16. The Monster Maketh the Man
ELOISE
Inside the gas station, I pour a cup of coffee, add some hazelnut creamer, and grab a roll of chocolate donuts from the rack, then carry it all up to the counter. “This and pump four.”
The man behind the cash register is painfully thin, with the rough, yellowing skin of a person who has spent his youth chain-smoking in full sun without a hat or sunscreen. The oval name tag on his chest reads Hank. I notice there’s a tip jar and plan to put something in it once he gives me my change. Hank hasn”t had an easy life.
“That”ll be $59.84,” he says.
I curse at the high gas prices and hand him a hundred from my wallet. I”ve had to become comfortable paying for everything in cash since I left Tony. He closed all our credit cards immediately, and the only bank account I have left is the same one I had before we were married. But I don”t dare deposit the cash I”ve siphoned off him. Those transactions would have been a red flag during discovery, and if his lawyers found out, he”d have his thumb on my money before I could say bankruptcy. Which means I’m stuck carrying cash everywhere.
Hank takes the hundred and holds it up to the light, his eyes shifting from me to the bill. Then he clicks a few keys on the cash register, and the door pops open. He puts the hundred in the empty slot next to the twenties, then counts out sixteen cents into my hand. I wait patiently for the other forty dollars. He stares at me, then pushes the drawer closed and hands me a receipt.
“Thank you. Come again.” His voice holds an edge of finality, his eyes issuing a challenge.
“You owe me forty dollars. I gave you a hundred.”
“No, ma”am, you did not. You gave me three twenties. Check your receipt.”
I look down at the paper in my hand. The faint, almost unreadable ink says I gave him $60. Not today, Satan. “I watched you place the hundred I gave you in the last bin of that drawer,” I say disbelievingly. I lean over the counter and point at the register. “Open it, and you”ll see it”s in there.”
“Can”t open it unless you buy something.” He chuckles dismissively.
“I just bought something!” My mouth drops open, and I look around the store for any witnesses to this crime against me, but we’re alone. Flabbergasted, I slide my phone from my pocket. “I”m calling the police.”
He leans his elbows on the counter and rests his chin on his fist. “Sure you are, sweetheart. I”ve got to be here all night anyway. You, on the other hand, are going to have a long wait ahead of you for a chance to explain to a police officer that I gave you the wrong change. Last time someone called the cops in this town, it took them three hours to arrive.”
I huff and search the corners of the ceiling, pointing at the black bubble that must be a security camera. “I hope you don”t like this job, buddy, because one look at the security video, and you are going to be fired.”
He flashes a patronizing grin. “It hasn”t worked in years. It”s your word against mine, and let”s face facts, I don”t see anyone having a whole lot of sympathy for a blondie like you in a cashmere sweater who pays for her gas with hundred-dollar bills.” He squints at me. “I may not know your story, but I know you don”t want the cops nosing around in it.”
I glare at him, my thumb poised over the call button. Fuck! I don’t have time for this. And if what he says is true and there are no cameras, there’s no evidence I”ve given him a hundred. Worse, I really need the other forty. I may be wearing cashmere, but the amount of money I have stored in the drawer in my bedroom is in no way as flashy.
Tears well in my eyes. “Please, Hank, I need that money. You don”t understand?—”
“Sure you do, honey.” He turns back to his magazine, ignoring me.
Rage heats my blood. Even as thin as he is, he’s bigger than me. It’s not like I can physically make him give me the cash. But he’s also not watching me anymore. In fact, he’s doing his best to ignore me. Hmm. I calculate how long it would take him to get to me through the little locked gate that leads behind the counter, then I take justice into my own hands.
Striding to the back of the store, I grab a bottle of rosé from the cooler, tucking it into my purse. Then I head for the door, gathering every snack within reach and shoving them first into my bag and then under my cashmere sweater like a squirrel stuffing his cheeks with nuts for the winter. By the time I reach the door, MM”s are spilling out the neck of my shirt.
Hank finally notices my vengeful act and moves for the locked gate. “What the fuck do you think you”re doing?”
“Go ahead and call the cops, asshole!”
Cradling my goods like a pregnant belly, I shoulder through the door, then notice a jug of motor oil. I hook my only free hand through the handle of the 10W-30 and high-tail it out of there. Hank is right on my heels. I’m mere feet from the tailgate of my Jeep when my head snaps back, and I drop, hard. All my muscles brace and I manage to keep my head from slapping the pavement, but bolts of pain shoot through my backside and scalp where Hank still has me by the hair.
“Fucking cunt!”
I scream as he lifts my head as if he plans to crack my skull on the asphalt.
But before he has a chance, a massive hand wraps around Hank’s throat. “Release her.”
Hank abruptly lets me go, but the back of my head taps the pavement anyway.
“Oww.” I rub the spot.
Damien flashes me a withering gaze. Then he turns his attention back to Hank.
Like a dark wind, Damien’s shadow form sweeps the cashier off his feet and toward the mobile station, slamming his back into the side of the building hard enough to knock chunks of concrete off the wall. For a second, Hank’s widened eyes register pure terror, and then Damien lifts him straight up. All I see is a blur of black and then Damien is standing on the roof, dangling Hank over the edge by his throat. The advocate”s eyes glow silver in the darkness, and his rage is a palpable thing that seems to silence the other noises of the night. The man doesn”t cry out, and I’m not sure if it’s because Damien”s grip on his throat is too tight to allow a scream or if his neck is already broken. Before I can make a sound of protest, Damien releases him. Hank drops like a brick, landing face-first in the parking lot, his limbs splayed at odd angles. Blood pools near his head.
Oh my God.
Sound turns back on again. The whir of fluorescent lights. The songs of insects and mating frogs chirp from the woods around us.
Damien funnels his smoky form to my side, reaches down, and helps me up. “You”re not bleeding.” A statement. Not a question.
“You killed that man,” I say breathlessly. My thoughts race too fast to say anything more. Damien is not harmless. When Maeve called him a monster, this is what she meant. He’s a cold-blooded killer who dropped a man off a roof without hesitation.
“No. Not dead. Very badly injured, though. This would be a good time for us to depart.” Damien loads the oil and my purse into the back of the Jeep, then helps me into the front.
Hank groans from the asphalt.
“Wait.” I realize he’s put me in the passenger side as he closes the door and rounds the Jeep to climb behind the wheel. “What are you doing? Do you even have a license?”
Hank”s groans are loud enough I can hear them through the ragtop. Damien takes off at a speed that makes the Jeep”s engine growl. I reach for my seatbelt and clip myself in. “Fuck! Easy!”
“Is there a reason you have Funyuns spilling out of your bra?” His gaze darts in my direction.
I glance down and see the small bag sticking out of the scoop neck of my sweater. I toss it into the backseat, along with all the other boxes and bags I”ve stashed in my shirt. I keep a sleeve of Reese”s Peanut Butter cups and tear off the end of the package. “Hank stole my change.”
Damien shoots me a sideways glance, then laughs darkly, his entire body rocking from his amusement. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen the monster laugh like this.
“What? It’s forty dollars! I need that money.”
Still laughing, he eyes the wine and motor oil in the backseat. “Looks like you came out ahead.”
I run my hand through my hair, still tangled from Hank”s fist, and rub the spot on my scalp where my skull tapped the pavement. “I think we”re even, considering the loss of hair and the bruises I”m going to have tomorrow. Fuck, that hurt.” I catch myself. “Of course, not as bad as he must be hurting right now. Shit, Damien. You threw the man off the roof.”
Damien grins wide enough to show his fangs. “But the inside of your skull isn”t oozing onto the pavement.”
He has a point. My attention catches on the wine and Twizzlers sticking out of my Coach tote and my mouth fills with bile. What have we done? I fish my phone from my bag and dial 911 as guilt snakes around my chest and squeezes. “Hi, I was just driving by the Mobil station on Highway 17, and I think I saw a man jump off the roof. Can you send an ambulance?” When the dispatcher asks for my name, I hang up, feeling not at all better about myself or the monster at my side.