“How old are these?” he asked.
He knew how old they were. The pastries were delivered every morning at about six, so these were yesterday’s. I told him this every fucking time, but he still asked anyway, as though he thought the place in Brodnax that delivered them should start delivering in the middle of the night just for him.
“If they were puppies, their eyes would still be closed,” I said and rolled my eyes. “Dude, they’re stale as shit by now and we both know it. Why the fuck do you ask me that every time?”
He looked genuinely perplexed. “Why are you still selling them if they’re stale?”
“Because it’s not my fucking job to take them out,” I said. “The old ones get tossed when the new ones come in. Listen, I had a guy in here last night who bought the last two chocolate muffins way after midnight. If he was too stoned to notice they were as hard as rocks, that’s not my problem.”
And besides, I avoided the trip to the dumpster as much as I could, but that was none of Brown Jacket Guy’s business.
Brown Jacket Guy gave the pastry case a dubious look. “They don’t look like they were even very good to start with.”
“Then why the fuck do you always come straight over here?” I stalked over to the nearest shelf, grabbed a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, and threw them at him. “There. Those have enough preservatives in them that they’ll still taste good after the heat death of the universe. Happy?”
“No?” He wrinkled his nose. “The heat death of the universe?”
“Yeah,” I said. I blamed Cash and his audiobooks. He’d been listening to a bunch of stuff about space lately. “You know? The thing I’d give my left nut for right now, because at least this conversation would be over!”
Brown Jacket Guy opened his mouth, then closed it again, then opened it and said, “Can I at least get an Americano?”
I fixed him with a stare. “Are you going to bitch about it tasting bad?”
“That depends. Are you going to make it properly?”
“I’m gonna make it like I always make it.”
“So no, then.” He made an unhappy face. “I’ll take it to go.”
“And a pastry?” I asked, just to be an asshole.
Fucker didn’t even blink.
Just pointed at one of the sad Danishes—it might have been apple, but who the fuck knew—and said, “Give me that one.”
I stared at him and he stared at me, and I figured both of us were wondering who was winning here, and then I moved in behind the counter and hunted for the tongs and a paper bag. I jammed the Danish in the bag with enough force that it ripped and slapped it on the counter. “Two fifty.”
“And my Americano?”
I groaned. He was definitely winning.
I turned on the machine and glared at him while it made its usual burbling and hissing noises. Fuck if I knew what it was doing. If there was an instruction manual, I’d never seen it, and I wouldn’t have read it even if I had. I added a scoop of grounds. Bobby kept telling me I needed to grind the beans fresh for every cup, but fuck that. The machine was new, and I hated it. I wanted to go back to the old drip-brew pot, but Bobby had gotten it in his head that people wanted fancy espressos and, somehow, that I could make them. He was wrong on both counts. People did not come to Goose Run Gas for nice things, and they sure as shit knew better than to expect me to provide them.
The machine took forever to dribble out a brown liquid that passed for coffee. When it was done, or near enough, I jammed a lid on the cup and slid it across the counter to the guy. “There. Coffee.”
“Is it as nasty and bitter as you?” he asked, wrapping his hand around the cup.
My glare intensified. “Here’s hoping. Maybe while you drink it, you can ask yourself why you come in here every goddamn night if it’s so terrible.”
“You are literally the only place open.”
“That’s because normal people are at home asleep at this hour,” I said. “You could try buying a thermos and making your coffee at home.”
He blinked. “Wow. You are really nailing this customer service thing.”
I flipped him the bird.
He slid a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and then still just stood there.
