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This lady, however, is something else entirely.
Not in a flattering way.
Not in a she’s-the-one-I’d-take-home-to-mom kind of way.
Not even in an I-want-to-fuck-her-brains-out way.
If she was stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire, I’d have to think long and hard about whether I stopped to help.
Given the fact that she won’t speak to me, I turn up at the store again. I pick midday, when there’s a rush.
There are a few people in the queue ahead of me, mostly families with kids looking to satisfy their sweet tooth. As they’re being served, I watch the teenagers behind the counter.
They really are kids. Just out of high school, maybe in college. The boy has zits on his chin and the girl hasn’t quite lost the round-faced chub of youth.
They’re polite, though, I’ll give them that. Efficient, too, serving the people ahead of me with orderly movements.
The girl’s eyes widen the second she sees me.
I barely have enough time to read her name tag.Emmy.
“Hello, Emmy,” I say, leaning on the counter and forcing something that resembles a smile. “I’m here to see your boss, Miss Winkley.”
Emmy swallows and glances over her shoulder to the back, where a mess of red hair is clearly visible through the window. The door’s ajar and looks almost buckled. Heat and time have really done a number on this place.
“Um, you’ll have to try another day. Junie—Miss Winkley—she’s not in right now,” she says after a second, panic flashing in her eyes.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s liars trying to save their own asses. Possibly because it’s like looking into a mirror.
I hold my fire, knowing if I snap at her, she’ll probably cry.
Unlike Miss Winkley, who would love to give me a piece of her mind.
“Sorry,” the boy says, joining the girl at the register. “You heard her, Miss Winkley’s not here.”
Like hell.
Obviously, they’ve been given their orders, and they’re executing them like loyal little minions.
Fine.
“I’ll come back when she’s available,” I mutter, not bothering with another phony smile.
I’ll wait all goddamned day if I need to.
Emmy blinks and the boy—Jake, I think his tag says—scowls at me.
“Is there a better time when she’s available?” I ask.
“Um, she’s been out a lot lately. Crazy busy!” the boy calls after me. “Calling might be better. You might not want to waste another trip—”
“Oh, believe me, I want to,” I say with a violent wave of my hand. “Until next time.”
* * *
When I come backthe next day, I notice several letters on the neon sign are burned out.
The whole place needs a makeover fast.
