Austin By Night – Art [Layer 8]

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Molly looks at the phone as it makes long, loud chirps in the parking lot outside of the hotel. The night air becomes hotter as I feel the fear creeping into my body. I look at my laptop and see the brunette woman on the video feed dialing Molly’s phone and looking up at the camera. The woman on the screen looks like she’s pissed as she continues to look up at me. She uses her free hand to shape it into a gun cocking it at the camera and taking aim. She extends her index ad middle fingers and tilts them, symbolizing a shot that condemns us all.

I slam the laptop shut and grab Molly’s phone. I rip the phone’s battery and sim card out of the read deck and toss them into the brush.

“We need to get out of here!” Molly, says.

“Yeah, no shit!” I say as we make a run for my car.

We run to my car and get inside. I step on the gas and within a few minutes we’re on I-35 heading north towards….somewhere. A few minutes pass.

“I need your phone,” says Molly.

“No,” I tell her.

“I need your fucking phone, Arty,” she tells me, “we’re so fucked if you don’t!”

“What did you do!?” I screamed.

“Some asshole just screwed me over,” she says in a fit of anger, as she reaches and grabs my cell phone out of my pocket.

“Nooooo,” I shake my head, “please no. No, no, no, no. I don’t want this.”

Molly looks at me. I can see her face twisting into something that resembles disgust. My eyes begin to well up.

“Believe it, Arty,” she says looking at me, “we’re in on this now. Both of us.”

“No, I never wanted this,” I tell her. I feel my body shaking. I’m crying.

“I just needed the extra money,” I tell her, “please just…I’ll drop you off anywhere you want just leave me out of this.”

I pull the car over on the side of the highway, as I try to catch my breath. Molly rubs my back as I lean into the steering wheel. I look up at her and she’s holding my cellphone in her hand.

“I’m sorry Arty,” she tells me, “you’re already in too deep.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask her.

“I’m going to make a phone call to see if I can call this off,” she says, “and then I’m going to need you to get some info on someone.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Logan Webb,” she tells me, “the fucker I want is Logan Webb.”

Copyright © 2017 Philip N.R Hauser

 

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