Neon Gravel Horizon Chapter Three: Unscripted Conversations at Midnight

            The alleyway was damp and smelled of old rain and charred wood. Arthur stood by a stack of wooden crates, his breath hitching every time a car passed on the main street. He felt like a thief, though he wasn't sure what he had stolen yet.

            Then, the heavy steel door creaked open.

            Beatrice stepped out, sheathed in a trench coat she must have grabbed from a cloakroom on her way. She had kicked off her heels and was holding them in one hand, her feet bare on the cold pavement.

            “Move”. she hissed, grabbing his arm.

            They ran. It wasn't a graceful cinematic sprint; it was a frantic, stumbling dash toward the corner where Arthur had parked the Mustang. He fumbled with the keys, the lock sticking for an agonizing second before the door swung open.

            “Get in!” he yelled.

            She dived into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut just as a group of men with long lenses rounded the corner of the alley. Arthur floored it. The Mustang roared, the engine screaming as he threw it into gear and tore away from the curb.

            They drove in silence for ten minutes, weaving through the hilly streets of San Francisco until the lights of the city began to thin out. Arthur didn't stop until they were overlooking the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge a ghostly red skeleton in the distance.

            He turned off the engine. The silence was absolute.

            Beatrice let out a long, jagged breath. She leaned her head back against the worn leather seat and started to laugh. It wasn't the polite, tinkling laugh from the interviews. It was deep and slightly manic.

            “Oh my god.” she gasped. “I think I just fired my manager by proxy.”

            Arthur looked at her. She looked human now. The makeup was slightly smudged under her eyes, and a strand of hair had escaped its perfect coil.

            “Why did you do that?” he asked.

            “Because I’ve spent three hours talking about the 'notes of citrus and ambition' in a drink I didn't even invent.” she said, turning to look at him. “And because you looked like you were about to faint when I talked to you. It was refreshing.”

            Arthur felt the weight of the Leica in his pocket. He also felt the small, rectangular shape of the wireless lapel mic he had forgotten clipped to his shirt. It was still on. It had been recording everything since he entered the bar.

            His stomach did a slow, sickening roll. If he kept this, if he used this audio, he would have the ultimate scoop. He could hear the headlines.

            “You’re filming this, aren't you?” she asked, her voice suddenly sharp.

            Arthur froze. “No. I mean, the camera is off.”

            “But you’re a creator. That’s what you said.” She reached out, her fingers brushing his chest where the mic was hidden. She felt the plastic. Her expression didn't turn to anger, but to a profound, weary sadness. “Is everyone just looking for a clip?”

            Arthur reached up and unclipped the mic. He looked at it, then at her. He could see the reflection of the bridge in her eyes.

            “I was.” he admitted. “That was the whole point of this trip. To get famous. To be someone.”

            “And now?”

            Arthur didn't answer with words. He opened his hand and let the mic drop onto the floor mat of the car. He reached for his phone, opened the recording app, and hit 'delete' on the last file.

            “Now I’m just a guy with a broken car and a very famous passenger.” he said.

            Beatrice watched him, her gaze intense. She seemed to be weighing him, looking for the lie. Finally, she smiled. It was a small, real smile that didn't reach for the cameras.

            “Where are you going next, London?”

            “North. Then east. I have to be in New York in three weeks.”

            Beatrice looked out at the water. “My manager, Marcus, has a private jet waiting for me at SFO tomorrow morning. I have a press tour in Seattle, then Chicago, then the finale in NYC. I’m supposed to be a product. A brand.”

            She turned back to him.

            “Drive me instead.” she said.

            Arthur’s heart stopped. “What?”

            “Drive me to New York. The Mustang is faster than a schedule, isn't it? Marcus will lose his mind, which is a bonus. I just want... I want to see the road. Not the airports. Not the hotels. Just the road.”

            “Beatrice, I’m a stranger.” Arthur said, though every fiber of his being was screaming at him to say yes.

            “You’re a stranger who deleted the footage.” she countered. “That makes you the most trustworthy person I’ve met in three years.”

            Arthur looked at the dashboard. He thought about his empty bank account, his failing channel, and the impossible woman sitting next to him.

            “The heater doesn't work very well.” he warned.

            Beatrice laughed, and this time, it was warm. “I’ll bring a blanket. Pick me up at the corner of Post and Mason at dawn. And Arthur?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Leave the big camera in the trunk. Let’s just see what happens without a lens.”