Chapter Two
Emily
“I’m really sorry, Em, but we need you on the register tonight. Macy has to go home sick,” says Dr. Margaret Simmons. “I know you had some stuff you were hoping to get ahead on, but this is a bit of an emergency.”
I frown, but only for a second. The last thing I want is to seem reluctant or annoyed in front of my boss. Still, I can’t suppress that momentary frown, because there’s a research paper taking up most of the space in my mind — as one would expect from an end-of-term paper that counts for a huge chunk of my grade also stands a good chance of being submitted to magazines — and the pharmacy is usually dead quiet on Friday nights, which means I’d have plenty of time to get work done.
While the non-pharmacy part of Ironwood Falls Meds jumping at shadows doesn’t seem so foolish when those shadows leave you with bruises darker than they are. “Tell Macy I hope she feels better quick. I’ll be up front if you need me.”
“Thanks, Em,” Maggie says.
Not even halfway to the front, somewhere between the men’s razors and the women’s deodorant, I hear the upset customer coloring the Friday night with his language.
“Such unbelievable service. In all my years shopping at this establishment, I can’t believe that I’ve experienced something so goddamn disrespectful.” When I clear the snack foods aisle, I catch sight of him just a split second before he catches sight of me. “You. Missy. Are you here to tell me where the store manager is? Or at least, is your supervisor on the way? I imagine he’d want to hear me out and make sure that I’m a satisfied customer.”
Why do these guys always assume the managers and supervisors are men?
One longer look at this man tells me why; with his paunchy paleness, scraggly scruff covering a chin that looks like it’s being angrily consumed by his neck, and cloudy eyes that hint at incoming glaucoma as serious as a heart attack, he looks like he belongs to an era where all the supervisors and managers were men, and he’s spent every ounce of puny strength in his disturbingly pallid and pooch-bellied body fighting the march of progress.
“Sorry, sir,” I say, forcing my kindest tone. “The manager isn’t in right now, but I am the highest ranking floor staff on duty and I’m happy to help you. What seems to be the problem?”
“The young lady who was checking me out just suddenly up and ran off on me,” he says, lingering on the words ‘checking me out,’ in such a blatantly suggestive way, as if I’m supposed to believe it’s a regular occurrence for him to have young women checking him out, like his paunch, pallid complexion, and perilously dangling turkey neck mark him as the peak of manliness. “I’ve never seen such disrespect. Is this how you kids act nowadays? Don’t you have any manners?”
“Again, sorry about that, sir. She’s in the bathroom violently ill and vomiting.”
“Bullshit. Kids these days just don’t want to work. You all just want to play on your phones and expect mommy and daddy to pay for everything for you.”
“Sir, I am sorry for the inconvenience, but she really is very ill and is currently making a colossal mess of the staff bathroom. Would you like me to bring her out here so you can see? Or would you like me to finish ringing you up?”
“Bring her out here?”
“We take honesty seriously here at Ironwood Falls Meds he looms over me and it’s all I can do to suppress a whimper. It doesn’t matter that Maggie’s here; it doesn’t matter that this guy isn’t Jay; in the reflection of his dark eyes, I see myself as the girl that I used to be. “I don’t give a goddamn what the date says. Key it in.”
“I can’t, I’ll —” My voice wavers. I really can’t key it in. The code’s so old it probably won’t work, for one thing, and the last thing I want to do is risk my job to give some old guy a half-off discount on his snacks and wine.
“Don’t make me say it again.” He raises his fist.
“Hey, buddy, you really don’t want to do that,” says a calm baritone that feels like a weighted blanket around my shaky shoulders. I look toward the source and see a towering man in a cut-off leather jacket standing in line behind the coupon guy.
The man turns on him. “This is none of your business. I’m warning you. Back off.”
My eyes see something stuck in the back of the older man’s pants, and then they go wide; he’s armed.
The new guy cocks his head, making his medium-length dark hair rustle, and his piercing blue eyes narrow, but his lips turn upward in a smile.
“I know what you have on you. The model, the caliber, the accuracy, the range, the reload time. Hell, I could tell you at what distance I could use what you have stuffed down the back of your pants to put a hole in a man’s head in Afghanistan, in Iraq, in Syria, and in Columbia. You want to know what? It’s different in each place, because you have to account for things like humidity, elevation, and just how fucking tired you are, because fighting insurgents, terrorists, and doing dark ops against drug cartels all make you different kinds of tired. But that’s all beside the point. What you really want to know is that I can move faster than you could even put a hand on that gun, and the second I make a move on you is the second you regret every decision in your life that led you to this point.”
“I don’t… I wouldn’t…” the older man stammers.
I’m frozen in place, staring, as the man in the cut-off leather jacket smiles at the older guy like he’s doing nothing more than telling him about how his favorite team won last night’s game. It’s terrifying, mesmerizing, and almost enough to distract me from how my eyes really like to linger on him.
“No, you won’t. Because you’re smarter than that. What you’re going to do is take out your wallet, pay the actual price for your stuff, and keep your mouth shut except to say the words ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘thank you, ma’am.’ Do you understand me?”
The older man nods, takes his wallet out, and pays his bill and mumbles an apology. I smile at him as I hand him his change.
“Have a good night,” I say.
A relieved sigh leaves my lips as the older man leaves.
Casually, the guy in leather unloads his shopping cart onto the belt. Almost mechanically, I scan his things, and it isn’t until partway through ringing up his order that I notice how strange it is. There’s baby powder, diapers, a bottle of whiskey, a motorcycle magazine, a coloring book, crayons, and then he puts about three different bottles of cough medicine on the counter.
“So, have any plans for tonight?” I say, more curious about what he’s doing with all this weird stuff than anything else. My hands are still a little shaky, but they’re quickly calming; something about being next to him makes me feel more myself.
“Just a regular night.”
“Oh? With all this?”
“With all this.”
“So, are you new in town? I haven’t seen you around,” I say.
“Passing through.”
“From where?”
My eyes must be more expressive than I intend, and whatever they give off, he doesn’t like — because something dark and frightening flashes in his piercing eyes. A wave of cold washes over me, and I shiver. It becomes imminently clear that the man in front of me isn’t just my guardian angel from a threatening customer. He could be so much more… and so much worse. His posture changes, and his voice turns icy cold; the danger I felt from that older man is nothing compared to what I feel right now.
“Keep asking questions, and you’ll find out just how dangerous curiosity can be.”