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12
Maria
My hand was steady on the gun in my sweatshirt pocket as I bounced from foot to foot.
The moon was high in the sky, bathing the store in a pastel gold glow and somehow contributing to the eerie atmosphere. My heart beat rapidly with nerves as I once again caressed the grip of my unloaded gun.
You can do this, Maria. You can do this.
Adrenaline combined with my nerves and created a toxic cocktail of emotions.
You can do this.
In the window, I caught a sight of my reflection. My blonde hair was slicked back in a low ponytail, currently hidden beneath my hood. The gray sweatshirt I wore was unflattering as hell, stopping just above my knees. It was way too hot to wear such clothes, but I didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing me. Or worse, telling the cops what I looked like.
Stealing…
It was a high I couldn’t describe with words. It was bright lights flashing intermittently as music blared in your ears. It was laughter and mirth and errant firecrackers that sparked around you. It reminded me of a rollercoaster—your stomach tightening as you climbed the steep first hill, before it immediately bottomed out as you descended, the wind whipping at your hair and face. A part of you was utterly terrified, while the rest of you relished the sensation of freefalling. Of every twist and turn and upside-down loop you went through at record speed. And when the ride finally stopped, all you wanted to do was go again and again and again.
I smirked at my reflection, puckering my lips and reaching into my pocket to reapply my bright red lipstick. It never hurt to look your best on a job.
And this wasn’t just any job. No, this was the job of all jobs.
I wasn’t merely going to steal a few bottles of beers from the fridge or lip balm from the shelves. Not this time.
I’d been watching Check’s for weeks, and I estimated that he collected at least a few thousand dollars in cash at the end of every night. He was an older man with thinning white hair, a potbelly that barely fit in his red uniform shirt, and sagging jeans. To be quite frank, he was easy prey.
In and out.
Take the money and run.
I made sure the store was empty as I hurried inside, the tinkling bell above my head announcing my arrival.
The owner—Check himself—sat behind the counter, flipping through the pages of a magazine. He glanced up when I entered, nodded once, and then went back to his reading.
I pretended to pursue the shelf in front of me, though I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what it contained. My body felt numb, almost detached from my mind, and everything took on a hazy quality.
My hand tightened once more around the gun as I turned towards the register.
The bell chimed a second time, indicating that more people had entered the store. I bit down on my lip to contain my curse as I watched a group of teenage girls, a year or two younger than me, hurry inside, giggling amongst themselves. They all wore tiny jean shorts that barely covered their asses and crop tops. The makeup on their faces made them look like hookers instead of high school students, and their hair had been teased. They glanced in my direction, whispering amongst themselves, and I resisted the urge to give them the middle finger.
I was Maria Turner, for fuck’s sake. Head cheerleader. Prom queen. The girl every guy at Roosevelt High School wanted to fuck.
Though…
Maybe I should be grateful that the little twits didn’t recognize me.
I could already hear my father’s disapproving lecture if I were ever caught. I wouldn’t get jail time, not with my dad being the chief of police, but he would send me to therapy no doubt. He would accuse me of acting out since my mother died from cancer a year earlier. Since my boyfriend, Garret, broke up with me because he couldn’t deal with my “mood swings,” as he so eloquently liked to put it. Since my grades plummeted and I nearly got kicked off the cheerleading team because my GPA wasn’t up to par with the school’s regulations.
It was amazing what you could get away with when you had a dead mommy and a daddy who didn’t give you the time of day.
He was always busy with work and cases and everything that didn’t have to do with me. I wasn’t being a bitch—we both knew it was true. His first love was work, his second love was his dead wife, and his third was me. Maybe. Our dog, Pop, might’ve been above me on the list.
But I would get his attention, someway and somehow.
The young girls clustered together, laughing and talking, as the bell rang again. This time, it was an older couple who entered, the wife making a beeline towards the bathroom while the husband bent over one of the shelves.
Fuck.
