Page 45
There’s no way I can get by on fifty bucks. Not when I planned to skip town Friday, and it’s only Monday. The cash would fill my truck up, but it’d be gone by the end of the week.
“Seventy-five is the best I can do.”
“That’s not …. That’s not good enough.” The chime of the bell behind me goads me to work out a deal with this guy before he moves on to whoever just walked in.
“Look, there’s always Craigslist, kid.”
Even if I wanted to post the thing on Craigslist, and I don’t, I have neither a phone to post it, nor an account to sell, or accept payment. I’m basically a walking ghost, as far as the real world is concerned, and my only option at the moment is to try to coax this immovable smokestack to pay me at least a third of what it’s worth.
The creeping sensation of someone walking up on me has my hair standing on end, and I turn just enough to catch black in my periphery, before leaning in one more time. “I don’t have time to sell this on Craigslist.” Voice lowered, I do my best to keep the desperation from bleeding into my tone. Impossible, when I’m actually desperate. “I need more than seventy-five, okay? Please. Help a girl out?”
“Quit being a cheap bastard and give her two hundred for it.” That voice. That deep, articulate voice, with only a hint of southern drawl and just enough Valir accent to be annoyingly sexy, sends a shiver down my spine.
I turn to find the man from the club, Mr. Bergeron, standing behind me. Decked out in dark jeans, with a black button-down shirt and black shoes, he’s certainly more casual than the night before, but just as intimidating with that sinister glint in his eyes.
“Looks like someone left the gate to the underworld open again.”
“Funny you say so. I actually thought it was a bit ice-cold in here.” He fakes a shiver. “Giving me the frissons.”
Capping the sneer working its way over my lips, I twist back to the gun dealer, who looks about three shades of white, for some reason. Two crisp hundreds sit out on the counter, waiting on me to swipe them up.
“I’ll have you know, this is still robbery, but two hundred is better than the pittance you first offered up.”
Chubby’s lips tighten around the cigar, and he sniffs, gaze flicking toward the man behind me and back. As if I needed him shadowing me like a scene straight out of The Lion King.
Stuffing the cash in my pocket, I turn to leave, but pause alongside Bedroom Eyes as a thought comes to mind. “I sure hope you’re not here to pawn my knife. We have a meeting tomorrow, remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I’m merely here to buy a crossbow.” Nodding toward the man behind the counter, he slides a black leather bag from his shoulder, one I didn’t notice in all of his excessively black attire. “I’ll give you five hundred for it.”
Anger sizzles and pops in my blood like hot grease. “Are you shitting me? Why didn’t you just buy it off me?”
“I didn’t realize how badly I wanted it until just now. What do you care, catin? It’s off your hands.” The delicious masculine scent of his cologne rolls off his body like an intoxicating poison I want to lick from the air. “Don’t be greedy.”
Catin. That word again. I’m definitely going to have to look that one up. In Valir, this time.
Hardening my jaw, I force myself to ignore the overwhelming presence of this man. “Congratulations, Mr. Bergeron. You’re officially the biggest asshole I’ve ever met.”
“I’m honored.”
Teeth grinding, I storm my way out of the building, but not before I catch a quick glimpse of him setting a stack of cash down. A stack that looks to be more than five hundred, unless those are all one-dollar bills. Still too angry to care at the moment, I frown and keep on, hands flexing and balling with the urge to punch that smug smile right off his too handsome face.
After making my way across the street, just missing a passing car that blares its horn, I hop into my truck and pound my fist against the steering wheel. What the hell is it with this guy! And why do I turn into a walking sensory receptacle every time he’s in the room?
In the rearview mirror, I catch a flash of black and duck down in my seat, shifting my attention to the side mirror, where I see him walk out of the gun shop.
Carrying my bow.
Yes, I’m grateful for two hundred, but five hundred would’ve let me opt for something other than gas station groceries and fast food. The jerk could’ve at least waited until I left.
The way he strides up to a sleek, black truck with the slick grace of a shark makes me want to scratch my own eyeballs out. Hot guys piss me off.
He pulls out of the parking lot, and after giving him a slight lead, I follow after him, suddenly curious to know what this man does when he’s not stealing weapons from unsuspecting women.
Stop number two is a laundromat a few miles up the street from the gun shop. When he exits his vehicle again, I notice the same black bag strapped across his chest. The one from which he pulled that stack of cash. Parked in a McDonald’s across the street, I ignore the smell of stale fries, trying to see past all the signs plastered to the front windows of the laundromat, but every inch of real estate on the glass is used up to advertise the price of every known article of clothing. Minutes later, he exits. Carrying the bag.
The third stop is a liquor store at the south end of the island, and once again, I turn into a beaten up parking lot kitty corner from the place. The building looks to be some kind of Christian supply store, called Jesus, Books & Gifts. Another day, and I might’ve investigated what constituted Jesus in the store, but for now, I ignore my curiosity to watch the conniving shark make his way into yet another shop, carrying that black bag. Once again, a few minutes pass, and he exits.
What do a gun shop, a laundromat, and a liquor store all have in common? It almost sounds like a bad joke. The question swirls inside my head, while he keeps on, past his truck, toward a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on the corner.
