Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“You’re in the way.”
I turn to the counter, still clutching the ball one-handed.
White ribbed tank top ripped across the chest, like a rat got to it, slices of skin showing. The tank comes short, showing the wide waistband of his underwear above his low-hanging jeans. A loose blue vest drapes open over his tank top with a nametag pinned to it, uneven. Lips hanging open like the effort of those few words he just said were so exhausting he can’t bother to close them. Blond hair flattened by a threadbare ball cap. Dopey blue eyes.
There is, and I can’t stress this enough, no reason in the world I should find him attractive. He’s not gorgeous. His nose is crooked just enough to notice, with a skinny hot pink Band-Aid strapped right over the bridge. He has bad posture, slumped against the back wall as he is, with a face that, while I wouldn’t describe it as at all ugly, is a far throw from any kind of conventional handsome.
But those dopey eyes of his defy all the brokenness, revealing a surprising sensitivity, giving context to the scars, to his lopsided scowl, even the hot pink Band-Aid somehow, these imperfections writing the guy’s history across his face.
Wait. Did he just say I’m in the way? “Huh?” I grunt back.
“Move.”
I glance the other way. Against the wall opposite the counter squats an empty yellow mop bucket with wads of paper all around it—evidence of the clerk’s poor aim. I’m still staring when another ball sweeps past my face close enough to kiss my eyelashes. It hits the back wall and drops to the floor, missing.
“Shit,” he mumbles.
“I need to pay for gas.”
“And I need to make a shot. Scooch back a bit, will you?”
I come to the counter instead, blocking him. “$20’s worth.”
“I said scooch.”
I toss the wad I’m holding backwards over my shoulder, blind. It plops into the mop bucket. I don’t even need to turn around to verify. “The pump right out there. $20.” I pull out a bill and slide it across the counter. “If you don’t mind … Duncan.”
His eyes are still stuck on the mop bucket like he can’t believe I made it, distracted. “Uh, who?”
“Duncan. Your nametag.”
When he peers down, the discovery that he’s wearing one at all catches him by surprise. “Oh, right. Nah, I’m not Duncan. Do I look like a Duncan to you? You look more like a Duncan.”
I’m already done with this chat before it’s started, and maybe it’s something to do with the morning I’ve had and my sulky pal pretending to powernap in the truck and leaving me to deal with this guy, but I’m just not in the mood. “Can you put in $20 for me so I can get outta your hair? I’m just passing through.”
“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s just passing through. Passing right on through, all of you out-a’-towners. Where’re you even from, huh? Never mind, don’t care.” He squeezes shut his eyes, rubs a spot on his head. “Fuck, when will this day end?”
“It’s not even noon yet.”
His sleepy eyes fly back open. “You serious?”
I glance through the glass door. Pete is leaned so far back in his seat, he isn’t even visible. “Look, I just need some gas so I can get on my way, and I can’t even say with confidence I know how to operate that weird thing out there. Can you just—”
“You don’t know how to pump your own gas?”
I frown at him. “I didn’t say—”
“Fuckin’ out-a’-towners,” mutters the clerk to himself, though I hear him perfectly, then crumples up another wad, leans to the side, and tosses it around me. The ball sticks somehow on the rim of the mop bucket, not quite falling in, not falling out. “I’ll count that.” He comes around the counter leaving my $20 sitting there, grabs a key off the wall, and slips through the door, nearly shoving me out of the way.
What the fuck is up with this dude?
The cloying stink of alcohol wafts off of him as he passes by—alcohol and an oaky, outdoorsy sweat odor I’m ashamed to say I don’t find as repugnant as I should. It’s full of masculine musk, full of a day’s hard work, and a harder night before, which I might be safe to assume involved partying too hard. This guy is nursing a tough Friday night hangover on this lazy Saturday morning shift when no one’s got any need to gas up.
My eyes drop to his ass as I follow him outside. Part of the back of his clerk vest is tucked into his jeans, which I’m pretty sure isn’t intentional, the guy likely totally unaware. There’s a big red smiley sticker with its tongue sticking out stamped to the left butt cheek of his jeans, too, which is also probably an accident, like he sat on it and didn’t notice. With his every step, the smiley dances along with his ass. I can’t pull my eyes off of it.