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Deodorant.
Beep.
While deodorant is necessary, the plastic packaging and the harsh chemicals in this brand are hardly mild on Mother Earth. I won’t tell him that.
Bar soap. Irish Spring.
Beep, it scans into the register.
This is a great choice. The cardboard packaging is recyclable, and the soap simply disintegrates in the water. Although this is a problem in smaller countries where water filtration systems aren’t up to par, here in America, this a solid choice for a consumer.
I continue scanning items, even choking down my need to vomit while handling the package containing a T-bone steak.
While I remember the taste of a well-done steak being mouth-watering delicious, I can’t let my mind ponder the cow who had to die for this man to have his meat. Add in the hormones since this is not a grass-fed variety but a chemical concoction dyed red to look like healthy meat, it’s an artery killer.
“Your total today is fifty-four dollars and twelve cents.” I smile and look up, right into his eyes.
Yes, I lift my head, my eyes meet those dark depths, and I get lost for a moment.
Standing directly in front of me, swiping his credit card, is none other than the man on the motorcycle known as Coal. Half of me wants to crawl into the cabinet under my register, and the other half screams at me to tell him he’s killing himself with the foods he is ingesting. Karmically, I have to make things right.
He doesn’t speak; he just scribbles with the plastic pen thing on the credit card machine.
I pull the receipt and his coupons off the printers and hand them to him as the machine prints my copy.
“Have a good day, Pixie,” he says in a deep baritone that has my girl parts coming alive.
When was the last time I was turned on by the sound of a man’s voice?
This pull between us is only growing every second that passes that I haven’t set things right.
He strolls by while the next customer shoves a bag of dog food in my face for me to start ringing up. Since this person is impatient, I slide my register drawer closed while tucking Coal’s receipt under my keyboard.
When I finish my line, I look outside to see Coal standing with Mrs. Martinez, helping her load the groceries. In an instant, my heart melts. This man, who says he’s black as coal, darkest of dark, is helping this little old lady he doesn’t even know.
I see through him.
Oh yes, I see through his exterior.
He deserves something good to be given back to him. His dark aura comes from an inability to let go of something deep. Underneath the murky shades lies a man with passion, determination, and strength. He just doesn’t feel it yet.
Finishing up my shift, I get my paperwork together to cash out, when I see his receipt. I take a glance, knowing I shouldn’t. Committing his name to memory, I then count my till and clock out.
On the car ride home, I can’t help thinking, I’m going to be his light, his sunshine. I’m going to figure out what makes him tick. Watch out, Trevor “Coal” Blake, I’m on a mission.
Chapter Five
~Coal~
Ice walks into the room and throws a file onto the conference table. “The powers that be have told us to find Cook and take him out.”
Leaning back in my chair, I ask, “What made them take notice?”
Sitting in his own chair at the head of the table, Ice answers, “Apparently, they don’t like it when the governor ends up on Cook’s menu.”
We were already on the trail since the murders were happening in our area. Executive orders … Well, that makes this priority one.
With that said, Ice pulls out a couple of pictures and pushes them toward the middle of the table for Hammer, Big Jim, Screech, and I to see. Once I get a good look at them, I really wish I hadn’t.
The pictures depict what is left of a human body, tied hand and foot to a large, horizontal pole that is propped up by two saw horses. On the ground underneath the body is the ash remains of what was a fire.
Somebody was cooked like a goddamn pig barbeque over an open flame. And I know for a fact that is the comparison because the body has an apple in its mouth. The piece of fruit almost looks rotten it’s so charred. The seriously sick part is the way the apple was secured by a skewer going through the sides of the victim’s mouth and through the apple to keep it in place. The only thing fucking missing from a traditional southern pig roasting is the fucking Carolina vinegar-based barbeque sauce.
Looking back at Ice, I ask the obvious just to make sure. “That’s the missing politician that’s been all over the news?”
