Chapter 3
ELLA
Here I still sit, twenty minutes later, building up the courage to step inside the gas station that may hold secrets to the whereabouts of my big sister. Acid churns in my stomach like the swells of stormy ocean waves, and my temples throb with pressure. With one last deep breath, I tightly grasp my phone and my paisley wristlet in my right hand and step from my vehicle, locking the door behind me. There’s nothing unusual about the outside of the station. You can tell it’s been remodeled within the past few years, and there are eight gas pumps divided into two lanes. One pump is currently occupied by a black sedan where a gentleman patiently fills his tank.
I slowly walk from the side of the station, where I parked, to the front door, searching the spattering of surrounding buildings. Across the street is a dollar store and a fast-food restaurant, and on the same side of the street, just down a small alleyway is a body shop. Harlan’s Garage and Automotive. I’m about to head into the station when something catches my eye at the body shop.
Rather, someone catches my eye.
A tall, muscular man leans over a car, working beneath the hood. He’s wearing boots, blue jeans, and a stark white T-shirt, which contrasts nicely with his unseasonably tanned skin. His shoulders and upper back are broad and his waist is trim. I can see the muscles that run the length of his arms flex and pull as he grabs something from the vehicle’s engine, looks at it, and puts it back. There’s a ballcap on his head so I can’t really make out the color of his hair, but I’m pretty sure it’s brown. Maybe dirty blond.
He reaches around to the rounded globes of his firm backside and tugs a white hand towel from his back pocket. He wipes his hands and then tucks the rag back into place. An unusual, soft tingle rolls from my belly down to my groin and ends up in a pool in my toes.
I shake my head, clearing my lust-fueled thoughts. I better head inside before he turns around and completely shatters the illusion.
Not to be judgmental, but based on the track record of people from this part of town, he most likely has only three teeth in his head, an eye patch, and a tattoo of a snake on his face. At least that’s what the guy looked like who was dumpster diving at the fast-food restaurant earlier.
The door emits a soft, electronic chime as I push it open. The smell of fried food and Clorox overwhelms my senses. A woman with bright red hair buys a bag of chips and an apple juice, while a little boy with equally bright red hair tugs at her pants leg. They finish their transaction, and I step to the side, making room for them to pass, and watch them walk to the waiting black sedan.
There’s one guy standing at the register. He looks to be in his mid-twenties. His light brown hair is a little on the greasy side and a little on the long side. He’s tall and thin with nice bone structure and big brown eyes. Maybe, he’d be handsome if he weren’t so... skanky.
I can’t tell if he uses drugs or drinks and smokes too much, but something is definitely going on with him. Something has eaten away at his boyish good looks and healthy stature.
He eyes me suspiciously so I quickly smile and politely nod, walking away before my monstrous nerves get the best of me. I meander down the aisles, aimlessly picking up concessions here and there in an attempt to disguise my investigation of the store. I surface on the drink aisle and freeze mid-step. Slayton’s Southern Blackberry Tea offensively stares back at me from the glass refrigerator door. I grab the bottle from the cooler with shaky hand and make my way back to the register.
“How you doing? That’ll be all?” The man’s voice is scratchy and his tone disinterested, but interestingly enough, there’s a pulse between us.
A hum. Like he’s dying to say something but doesn’t.
Needing an excuse to stay longer, I add food to my order. “Can I get a fried chicken breast too, please?”
“To go?”
I glance over my left shoulder to see a row of dining booths lined against the window. “For here.”
He says nothing as he places a large, golden fried piece of chicken on a paper plate and calculates my total. “That’ll be $7.56.”
I hand him a ten-dollar bill, and he flips it over, studying it. He smiles, flashing his smoke-stained teeth. Handing me the change, he points, “Napkins on the table.”
My voice wavers slightly. “Thank you.”
I feel his eyes on me as I cross the store, and it feels like a thousand fire ants are crawling across my bare skin. Itching. Burning.
Damn skeeving me out.
In perfect timing, the door chimes, announcing the arrival of a new customer, and the cashier’s attention is diverted elsewhere. I sit at the first booth on the side that faces the register. I want to see everything this guy does. I scoot to the right, partially hiding myself behind a four-foot-tall cardboard cutout hailing the greatness of a new candy bar flavor. I open the glass bottle and take a small swig of the drink.
Surprisingly, it is very good.
Excellent, actually. But I still wouldn’t drive thirty minutes one way for it.
I tear off a small piece of chicken skin and quietly chew, watching the transaction at the register with one eye.
Huh. Marcum’s right. The chicken’s not half bad.
I eat slowly and do my best to nonchalantly observe all of my surroundings, absorbing each and every detail. I’m on my fourth bite of chicken when my attention peaks to high-alert. An attractive woman, dressed in an expensive, fine-tailored navy-blue pantsuit with stylish nude pumps, heads to the counter with a bottle of Slayton’s Southern Blackberry Tea clutched in her perfectly manicured hand. I quickly chew and swallow, nearly choking, so I can hear the interaction without interference from my own loud mouth.
She places the bottle on the counter and slides a folded bill across the stained Formica. The cashier smirks. “That’ll be it?”
“Yes. Could you place my drink in a paper bag, please?”
His smirk grows to shit-eatin’ status, and he grunts. “Let me grab one from the back.” He takes the money and tea with him as he disappears behind the interior doorway with the ‘Employees Only’ sign hanging above the doorframe. The woman impatiently taps her foot against the tile floor.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She nervously glances out the glass door. I suppose she’s checking on her vehicle.
Suddenly, the cashier’s greasy head pops from the abyss, and he places a small brown paper bag on the countertop. “That’ll be $4.31.” He unfolds the bill. “Out of five.” His fingers make nimble work of the register, and it pops open, where he makes her change.
She bolts from the store as soon as the coins are in her hand, causing him to chuckle under his breath.
My mind swirls in deep concentration. What the hell was that all about? That was weird.
I spend the next hour at the gas station. When my chicken breast is nothing more than a pile of bones, I buy a bottle of water and a candy bar, just to give me something else to do without raising suspicion for not leaving. Not that I really need to worry about that; the cashier decides not to pay me any more attention. I’m just a fly on the wall. And for that, I am thankful. Because his gaze irks me. And makes me want to gouge his eyeballs out with a coat hanger.
The visit does prove interesting, though.
Three more people come into the store to buy the same tea. A complete and total variety of people. One middle-aged man who looks like a factory worker who has just gotten off shift. One teenage girl wearing a shirt that is two sizes too small with a skirt that barely covers her cellulite-covered butt cheeks. And one young guy in his twenties, with a pock-scarred face, who looks completely strung out and paranoid.
Each transaction is just as odd as the first, with the cashier leaving the counter to grab a paper bag from the back supply room. If people like those dang paper bags so much, why not keep them under the register?
I climb into my SUV, just as the parking lot lights buzz to life underneath the darkened night sky. They hum like mosquitoes in the summer. The garage door is still open at the body shop across the way. In the shadows, a body leans against the doorframe, studying me. My heart flitters in my chest, like a hummingbird racing around the garden.
I quickly lock my doors.
I turn my radio off and drive in silence.
Think. Think. Think.
Why does Carrie go there? Why does Carrie drive all the way out there for gas? For tea?
Maybe she’s secretly dating someone who works there. Not the guy who was working there today, obviously. But maybe someone like the guy across the street at the body shop...assuming his front side looks as good as his back side.
Maybe there’s some big corporate conspiracy. Maybe that company puts some sort of addictive additive in their drink, and Carrie needs it, like a smoker needs nicotine or a caffeine addict needs a cup of coffee.
Think. Think. Think.
And then it happens. A small iota of an idea grabs the corner of my mind. It tugs annoyingly at my subconscious, twisting and turning reality into a distorted vision of horror.
That can’t be right.
My mind is playing tricks on me.
It has to be. It just has to be.
I increase my speed as my heart thunders in my chest, and I find myself racing for answers.
And racing back to Caleb’s apartment as fast as my $100,000 vehicle can legally carry me.