Ambushed Love
Dinner Dates and Discoveries
A black, newly polished BMW pulled up at a set of traffic lights and even through the closed windows, the music from inside the vehicle could still be heard clearly. It must have been loud, for the driver of the pick-up truck next to the sports car could still pick out the recognizable, yet slightly muffled, voice of Joey Ramone.
The man inside the BMW seemed to appear oblivious as to how loud his music was actually blaring from the booming, built-in speakers. He simply glanced up, in a casual manner at the set of traffic lights ahead and pushed the pair of aviator-like sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. The bassist watched as the lights turned neon green and put the engine into gear, with ease. He easily overtook the red, slightly battered- out pick-up truck and took to drumming his fingertips on the top of the steering wheel, in time to the music.
As he pulled into his street, Mike couldn’t help but to randomly burst into song, as the chorus of “The KKK Took My Baby Away” drew nearer. For some reason, the bassist was looking forward to seeing his girlfriend, wanting to tell her that he had managed to book a table at their favourite restaurant.
Mike shifted the engine down a gear as he pulled up at their house, a grin plastered across his face. He stopped the vehicle and pulled the key from the ignition, listening as the music came to a sudden, rather unexpected halt. He was well aware that Brittney would comment on how loud he listened to CDs in his car later that evening, when he took her out.
The bassist undid his seatbelt, hearing the familiar clicking sound as he did so and opened the car door, climbing out. Once standing on the drive way, Mike locked the vehicle automatically and started to make his way towards the front door, sorting through the set of keys in his hand as he did so.
He paused as he reached the sturdy front door and placed his key in the lock, turning it abruptly to the right. However, he frowned a little upon not hearing the usual snap of the lock. Instead, it simply swung open. The bassist shrugged if off, figuring that Brittney had left it on the latch for when he got back or something.
Mike stepped inside and looked around the hallway, beaming. He shut the door behind him and shoved his keys on the side, next to the phone and lent down to undo the laces of his sneakers. The bassist knew that his girlfriend had a thing about shoes and new carpets being said in the same sentence. Still, he couldn’t help but to cheerfully hum the song that he had been listening to, a short while ago.
Once having slipped his shoes from his socked feet, he stood up properly and started to wander down the hall, towards the living room.
“Britt, I’m home,” he called lovingly, but was quick to trail off as he stood in the doorway of the front room.
The sight that met his icy blue eyes was one which wiped the grin from his face immediately.
The mantelpiece, in which a selected number of sentimental items usually sat, was now void. Those items had been strewn across the floor, some completely ruined: smashed to smithereens. One of Estelle’s baby pictures, in which Mike treasured, had been trampled upon, leaving the glass shattered and beyond repair.
Mike’s eyes unwillingly scanned the rest of the room as he felt his heart skip a panicked beat.
One of the armchairs had been tipped over, onto its side and the television had been knocked from where it was usually kept on the cabinet. Part of the couple’s DVD collection had toppled onto the floor, most of the plastic cases cracked.
The bassist’s mind was screaming “burglary,” but as far as his gaze could see, nothing had been stolen; only trashed.
He sucked in a shaky breath and raised his voice, “Britt, where are you? Brittney?!”
Upon not getting a response, the worrisome bassist turned on the spot and darted down the hallway, towards the kitchen. By now, the bassist was well aware that his breathing was starting to hitch in his throat.
The now-speedy beat of his heart increased and an uncomfortable pressure was mounting in his chest.
“Britt?” he tried once again, “B-Brittney?”
No response.
He could, by now, feel his eyes tearing up in pure fear.
The kitchen was in a bit of a state, but nothing in comparison to the living room: a couple of plates smashed, a drink spilt and the phone was left dangling, off the hook.
It was then that the fearsome bassist noticed a simple scrap of paper, pinned to the refrigerator with some kind of novelty fridge magnet.
He stepped forward, barely even flinching as he felt his feet come into contact with the remnants of one of the shattered plates. He was almost in a daze as he reached out to take the crumpled note with clammy, shaky hands.
Mike allowed his frightened eyes to scan the scrawled, unrecognizable handwriting. He felt a lump form in his throat, the pressure in his chest tightening and his breathing grow even quicker.
”N-No..” he mumbled.
I’ve got her. Don’t call the police. If they find out, she’s done for, as are you, Michael. I’ll keep in touch.
The man inside the BMW seemed to appear oblivious as to how loud his music was actually blaring from the booming, built-in speakers. He simply glanced up, in a casual manner at the set of traffic lights ahead and pushed the pair of aviator-like sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose. The bassist watched as the lights turned neon green and put the engine into gear, with ease. He easily overtook the red, slightly battered- out pick-up truck and took to drumming his fingertips on the top of the steering wheel, in time to the music.
As he pulled into his street, Mike couldn’t help but to randomly burst into song, as the chorus of “The KKK Took My Baby Away” drew nearer. For some reason, the bassist was looking forward to seeing his girlfriend, wanting to tell her that he had managed to book a table at their favourite restaurant.
Mike shifted the engine down a gear as he pulled up at their house, a grin plastered across his face. He stopped the vehicle and pulled the key from the ignition, listening as the music came to a sudden, rather unexpected halt. He was well aware that Brittney would comment on how loud he listened to CDs in his car later that evening, when he took her out.
The bassist undid his seatbelt, hearing the familiar clicking sound as he did so and opened the car door, climbing out. Once standing on the drive way, Mike locked the vehicle automatically and started to make his way towards the front door, sorting through the set of keys in his hand as he did so.
He paused as he reached the sturdy front door and placed his key in the lock, turning it abruptly to the right. However, he frowned a little upon not hearing the usual snap of the lock. Instead, it simply swung open. The bassist shrugged if off, figuring that Brittney had left it on the latch for when he got back or something.
Mike stepped inside and looked around the hallway, beaming. He shut the door behind him and shoved his keys on the side, next to the phone and lent down to undo the laces of his sneakers. The bassist knew that his girlfriend had a thing about shoes and new carpets being said in the same sentence. Still, he couldn’t help but to cheerfully hum the song that he had been listening to, a short while ago.
Once having slipped his shoes from his socked feet, he stood up properly and started to wander down the hall, towards the living room.
“Britt, I’m home,” he called lovingly, but was quick to trail off as he stood in the doorway of the front room.
The sight that met his icy blue eyes was one which wiped the grin from his face immediately.
The mantelpiece, in which a selected number of sentimental items usually sat, was now void. Those items had been strewn across the floor, some completely ruined: smashed to smithereens. One of Estelle’s baby pictures, in which Mike treasured, had been trampled upon, leaving the glass shattered and beyond repair.
Mike’s eyes unwillingly scanned the rest of the room as he felt his heart skip a panicked beat.
One of the armchairs had been tipped over, onto its side and the television had been knocked from where it was usually kept on the cabinet. Part of the couple’s DVD collection had toppled onto the floor, most of the plastic cases cracked.
The bassist’s mind was screaming “burglary,” but as far as his gaze could see, nothing had been stolen; only trashed.
He sucked in a shaky breath and raised his voice, “Britt, where are you? Brittney?!”
Upon not getting a response, the worrisome bassist turned on the spot and darted down the hallway, towards the kitchen. By now, the bassist was well aware that his breathing was starting to hitch in his throat.
The now-speedy beat of his heart increased and an uncomfortable pressure was mounting in his chest.
“Britt?” he tried once again, “B-Brittney?”
No response.
He could, by now, feel his eyes tearing up in pure fear.
The kitchen was in a bit of a state, but nothing in comparison to the living room: a couple of plates smashed, a drink spilt and the phone was left dangling, off the hook.
It was then that the fearsome bassist noticed a simple scrap of paper, pinned to the refrigerator with some kind of novelty fridge magnet.
He stepped forward, barely even flinching as he felt his feet come into contact with the remnants of one of the shattered plates. He was almost in a daze as he reached out to take the crumpled note with clammy, shaky hands.
Mike allowed his frightened eyes to scan the scrawled, unrecognizable handwriting. He felt a lump form in his throat, the pressure in his chest tightening and his breathing grow even quicker.
”N-No..” he mumbled.
I’ve got her. Don’t call the police. If they find out, she’s done for, as are you, Michael. I’ll keep in touch.