“No, you can’t say that.” Voice deadpan, he doesn’t move a muscle, and my stomach clenches before loosening at the small smile springing to his lips. “It’s Cary Grant Buchanan.”
Laughter spills from me and with that, I release all the tension of the past few minutes. “Absolutely.”
“Come on, I see your hands are empty.” He grabs my hand. “Let’s get you some goodies.”
Tonight was only supposed to be dinner, but Cary and I hit it off. I hardly know him but sense we have a lot more in common than we think. Like me, I get the feeling he left his family for some of the same reasons I did.
After he paid the bill and suggested continuing the night with a movie, the word no never entered my mind. I’m not nervous or excited at the idea of a kiss or anything like that, but I didn’t want the night to end either.
I like Cary and agreed to a movie, at my place. This way if things go sideways, I know how to get help, where the knives are. Although something tells me I won’t need to worry about any of that.
We saunter down the rest of the aisle, looking at the boundless selection of candy and chocolate.
I stop midway, waiting for him to make eye contact. “I just want it on record that I warned you.”
“About what?”
“You know that stuff will destroy your teeth, right?”
My date chuckles, lips parting to reveal his all-too white and near-perfect row of movie star teeth.
Gently, I tug at the bag of candy he’s got in a death grip. “It would be a crying shame to wreck that million-dollar smile.”
“You’re one to talk.” He scoffs and shakes his head as I pluck a bag of gummy bears from the shelf. “Those aren’t any better and I’d hate for your beautiful teeth to rot.”
I shrink somewhat at my hypocrisy as the bag of candy burns a hole in my hand. I deserve his scorn, albeit playful, and shove the bag at him. He adds it to our growing haul of snacks.
“Fine. We’ll both have bad teeth.” I haughtily lift my chin in the air and prance away from him, intent on gathering more dye and sugar-loaded junk for our bodies.
He follows me into the next aisle and scans the rows upon rows of potato chips before stopping to look at a bag. “Do you have a preference?”
“It doesn’t matter to me.” I watch him pick through the endless choices, finally settling on popcorn, salt and vinegar chips, and chili cheese Fritos.
“We need something to wash this down with.” I swing toward the back of the store where the fridges are but pause at his voice.
“Soft drinks are on sale. There’s a big display of bottles up front by the checkout.”
“But are they cold?”
“Good point.” He holds up the junk food and motions to the other end of the store. “How about I take these to the checkout, unless you want something else, and meet you there? I’d like a Coke, please.”
“Sounds good.” I traipse toward the drinks, smiling at how well things are going.
A cold blast of air smacks me in the face when I open the fridge door, and I shudder, quickly grabbing two Cokes. I’m still full from dinner and doubt I’ll eat more than a handful of the gummies, but this outing was fun, a good way to get to know more about each other.
Music from the store’s surround sound dwindles and the song ends, leaving a beat of silence that someone’s quick to fill with a bark of harsh words and a raised voice. I can’t make out what’s actually said.
The catchy tune “Town Called Malice” starts to play, eating any voices and I’m quickly swept away by the beat as my hips start to sway.
Goose bumps pop along my bare arms, still chilled from the fridge, and I stroll to the cash register with the cold soft drink bottles tucked in the crook of my arm.
Near subzero in here, it’s hard to believe the outside is a soupy mess of heat and humidity. Although, this summer dress does nothing to keep the icy air from freezing my flesh. Right about now, I’m looking forward to the inferno, if only to warm up.
I sing along to the song’s chorus, “Bah-bah-bah-ba-baba-bah,” now dancing to warm up and just because. The catchy rhythm is too hard to ignore.
Everything changes from one beat to another. The night flips upside down.
Cold to hot.
Light to dark.
Fun and breezy to hellish as I near the front of the store, eyes on Cary standing at the cash register. Worry lines carve deep grooves in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Our gazes lock, his turbulent, and his hand shoots out in the universal sign for me to stop.
A tall, skinny guy with greasy, shoulder-length black hair stands in front of the door, wielding a handgun. “Don’t fucking move.”
My name is a whisper on Cary’s lips, “Morgan.”
Every part of my body locks and I halt. And my date, despite his frown, remains calm and his voice even as he talks to the man with the gun. “She’s with me. She’ll do what you say.”
Cary inches toward me while motioning me forward. My feet barely shuffle, feeling heavy and clunky as if encased in cement. Cary’s now in front of me, and the warmth of his hand, wrapping around mine, thaws the biting fear coursing through my veins. What the hell? Is this a robbery?
An older South Asian man stands behind the counter, shaky fingers punching on the keys of the cash register. “Easy. I said I’d give you the money. Then get out.”
Ding.
The drawer slides open and the clerk plunks a pile of cash onto the counter. The gunman, no older than twenty-five, pupils blown wide and movements jerky, thrusts a plastic bag at him. “Put it in there.”
A girl, the same teenager from only minutes ago, enters the fray, oblivious like I was to what’s going on, and shrieks at seeing the gun.
“Fuck, no.” She whirls on her heels, scrambling back the way she came, but it’s too late.
The robber’s quick as a whip and lunges for her. His hand shoots out, palm smacking against her skull at the same time that his fingers snare a clump of her stringy blonde hair. Her neck and head snap back and she wails as he drags her body to his chest.
“Shut the fuck up.” He pushes the gun into her face and her fear chokes on the threat. Suddenly all is silent. “Where the fuck did you come from?” His beady eyes, angry and anxious, dart around the store and land on the clerk. “Who else is here? You said it was only these two.”
He waves the gun at Cary and me, and the girl whimpers in his arms, trembling like a mouse. The clerk, pausing his task of putting the money into the bag, glances to something behind the counter, maybe security cameras.
“That’s it. There’s no one else in the store.”
The gunman sweeps his panicky gaze over the space as if expecting more people to magically appear. While he’s preoccupied, the clerk drops one of his hands below the counter, out of sight. His movements are near imperceptible but he’s doing something.
What? Is there an emergency button under there? What if he’s caught? He’ll get us all killed.
Weapon still trained on the girl, the gunman focuses on the stacks of cash peeking from the bag on the counter. He’s wired, anxious to get the hell out of here, but also uncertain. It’s as if he didn’t count on witnesses and now doesn’t know what to do with us. All he wants is the cash, but what if one of us tries to stop him or cause trouble before he can get out the door?