack it in.”

To prove her point, she swiveled the lipstick up. I threw my arms up in defense, but my delayed reaction was futile. She tackled me. After smearing pink over my lips, and a little on my face, she admired her handy work through a finger-formed picture frame.

“Beautiful.” Celeste hiccupped.

“That’s the last time I put you in charge of the tequila when we’re making margaritas.”

“Are you suggesting I’m drunk?”

“Nope. Just… how do I put it nicely… three margaritas to the wind?”

“Hey. I only had two.”

“Three actually, but who cares? In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s the matter of the stalker on our heels.” I glimpsed back at the grungy stranger. He’d be disappointed. Art students aren’t exactly known for being loaded with cash.

Now only a few yards away, he weaved in and out of tourists with ease.

“Celeste, we should get moving. He’s getting closer,” I snapped, nervous energy creeping over me. She nodded, finally on the same page. “Let’s walk, fast.”