Page 11 of Ballistic

I huffed, stopping just past the refrigerators, where a box sat half filled with empties. Dumping the bag made an awful clang, and I tossed it into the nearby trash. From the row of fridges on the other side, I grabbed a carton of milk, before making my way back to the front, where a tall man in a swanky suit stood at the counter with his back to me. On the counter sat two packs of Marlboros and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Not like the kind in the pile of bottles I’d just emptied, but the ones Pop kept in a separate case off to the side. The more expensive kind that my mom could never afford.

I stood admiring the stranger’s shoes, which shined enough to reflect the lights in the ceiling.

The guy glanced back at me, and in that brief second, I felt something cold in my chest. A bad kind of tickle that one felt when they met a bad kind of person. Like something warning me.

Shallow gray eyes drilled into mine, his brows tilted just enough to make him look mad. Reminded me of the gloomy day we went boating with one of my mom’s clients and the waves were choppy and scary, rocking the boat back and forth. I ended up getting sick that day and throwing up all over the man’s leather seats. Chunks of pizza and soda everywhere, and my mom got so angry, she made me clean it up myself.

I took a step back to give him some space, and watched as he slid a wallet from the pocket of his wrinkle-free pants, his hand covered in a black leather glove he didn’t bother to remove. Gloves in the middle of summer. Weird.

A clacking sound drew my eyes to the card that’d fallen at my feet, the signature scrawled across it. I bent forward, flipping it over to the Mastercard emblem and the 16-digit number embossed on the other side of it, before handing it to the man whose eyes were glued on me.

Without saying thanks, he swiped the card from my hand and turned around. In minutes, Pops cashed him out, and he headed out the door with his smokes and liquor.

Asshole.

I hated when rich people came to our part of town. Like they were showing off, or something. Always rude and inconsiderate.

A five and a single sat on the counter, waiting for me.

“Was fifty,” I said, pushing the extra bill back toward Pops.

“Ah, I’ll give it to ya. You’re a terrible liar, though.” He pointed a finger at me, his stern features softening to a smile. “Tell your mom I’ll give her another week on her tab. That’s it, though.”

“Thanks, Pops.” I slid the cash into my pocket, alongside the cash I’d nabbed from Pigman that probably would’ve wiped out some of my mom’s tab. Just like the liquor and beer she’d bought could’ve probably covered it, too.

When I exited the store, the black car was gone.

The man’s credit card number hadn’t left my head, though. 9464317895338681. Obviously. Some days, I wished I didn’t have photographic memory, filling my brain up with stupid, meaningless numbers and words.

I hopped on my bike and headed back home, holding the half gallon of milk in the crook of my elbow as I rode one-handed, my tires bouncing over the uneven gravel of the dirt road. The neighborhood seemed quieter than before … or maybe the sounds of my mother’s shouts coming from the trailer drowned them out.

I threw my bike to the ground, hobbling toward the front door with the milk, when the screen door flew open, at the same time something crashed inside. Pigman wore a smirk on his face as he zipped the front of his jeans and stepped out onto the porch.

“Look what the swamp washed up. Fuckin’ toad on a turd.”

I ground my teeth together, eyes narrowed on him, as my mom’s sobbing bled through the screen door. “What did you do this time, jerk?”

Shoving a cigarette into his mouth, he strode past me and swatted the half-gallon of milk from my arms, knocking it to the ground, where the plastic burst, leaking white onto the dirty gray pavement.

“Someday, little girl, I’m gonna teach you a lesson about respect.” His liquor-stained breath wafted over me, forcing me to hold mine to keep from inhaling that greasy scent.

“Someday, I’m going to watch you die.”

His brows furrowed, as he took a step back and sucked a long drag from his cigarette. “You’re fucked up, kid, know that? You belong in a goddamn straight jacket.” Cigarette dangling from his fingertips, he pointed at me. “Watch yourself.”

I kept my gaze on his until he made his way to the beat-up Impala half parked on the small bit of lawn. The hinges creaked as he fell into the driver’s seat, then he tore out of the driveway, kicking up bits of gravel and grass.

Once he was out of sight, I stared down at the milk pooling around my flip-flops. With a huff, I lifted the last quarter left in the container and pushed through the screen door into the trailer, noticing the bedroom door was closed. Plumes of smoke seeped from the crack at the bottom of it, like a warning to stay away.

Smoking again.

I killed time straightening up what I could inside the trailer—washing the dishes, emptying the ashtrays, tossing the garbage scattered about the floor.

Not so much as a peep rose from the back room, and when darkness and shadows crept in through the windows, I started to worry. Momma usually started her evening routine by then.

I knocked on the door.

Nothing.