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“No, I just… I don’t know.” She shrugged and hugged herself, looking deep into his mesmerizing amber eyes. “Threw me for a loop.”
“What? You not used to men hittin’ on you? I find that doubtful. Pretty thing like you.” Now he reminded her of a damn shark flitting around in the ocean, bloody prey only a few feet away. “What’s your number?”
She scratched at her neck, feeling a bit guilty. Waves of confusion rushed through her.
“How ’bout you give me your number, Jude, and I give it to Lark? You said she was pretty. Must be an interest there, right?”
“You think I come in your line just about every time I enter this place to see that woman?” He pointed towards nothing in particular. “There’s always at least two lines open, baby. This and another one, the same just about every time. I don’t use the self-checkout. I come toyou’cause I like lookin’ at you. Seeing those pretty, slanted jet-black eyes of yours, and smellin’ that perfume you wear.”
She swallowed. Then again.
“Now you’re flirting. This is the most we’ve talked since I’ve first seen you.”
“It was bound to happen. I don’t usually approach women, they’re too busy approachin’ me. But I’m stepping up to the plate because waitin’ on you didn’t prove fruitful, so I gotta grab the berries and make my own jam.”
“Now how do you think my friend is going to feel with you carrying on like this?”
“I’m not worried about her, and from overhearing her arguing outside on her phone a few times, she got man trouble. I don’t want no part of that shit. You on the other hand,” he pointed at her bare finger, “are available.”
“You don’t know that.” She fought the urge to laugh, enjoying their banter a bit too much.
“Oh, I know.” His eyes narrowed on her. “I pay attention.” He pointed to his star tattoo under his eye. “I like seeing how you’ve done your nails up every other week, and what shirt you’re wearin’ under that blue store smock. Sometimes your hair is tucked away in one of those wrap things you like to wear. Other times, it’s like it is tonight, pulled back into a curly ponytail.” He cocked his head to the side and smiled at her. Such a bright, striking smile. His teeth could be in a show of their own. They almost looked like veneers. “What’s your number, Iris?” His eyes drifted back to her nametag. “Come on now, I won’t bite.” He glanced at his watch. It looked expensive, like a Rolex. “I have to go. I want to talk to you later though…”
“615-555-4334. That’s Lark’s number.”
“Figures.”
She burst out laughing and grabbed her hand sanitizer once again.
“I’ll see you soon, Iris. You’re a good friend. This conversation is far from over, but I’m sure you already know that. Oh, and one more thing: The white Sara Lee bread is expired, but the wheat is fresh. Enjoy the rest of your night.” He smiled once again, nodded as if tipping an invisible hat, then walked away…
CHAPTER THREE
TheMethod
Jude gazed througha haze of smoke at the old grandfather clock in the corner of his modern bedroom. He lay with a cigarette in hand, eyes heavy and throat dry. He glanced at the glass of water by his bedside. Empty. The heavy chime of the clock had awakened him, though he’d already been halfway out of the warm embrace of slumber. The thing had been in the family for years, and his brother had told him one of their older cousins believed it was haunted. Rumor was, a spirit clung to it like a raindrop on a windowpane. Another tale was that it had predicted three deaths by chiming mere seconds before the passing of said family members, never on the hour as it was supposed to do. Disturbing accounts aside, something about it made him feel at peace. He didn’t get the heebie-jeebies from it in the least.
Great Grandpa had had it, Grandma had had it, Mama and Daddy had had it, and it had been in their house for as long as he could remember.Time is the only thing that’s real in this whole wide, fucked up world, and when your time is up, ain’t a damn thing you can do about it.
He yawned and stretched his legs and arms. He rarely used an alarm. His body just seemed to know when to rise and when to retire for the day. He turned towards one of the windows, almost as long as the wall itself, with crown molding and ribbed pillars on each side. The thick white curtains were drawn shut, but a sliver of light tiptoed inside past a curled fold, letting the dawn dance in. A flash memory of his childhood came forth. Not a particular instance, or event, but an emotion: Fear.
Fear was so foreign now. Inside of the cold confines of dread lived a sense of comfort, for it reminded him he was still alive, still human. He’d spent so many years on edge, riffed with anxiety, that he had no idea until many years later, it wasn’t normal to be constantly petrified. Now, he barely batted an eye at the most disturbing of sights and unfortunate circumstances.
As a child, I used to be afraid of the dark…He brought his cigarette up to his lips and drew on it. Smoke purled from the side of his mouth.I guess now I’m afraid of the light…
Grabbing his platinum and diamond chain necklace from his white marble nightstand, he slipped it over his head, situating the silver cross against his bare chest just right. Moments later, he sat up on the edge of the bed, picked up the remote control, and turned on the television. There was a morning report of a drug bust. He lazily looked at the large flat screen mounted on his wall and listened to the reporter, with his perfectly coiffed mahogany hair and an ill-fitting gray suit.
“…Methamphetamines have been shown to release four times as much dopamine as cocaine. Although meth preparation, also known as cooking, requires lengthier times, drug trafficking enterprises can generate far more revenue, faster. While dangerous to create, much of the meth produced in the United States today comes from drug cartels filtering into the Southern states, as happens right here, in Tennessee. Border patrol agents seize ten to twenty times more meth today than they did just a decade ago, the drug typically found concealed inside vehicles trying to cross border checkpoints…”
Jude turned off the television and got in the shower. Powerful streams of soothing water hit him, the heat producing a steam certain to clear his sinuses while the sounds of ‘Beautiful Mistakes,’ by Maroon 5 and Megan Thee Stallion serenaded him. When he was done with the wash and grooming, he doused his neck with Stefano Ricci’s Royal Eagle Gold cologne.
He slipped on a white t-shirt, pairing it with black Levi’s and his white Giuseppe Zanotti London double-zip leather low-top sneakers. He studied himself in the mirror to make sure everything was in order—fresh haircut, slightly longer on top and faded on the sides, just how he liked it, with sideburns that blended into a dense black beard.
Satisfied, he left the house and jumped into his truck that was parked on his driveway in the quiet suburban neighborhood of 12 South. Speeding down the side roads, he drove toward Harriman, a small rural town known for its fall Renaissance Festival and spirited games of pickleball. At last, he pulled up to two small white houses, both sporting American flags on the front and windows dressed in blinds. Slipping a key out of his pocket, he approached one of the houses, unlocked it, and stepped inside. The all too familiar odor of methamphetamine crawled inside his nostrils, making them flare.
“Judge? That you?” Paul hollered over the sound of the television, the lisp from his missing teeth pronounced.
“Yup.” Jude rested his hand on his gun as he traveled down a short hall, then pulled a red curtain aside. The area was populated by a variety of equipment, tubes, hoses, bottles, blacked out windows, and all the fixings for a small-scale, yet meticulously run meth operation.
