Brock
Two Days Later
“You and your company ripped me off! You overcharged me by a full gallon here!”
Standing behind the cash register, I listened to one of the gas station’s customers, an older, retired woman named Carrie, complain about how, apparently, we had overcharged her roughly two dollars and nineteen cents the last time she was here. Carrie was one of those customers that fit the profile of someone you’d expect to be in Santa Maria—a little flamboyant, a little eccentric, a little too “unusual” to live in a normal place. She had on more bracelets and necklaces than I think a Gucci store sold, her hair was dyed pink despite being old enough to be a punk teenager’s grandma, and she had the voice of a lifetime chain smoker.
And I could not have cared less about her complaints.
“I am sorry, ma’am, but all sales here are final,” I said, bored.
“Final my ass! This is ridiculous! I demand to speak to your manager!”
“I am the manager on duty.”
“Who is the supervisor? The one off duty?”
I sighed. We probably really had overcharged her. We were not the most scrupulous of locations. But the one time that I had brought it to the attention of store management, they warned me I needed to know my place, and that if I brought forward unfounded claims again, I’d get fired. Like the rest of this town, corruption had blind eyes to everything except lawsuits and cash.
And given how a place like Santa Maria did not exactly have a clamoring for folks to move there for work, I saw myself less as a cashier and more a stage actor, forced to play a part for about thirteen bucks an hour I had zero interest in playing. I was so fucking tired of defending a station I gave no shits about against acts I knew they were guilty of, fighting customers that I had sympathy for.
But you know what I preferred less than that? Being broke, being a loser, being homeless.
Being nobody.
“I am sorry, ma’am, but there is nothing I can do.”
“Oh! How outrageous! I will tell everyone in town about you and your shady dealings, and no one will ever, ever come here again!”
You’ll be back here in a week. The only other gas station is ten miles east down Freedom Alley.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I said with barely a single ounce of energy as the woman stormed out, her bracelets and necklaces jingling, a warning to anyone in sight that an angry older woman was coming by.
I leaned back against the rack of cigarettes. I had to find a better job, better work. But what the fuck was I going to do? I barely finished high school. I’d never even attempted college. Part of it was I didn’t want to leave my boys, but part of it was I wasn’t fucking smart enough, no matter what people like Tara or Mason said. Companies with things like “offices” and “401ks” and “benefits” would never consider me.
So what would I do if I could do anything?
That was simple. Ride my bike. Take some broads on my back seat. Hang with the boys.
Figure out a way to get rid of the fucking Bandits.
I already got to do the first three. I rode my bike daily. Sex was no issue. Hanging with my boys was a regular, if not daily, thing.
The problem was the number of obstacles that could impede the last one. Sheriff Davis. The bandits. My self-doubts.
The woman’s car coughed to life, sounding like it hadn’t had an oil change or an engine checkup in about six years. She drove out, leaving me alone. It stayed that way for a couple of minutes as I passed the time playing Scrabble with Zack on my phone before I heard a motorcycle.
Figuring it to be Steele, I smiled. Having friends come over was the best part of the day; I usually let them take a piece of candy as long as they made the appearance of paying me in cash, and I’d pay them back later so the security cameras were none the wiser.
I looked out the window as the biker approached. But…
It was not Steele.
Actually, it was not anyone I had ever seen before.
That was odd. Santa Maria was not a destination town by any stretch of the imagination. It was a stopover town for people traveling down Freedom Alley, but Albuquerque was so close that most travelers preferred to get there for gas.
I squinted my eyes to get a closer look. The man on the bike had sunglasses, a black biker’s cut, jeans, and a baseball hat that looked like it said “LA” on it. Was he someone on a road trip, passing through? That happened from time to time.
