1
CARMEN
Normally after working lateat the grocery store, I leave with a coffee so I’m awake for the drive back.
But tonight I won’t be doing that, because I drop the coffee when I jump out of my skin.
“Miss?”
I’ll get back to him later. Right now, I’m feeling too distraught about the spilled coffee to register the voice. Iced lattes cost a fortune these days.
And it’s this fucker’s fault for creeping up on me.
I tear myself away from the coffee before I get too attached. This man owes me six bucks for making me drop the one thing I can’t drive home late at night without.
But I don’t see him anywhere.
“I get it. Now you’re too scared to show yourself, seeing as you’ve made a cranky woman drop her coffee. You owe me.”
“A person who gets angry over losing a few bucks is a person who is broke,” says the voice, with an Irish lilt.
“Excuse me?”
This probably isn’t the right setting to be confronting a strange man. A shopping mall? Sure. But challenging a stranger in a dark parking lot is risky. The fog this time of night is so thick that I can’t even locate my car and salvage a quick escape.
But Iamcarrying a weapon—steel-toe boots are deadly if you can kick a person’s face hard enough.
“Kindly fuck off and leave me alone.”
“You might want to use your manners.” A dark figure emerges from the fog, taking the shape of a man. One with iron-gray hair and eyes that are almost as black as the night.
It’s nice to finally put a face to a name.
Not.
“Kindly fuck off and leave me alone,please.”
“That attitude is exactly why you will always work in a grocery store.”
I fold my arms over my chest and regard the man. He’s not much taller than me. If I didn’t have a little boy at home relying on me, I’d take this bastard out and happily sit in jail for assault.
It’d be well worth my time to put this man in his place.
“Did you leave your good side back in Ireland? What is wrong with you?” I go to shoulder past him, but he grabs my arm instead and pushes me back.
At least he has the courtesy to do that gently.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“At”—I consult my watch—“precisely ten past midnight? I think I’m good.”
Of course, the man doesn’t take my word for it. He looks me up and down like I’m wearing a gown that costs more than my annual rent.
Is he not seeing the deadbeat grocery store uniform?
“Women like you are supposed to grace much bigger rooms than grocery stores.”
Where the fuck is he going with this?
