* * *
The bellover the door chimes for the millionth time today. So much so, I’m tempted to pull it from the doorframe with my bare hands. So far, Oakdale Days has been overwhelming.
“Be with you in a second.” I’d like to rephrase that by saying “I’ll be right with you as soon as I hogtie these three precious children.” I don’t. Instead, I focus on the task at hand. I’m in the process of chasing three kids that have been a nightmare since they came in with their mother. A mother who seems to have forgotten she has children because all she’s done since she walked in the door is leisurely pick up every. single. thing. in the store and set it back down while her rug rats run, literally, in, under, and around all of our displays in the store. They’ve played tag, hide-and-go-seek, and swear to you, leapfrog so far. They knocked over the rack that holds our handmade greeting cards, and now, they’re fighting over one of Laura’s expensive glass figurines.
“Hey,” I say to the oldest child. I’d guess him to be around eight or nine years old and the one currently clutching the hundred-and-fifty-dollar item. “Put that down.”
I’m not even sure how we got in this situation in the first place. Well, okay, I know the middle child, a girl, thought the figurine was cute, which got the boys’ attention. The youngest boy, probably five or six, took it from her and started running. It upset the seven-year-old so much she began chasing him around. He handed off the glass figurine of an angel to the eldest child, and that’s where we are now. He’s holding it up in the air as the girl jumps and jumps, trying to get it back.
She’s never going to get it. He’s much taller than she is.
Extending my palm, I snap, “Give that to me.” Sweat is starting to gather at my brow. I’m feeling many things. Anger, embarrassment, and did I say anger? People are scowling and I’m pretty sure they’re judging me. I don’t know why they would, it’s these children… They’re out of hand.
He glances up at me and smirks. “No.”
And that’s when it happens. He looks at his younger brother and says, “Yo, Bart.” Because of course the little a-hole’s name is Bart. “Catch.”
“Nooooo,” I beg as the oldest, let’s assume is name is Damien, pulls his arm back like he’s going to do exactly as promised and toss the angel to the little twerp. Reaching out, I think I’ve got a shot at catching it if he does actually throw it, which is hilarious because I’m the least athletic person on the planet. Case in point: the few times I’ve played volleyball, I’ve been hit in the face with the ball at least once on each occasion. Me and balls just don’t mix.
Don’t laugh. I know you took that to a sexy place, but I mean it. I’mnotsporty. Same with the other kind of balls. Not so good at those either.
“Don’t youdarethrow that.”
“Why not?” he snarls. “Get away from me, fat ass.”
Okay. That wasn’t called for. I glance around the shop and spot his mother heading into Laura’s side of the store.
Can’t she see what her ghastly children are up to? Who are these people that let their kids run rampant and say rude things? “I’m telling your mom you said that.”
“Go ahead. She’ll agree with me.”
She is quite thin. Like the type of thin that makes me wonder if she eats. At all. And no, I’m not saying that from a mean place. I’m only mildly jealous. I’d rather talk about her mothering skills because they suck donkey penis.
“That’s expensive. If you break it, you bought it.”
He shrugs again. “Doubtful.”
Doubtful? What does that even mean?
“You’d have to prove it, and I doubt you’ve got cameras in this dump.”
The little jerk is right. We have cameras on the exterior but not on the inside of the store. We really need to remedy that. “Yeah,” I lie. “There are cameras.”
“Oh, yeah? Where?”
I gesture behind me with my thumb. “Over there.” Holding out my hand, I do my best to remain calm. I’ve watched enough hostage drama-type movies, thank you, Travis, that I know if I act ruffled––if I get overly agitated, I may spook the little peckerhead. “Hand it over.”
Damien, the flucking rotten child, smirks. He lowers the angel until it’s hovering above my hand. I blow out a sigh of relief just as his hand jerks to the left, and he releases the angel.
“Nooooo,” I shout loud enough to draw attention to the scene as I reach for the falling glass piece. But I’m not fast enough. I catch an edge of it, which causes it to change course and fly even farther away and crash to the hard terrazzo floor, shattering the beautiful, hand-blown angel. I stare, in disbelief. How could I have let this happen? Why are these kids such jerk-offs? Where is their mother?”
“Michael,” a deep voice snaps. “What the fuck did you just do?”
I look up and blink at the source. It’shim. The bike-fixer and music-hating jerk.
“Uncle Nate.”
Uncle?Nate is this demon-child’s uncle?
