1
STREETER
“I need you here, Streeter,”my boss says, his voice sounding tinny through my phone speaker. “The weather is getting worse. I want this place in tip-top shape before I shut ’er down until the storm passes.”
I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. If it were anyone else, I’d tell them to fuck off and hunker down to ride out the incoming storm. But my boss, Mr. Wilson, is a decent guy. When I blew into town needing to start a new life, he hired me on the spot and let me rent this place for practically nothing. If all he wants me to do is stock some shelves at his general store, I can go in for a few hours. He’s been in these mountains for a long time and knows when to let me knock off before I’m snowed in.
Sighing, I sit up and push my hair from my face. “Yeah, okay. Gimme twenty minutes and I’ll be there.”
He releases an audible breath. “Thanks, Streeter. My good-for-nothin’ son won’t pick up his phone. I’m sure he turned it off so he won’t have to come out in this cold weather.”
“All good,” I say as I climb out of bed and make my way to my shower and turn it on. “See you in a bit.”
“See ya.”
I hang up the phone and blow out a frustrated breath. I really wanted to stay in and relax. Oh well, a few extra hours will swell my paycheck.
I give the shower a few minutes to heat while I grab my Bluetooth speaker and cue up my favorite playlist.
Beyoncé bellowing how crazy in love she is blares from the speaker and I relax, hyping myself up for work on my day off.
While I’m showering, I sing along to all the queens of R&B and Pop. I duck my head under the spray to wash my blond waves, thinking it’s probably not the smartest thing to wash my hair when it’s ball-chillingly cold outside, but whatever. When I get home from work, I won’t be in the mood to do it, so I might as well get it done now.
As I’m stepping out of the shower, “All I Want for Christmas” starts playing.
“Fuck no,” I grouse, reaching over to my phone and slapping the “next” button before Mariah can start her first verse. I love Mariah, but that song grates on my fucking nerves. Nothing puts me in a bad mood faster than that fucking song.
Standing in front of my mirror butt-ass naked, I go into the playlist and delete the song, wondering how thefuckit even got there. I think my best friend, Camden, added it. He’s a dick like that.
Turning off the Bluetooth speaker, I dial Camden’s number and walk over to my dresser to pull out some clothes.
“Talk to me,” he says, inhaling deeply. Must be puffing a jay.
“Did you fucking add that song to my Baddies playlist?”
His bark of laughter answers my question and I scowl, wishing I could reach through the phone and fucking strangle him. “Took you long enough to hear it. I expected this call ages ago.”
“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d fucking kill you for that.”
Most people would take that as a joke, but I know Camden doesn’t. He and I are a lot alike, killing without remorse for slights that most people would think petty. Had anyone else put that song on my playlist, knowing how much I hate it, I would have cut their fucking head off.
“I know,” he says, exhaling through the speaker. “It’s supposed to storm soon. Wanna hang out with me? It’ll be fun.”
Camden and I fucked around for a few months when I got here a year and a half ago, but we weren’t feeling a relationship. When we want to get off and can’t find any hookups near our small-ass town, we call each other up to scratch an itch, though.
“Nah,” I say, shoving my legs into my briefs, then my jeans. “I gotta work. When I get back home, I’m gonna lie around and watch the snow fall or some shit.”
“Good shit. Call me if you change your mind. I can take the snowmobile over there if the snow gets too deep.”
“Gotcha.” We hang up and I finish getting dressed for work, tossing on the stupid vest with Wilson & Sons on the back. If I didn’t like Mr. Wilson so much, I’d never put this dumb shit on.
I throw my puffy jacket over it and head out the door.
The drive to work is short, only about ten minutes. I could have walked since it’s not too cold out, but I don’t want to be miserable walking back home when the temperature drops.
When I get to the store, I jog to the entrance, the automatic doors opening and the vents blasting me with hot air.
Mr. Wilson peers up from the register and relief crosses his face. “Thank God.” He finishes ringing up the customer in front of him, and when that’s done, walks around the counter to me. “There are a bunch of boxes in the back for the hardware aisles. I don’t know if any locals will be in to grab extra batteries or flashlights, but the tourists might not have packed accordingly, so I need that stuff out. Think you can unload them in…” He looks down at his watch and curses. “Four hours? I know it’saskin’ a lot, but that’s about all the time we got before the temperature drops and we gotta get the hell out of dodge.”
