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“And last time I checked, it wasn’t a contest,” I shot back along with a light punch to her arm.
She chuckled softly, then looked ahead at Kyle. “I’m not going to be trying to win the ex competition, that’s for sure.”
I reached and gave her hand a squeeze. “Good plan. And I think you’re safe there.”
“Damn straight.” She lifted her chin. “Okay, folks,” she said at a more normal volume, “let’s get the hell out of town.”
Chapter 12
I knew better than to ask if we could swing by my house so I could throw some stuff into a bag for the trip. Maybe I wasn’t a hotshit experienced operative like the other three, but I had enough brainpower to know the Tribe most likely had my house staked out. Of course, if I’d been a hotshit operative like the other three, I’d have had a jump bag packed like the others, and wouldn’t be silently trying to figure out how the hell I was going to buy basic toiletries and enough clothing for several days with the eighteen dollars and ninety-four cents I currently had in my purse.
As stealthily as possible, I counted my money again, clinging to the stubborn hope that one of the bills would magically turn into a hundred dollar bill, or even a twenty. When that failed to happen, I quietly dug through my purse, searching every nook and cranny for cash.
Crap. Eighteen dollars and ninety-four cents wasn’t going to get me very far. “I know y’all are going to say No,” I said, “but I need to hit an ATM. I won’t ask to do it again after this, I promise.”
Kyle met my eyes in the rear view mirror. “Not a problem, Angel. We’re still close enough to Tucker Point that the location won’t give anything away.”
Naomi turned to look at me, frowning slightly. “But you don’t need to. I can cover anything.”
“I have money,” I replied, a bit defensively. “I don’t have much cash on me, that’s all. I need to get it out of the bank.”
A hint of annoyance crept into her expression. “Okay, but we haven’t even been on the interstate five minutes.”
“Which bank?” Kyle asked, not exactly ignoring Naomi, but not quite taking her comment under consideration either.
“Lake Pearl Bank,” I said, avoiding Naomi’s eyes. “But any ATM?
??ll do.”
Naomi gave Kyle a Seriously? look, then made a small frustrated noise in her throat and flopped back into her seat.
What the hell was her issue? I didn’t think I was being obnoxious by insisting on paying my fair share, but I was so out of my depth I couldn’t be sure. Where was the line between being a moocher and accepting help?
“There’s a BigShopMart about ten minutes ahead,” Kyle said, “You can use the ATM, and we can pick up a few supplies at the same time.”
“Thanks,” I said, relieved, and even Naomi seemed somewhat mollified.
We made it off the interstate and to the store without incident. The others headed off to shop while I stopped at the ATM.
I stuck my card in and hit the button for express withdrawal of two hundred dollars, then stared at the “Insufficient funds available for this transaction” screen, which might as well have said “Haha! Fuck you, loser!”
A second attempt for a hundred dollars got the same obnoxious screen. Baffled, I did a balance check—which I probably should’ve done in the first place, but I’d thought for sure I had close to three hundred dollars in my account. Sure, I’d paid some bills recently, but those checks had all cleared, hadn’t they?
The slip of paper spat out at me like a tongue, with $13.42 listed as my balance.
I crumpled the paper and flung it into the trash can, then grabbed a handheld shopping basket and stalked into the store. For a bizarre several seconds I felt like I was back in high school, trying to scrape out a way to buy clothing that didn’t suck, and knowing that the cool kids would snicker behind their hands at me. Hell, the uncool kids as well.
Scowling, I shook off the memory. I wasn’t poor anymore. I was broke, and there was a big difference between the two. However, growing up dirt poor had taught me a few things—some bad, like how to shoplift, and some good, like how to scrape by until Dad’s next disability check came in.
I only considered the shoplifting angle for a second. Or two. Instead I scooped up cheap travel size toiletries at a dollar each, found a two-pack of underwear that I knew would crawl right up my ass, but hey, it was a buck ninety-nine for both, then scrounged up sweat pants and a t-shirt that wouldn’t survive three washings, but hopefully, I wouldn’t need them to.
Naomi and Kyle were already in line to check out when I approached the registers. I had absolutely no idea how they’d managed in such a short time, but their cart was piled high: Snacks and drinks, miscellaneous clothing and jackets, duffel bags, a large suitcase, and other every day necessities such as rope and zip ties and duct tape.
I joined a line a few registers down, sternly telling myself I didn’t need to be self-conscious about how little I had in my basket. Someone got in line behind me a few seconds later, and I couldn’t help but smile when he murmured, “Hey, ZeeEm.”
“Hey, ZeeBee,” I replied. “You doing okay?”
“Five by five.” He leaned over my shoulder and peered into my basket. “You get everything you needed?”
