Last Hit (Hitman) by Jessica Clare, Jen Frederick Page A
Authors: Jessica Clare, Jen Frederick
Ads: Link
things I have to learn—how to swipe the lottery tickets in the machine, how to turn off the gas pumps, how to change out the flavor bags in the soda machine. There are a million things to remember, and I make notes on a notepad so I won't forget. Last, he shows me the cameras in the convenience store. He shows me the panic switch if I should be robbed, and the baseball bat that is kept under the counter, and then the Taser that is kept, dismantled, in a compartment behind the time clock in the storage room. They are there "just in case," Craig tells me.
"Has this place ever been robbed?" I ask when he shows me the Taser. I am getting a little uncomfortable with all the safety precautions. It reminds me of being home with my father. Of sitting up nights with weapons in hand, waiting for a strike that never comes.
How bad can a gas station be?
"Twice," he tells me, and my heart stutters. "But only on holidays. We won't make you work those days." He pats my arm. "I live just down the street. You get any troublemakers in here, you call me, okay?"
I nod. Craig's number is at the top of my notepad in big, bold numbers. I won't forget.
It's eventually time for Craig to leave, and I give him an impulsive hug when he does. I like him. He's a sweet old man. He reminds me of my grandfather, who is long dead. Craig seems pleased by my hug and pats my back; then he pushes a knuckle at the notepad still clutched in my hand. "Remember. You call me."
"I'll remember," I say warmly. "I've got this."
He leaves, and I am alone, manning the store. I take a deep breath. I can do this. It's what the new Daisy would do. Old Daisy would be terrified, so I won't be her. It's a case of mind over matter, and if my hands shake when a customer comes in to buy a soda, I ignore it. I ring him up, hand him a receipt, and when he leaves, I exhale. Father would never expect me to be so strong, so independent, but here I am, working my first job like a normal girl. I'm terrified—Father's endless fear of everything and anything out of the normal day to day has left its shadow on me, but I'm stronger than my fear.
I
can
do this.
It's not so bad after that first customer. Because it's late at night and most people pay at the pump, the gas station isn't all that busy. Regan has let me borrow one of her textbooks, and I read it and go through the homework from time to time so I can be prepared when I can afford classes. I read her textbook in between customers and manage to chat a little with the people that buy cigarettes and lottery tickets and beer. My feet ache from standing on them for so long, but this job isn't so bad. And by the end of an evening shift, I will have sixty-two dollars before taxes. Craig told me we get paid weekly, so I like this job more and more.
It's some time after ten at night when the door chimes, letting me know there is a customer. I look up from the textbook and straighten so I can greet the person at the door.
I recognize the high cheekbones, the slashing brows, the piercing gray eyes and the deep scowl on his face.
Nick.
I freeze. I don't know what to do. I'm hurt that he never bothered to show up the other day, and I'm embarrassed, too. His texts seemed sincere, but it's easy to lie when you're not speaking face to face. But acting like a jealous wife when it was just a coffee date would make me look stupid. Should I play it cool and casual? Do I even know how to do that?
I try to form a "hello," but my throat closes up. Instead of being the confident, carefree woman I should be, I stare at him mutely from across the counter and give a tepid wave, like some sort of idiot mime.
Real smooth, Daisy.
That frowning gaze remains focused on me, and I watch his gray eyes flick back and forth, studying everything. He pauses at the gas station logo on my shirt. Glances around at the empty convenience store. Then back at me. "Why are you here, Daisy?"
My mouth opens for a greeting…and then snaps shut again. Why am I
"Has this place ever been robbed?" I ask when he shows me the Taser. I am getting a little uncomfortable with all the safety precautions. It reminds me of being home with my father. Of sitting up nights with weapons in hand, waiting for a strike that never comes.
How bad can a gas station be?
"Twice," he tells me, and my heart stutters. "But only on holidays. We won't make you work those days." He pats my arm. "I live just down the street. You get any troublemakers in here, you call me, okay?"
I nod. Craig's number is at the top of my notepad in big, bold numbers. I won't forget.
It's eventually time for Craig to leave, and I give him an impulsive hug when he does. I like him. He's a sweet old man. He reminds me of my grandfather, who is long dead. Craig seems pleased by my hug and pats my back; then he pushes a knuckle at the notepad still clutched in my hand. "Remember. You call me."
"I'll remember," I say warmly. "I've got this."
He leaves, and I am alone, manning the store. I take a deep breath. I can do this. It's what the new Daisy would do. Old Daisy would be terrified, so I won't be her. It's a case of mind over matter, and if my hands shake when a customer comes in to buy a soda, I ignore it. I ring him up, hand him a receipt, and when he leaves, I exhale. Father would never expect me to be so strong, so independent, but here I am, working my first job like a normal girl. I'm terrified—Father's endless fear of everything and anything out of the normal day to day has left its shadow on me, but I'm stronger than my fear.
I
can
do this.
It's not so bad after that first customer. Because it's late at night and most people pay at the pump, the gas station isn't all that busy. Regan has let me borrow one of her textbooks, and I read it and go through the homework from time to time so I can be prepared when I can afford classes. I read her textbook in between customers and manage to chat a little with the people that buy cigarettes and lottery tickets and beer. My feet ache from standing on them for so long, but this job isn't so bad. And by the end of an evening shift, I will have sixty-two dollars before taxes. Craig told me we get paid weekly, so I like this job more and more.
It's some time after ten at night when the door chimes, letting me know there is a customer. I look up from the textbook and straighten so I can greet the person at the door.
I recognize the high cheekbones, the slashing brows, the piercing gray eyes and the deep scowl on his face.
Nick.
I freeze. I don't know what to do. I'm hurt that he never bothered to show up the other day, and I'm embarrassed, too. His texts seemed sincere, but it's easy to lie when you're not speaking face to face. But acting like a jealous wife when it was just a coffee date would make me look stupid. Should I play it cool and casual? Do I even know how to do that?
I try to form a "hello," but my throat closes up. Instead of being the confident, carefree woman I should be, I stare at him mutely from across the counter and give a tepid wave, like some sort of idiot mime.
Real smooth, Daisy.
That frowning gaze remains focused on me, and I watch his gray eyes flick back and forth, studying everything. He pauses at the gas station logo on my shirt. Glances around at the empty convenience store. Then back at me. "Why are you here, Daisy?"
My mouth opens for a greeting…and then snaps shut again. Why am I
Similar Books
