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“You’re shittin’ me.”
“No.”
“How do you know? Do you work here?”
“Accounting.”
“A bean counter, huh?” He had said it with good humor, not like he was deriding Brian. “You must be really smart. Me and numbers? Forget it. PE and lunch are my standout subjects.”
PE and lunch had been Brian’s worst two hours of the school day, but he chuckled as though he shared the joke.
“How long have you worked here?”
“I signed on just in time for the Christmas season.”
“Oh, man. How bad did that suck?”
Brian was enjoying being talked to in the vernacular. Although the stranger was a few years younger than he, he was conversing with him in the casual manner of one man to another, and that rarely happened to Brian. Correction: It never happened to Brian.
However, as much as he was enjoying it, he remembered the time. “Well, I’m due back from lunch. Have a nice day.” He’d been about to move off when the young man waylaid him.
“Say, listen. Could you help me out here? Since you’re an employee, you could jump this out-of-sight line, right?”
“Well, I—”
“Just carry this box behind the counter like it’s your business. I’ve got the receipt. My old man paid cash. Should be a no-brainer to get the money back. What do you say?”
Brian had hesitated and was still considering it when the kid had nudged him with his elbow. “Grandpa Welch probably wouldn’t appreciate a new employee telling a customer that the security cameras are bogus.”
A wave of dizziness swept over Brian. He had actually felt the blood draining from his head. He heard his mother calling him a dumb bunny.
But then the young man had thrown his head back and laughed. “You should see your face,” he’d chortled. “I’m harmless. Swear I am. My old man is the sheriff.”
Brian’s knees had gone weak with relief.
“Had you going there, didn’t I?”
Brian had tried to laugh at the teasing, but achieved only a squeaky sound.
“I’m sorry. Really. Now, what about doing me this little favor?”
Brian heard himself say, “Sure.”
Bravely, he’d jumped the line of disgruntled customers. Even the employee working the counter gave him grief until Brian had told her that he was acting on behalf of the sheriff’s son.
“Rusty?”
Brian wasn’t sure what to make of the way she raised her penciled brow and gave a sour-sounding harrumph.
He returned to where he’d left the young man waiting and counted out his refund. “The lady at the counter said your name is Rusty.”
“Rusty Dyle. What’s yours?”
“Brian Foster.”
“I don’t forget favors, Brian. Thanks.” After pocketing the refunded money, he’d given Brian an assessing once-over. “Got a wife?”
“No.”
