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Five bucks. That’s how much I won on that scratch-off lotto ticket.
I pull open the doors of the small mini mart, way too thrilled to cash in this ticket. If that’s not an indication of my pathetic life, I’m not sure what is.
“Hey, Mac.” Travis calls out a greeting as he rings up customers.
“Hey, Travis.” I give a little wave.
Travis is one of the few people who actually greets me like I’m a normal person. It’s most likely because I pay him the same respect and don’t judge him for his sexual preference…unlike a lot of people here.
It’s one of those things about living in a small Southern town. We might only be twenty minutes outside the city of Jacksonville, but a bulk of the people here are stuck in the Stone Age.
Travis knows what it’s like to be an outcast, unfortunately, and so do I. Yet we both still stick around, a glutton for punishment, I suppose.
I stride down the second aisle, where a guy studies the assorted bags of chips and other snacks. I reach past him with a quick, “Excuse me,” and snag three jumbo beef sticks.
His attention catches on my left arm, left bare from beneath the hem of my short sleeve. “That’s some serious artwork you’ve got there.”
His eyes travel along the tattoos covering my skin. It’s impossible to tell that the colorful ink disguises the marred, rippled flesh hidden underneath unless a person were to actually touch it. How the stopwatches and hourglasses appear three-dimensional, each with strategically placed cracks, is a testament to the tattoo artist’s talent.
When I turn my head, allowing him a glimpse of the part of my face that isn’t smooth or flawless, I have to give the guy credit. He hides his flinch better than most. Hell, the majority of people don’t even bother hiding their reaction. He quickly averts his eyes to my inked arm instead of my face.
His mouth quirks into a faint smile. “You got a thing for time, huh?”
If only you knew… “Guess you could say that.”
I zero in on the sign affixed to the beef sticks. Oooh, four for two bucks. I pluck another one, nearly bypass the salt and vinegar chips before giving in and grabbing a bag, then head to the refrigerated section in the back.
Could I have nabbed Mr. Snack Aisle back there for the night? Probably. There’s never a real shortage of horny men. Now, though, I just want to head home with some snacks and beer. Meat and carbs. It’s the makings of a perfect dinner.
I check out the refrigerated glass case of beers, trying to decide if I should get a twelve-pack or six-pack. In the glass’ reflection, I catch sight of two men approaching.
They’re nothing but trouble. Even if I didn’t recognize them, they scream this with the way they carry themselves. They have tiny dicks and a lack of respect for others.
In other words, they’re two huge pieces of shit.
The taller one, Felton Jeffers, is in jeans and a white T-shirt accentuating the slight belly that’s at odds with his otherwise lanky body. His buddy, Ronnie Wallace, has a bulkier frame but is dressed similarly.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” Felton taunts. “Would you look at that, Ronnie?”
“Oh, I’m lookin’. And, from this end, I’m likin’ what I see.” Ronnie draws to a stop behind me. Stifling waves of malevolent energy ooze off him, attempting to suffocate me.
I don’t turn around, letting them think I’m ignoring them or haven’t noticed. But my sight stays glued to their reflection in the glass door, watching their movements carefully.
My spine tingles and my muscles tense because, for fuck’s sake, I just want to buy my shit and be on my merry fucking way.
Travis hollers from the front. “She ain’t wantin’ anybody messin’ with her, Felton!”
Felton’s reflection in the glass depicts his annoyance when he yells back, “Piss off, Travis!” He sidles up beside me. “Ain’t seen you in a while.” He surveys me, his eyes scraping down my body in a way that makes me feel dirty. “Still got a sweet ass.”
Ronnie steps up on my other side. “Yeah. That there’s an ass I wouldn’t mind tappin’.”
I jerk open the door to the beer selection, and Felton barely sidesteps quickly enough to avoid it ramming into his face. I reach in and grab a case of beer, but before I can step back and let the door close, a body crowds me from behind. Good ole Ronnie.
Refrigerated air dances along my skin, but it does nothing to cool my frustrated anger. “Back off.” My words hold a monotone, no-nonsense quality.
“Maybe I don’t wanna.” Puffs of Ronnie’s hot, stale breath assault me when he presses his nose against my hair where it meets the edge of my hat. He drags in a long, deep breath, smelling me. And I know it’s to taunt me.
