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My terse response makes her cower. The sparkle in her large brown eyes disappears and they widen further, as though she’s afraid. She opens the door to leave.
“I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll go find a clerk to help me.”
Oh, man, now I feel like a complete dick.
My eyes scan the length of her body as she walks out. She has a gorgeous ass. Another tattoo runs down her side. I catch a glimpse from below her half-shirt, which disappears into her low-riding and extremely tight jeans. The inspiration is Day of the Dead, but I can’t see all of it. I’m not typically a fan of tattoos on women, but hers feel like they’re worn as a form of expression rather than to be trendy or garner attention.
I go back to making my selections, but the girl takes up space in my head, distracting my thoughts. Moments later, she returns with a clerk. She looks over nervously through her long dark hair, which is highlighted with thick streaks of deep purple hues.
The clerk reaches up into a box. He’s a straggly looking kid with a face full of zits. Either that, or he’s been playing goalie for the dart team. His dyed black hair hangs past his shoulders and is in dire need of shampoo. I read the lettering underneath the large marijuana leaf screen-printed on his T-shirt—It’s 4. 20 somewhere. He’s obviously aspiring for greatness.
“I’m pretty sure he bought these the last time he was in, but he may not remember,” the clerk says, handing her a few cigars.
“I asked him.” She shoots me a quick and heated glance, one in which her eyes shout fuck you, and looks back at the clerk. “But you’re right — he couldn’t remember.”
The clerk hands her three cigars. “So he’s getting worse, huh?”
Her gaze falls to her shoes, which swipe the carpet, drawing nervous patterns.
“Unfortunately. Some days he doesn’t even recognize me.”
I’m definitely an asshole. Not only was her “grandpa” story real, but he has to be a sick grandpa. I peel the egg from my face and go back to searching the cigar selections.
“Oh, Maria, I’m sorry,” the clerk tells her, trying too hard to be sympathetic. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No, but thank you, Pablo.”
Why is she smiling at this loser? He was clearly born during low tide in the gene pool. I’m in here all the time and half of those times, he’s been asleep. He has nothing to offer her. If his IQ were any higher, he’d be a rock.
From the corner of my eye, I see him touch her cheek affectionately, and she lifts her head. Why is he touching her? He’s a bigger douche than I am. I know his play. He wants to take advantage of her vulnerability for the sole purpose of getting laid.
“You know, it may be getting time to consider a home that specializes in people with Alzheimer’s,” he suggests quietly.
“My grandfather would never go for that, and we can’t afford it anyway,” she responds, her sad voice tortured with a mixture of desperation and regret.
Why the fuck I’m still here is baffling. I don’t know this girl, let alone care about her, her “sick grandpa” or what she’s going through. I have my own insurmountable pile of problems to deal with.
“Well, I need to get back up front. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks, Pablo,” she says. The sparkle returns to her eyes as our gazes meet. It’s the first time I really see her face and she smiles. The dimly lit humidor is suddenly bright, as though the roof split in two and the Heavens shine down on us. Cue the fucking choir music, I’m going to church. Somebody, save me.
She’s smoking hot, and my dick is now fully in charge of finding out more about her. She makes a face and looks away. Clearly our exchange didn’t have the same religious-experience feel for her.
I eye Pablo with aversion as he makes his way to the door. He turns and asks, “Do you need any help, sir?
“I’m good,” I reply flatly. When he’s gone, I turn to the girl. “What did he give you?”
She forces an awkward laugh. “Oh, I see. Now you care.”
The hairs on my neck rise. “Excuse me?”
She takes a step closer to me. The look she gives me nearly turns me to stone. “You couldn’t be bothered to offer a suggestion earlier.”
“I …” Actually, I’m speechless. This girl just called me out on my shit.
“What?” Her eyebrows shoot up, and she shrugs. “You couldn’t be nice for the sake of being nice, but now that your conscience has awakened, you want to make amends—help the poor girl with the sick grandpa? Don’t bother.”
“That’s not it,” I lie. That is completely it, although add dirty dancing under the sheets after the helping part. “I thought …”
