The Girl I Was Before (Falling #3)(38)

The store has been busy this week, with the students returning. A lot of people are stocking up on things like beer, bread, and peanut butter—pretty much the college-diet staples. The beer thing stresses Sheila out. Freshmen buy more beer than anyone, but they are also the ones not allowed. Sheila cards everyone, and I know most of those IDs are fake, but she gets overwhelmed, pulling her glasses down her nose and trying to match up the photos to the faces. I took over that duty today, and so far, I’ve been called a dickhead and a * for telling two guys to beat it.

“Hey…sandwich guy,” his voice fills the store before he even makes it to the counter. Paige’s ex-boyfriend is an *. She hasn’t talked about him once, so I’m assuming that’s done. It better be. I think I’ll kick her out if it’s not.

“Hey, *,” I say. I’m feeling brave, and now that I stand here, a little more prepared, I realize we’re the same height. I’m pretty sure I could take him if he threw a punch at me while I was looking.

He spits—on the floor of the grocery store—and looks back up at me, his six-pack of beer in his hand. I shake my head and grab the mop rag from behind the register and round the counter. Holding his gaze, I drop the rag on the area he just spit and wipe it around with my foot. I don’t pick it up again, instead kicking it into the corner behind the register, next to the trash.

“Dude, this place has bad service,” he says. “I’ve been standing here for almost five minutes now.”

“Oh that’s because you spit on the floor like a f*cking douchebag so I plan on ignoring you now,” I say, internally noting he’s only been waiting for thirty seconds, at the most. Lying douchebag.

He shoves his beer forward with his fingers, as if somehow moving it closer is going to inspire me to do something about it. I lean back, pulling out the magazine Sheila has stashed under the register, and I flip through a few pages. It’s one of those chick magazines, about diet and organizing your life. It only takes a few seconds for him to reach over the counter and grab it from my hands, tossing it to the side.

“What’s your f*cking problem, bro?” he asks, tossing a twenty down on top of the beer.

I look at it, then to him, then back to the money. Placing my finger on the bill, I slowly slide it toward me, lifting it with two fingers and holding it up between us.

“What’s this for?” I ask. I catch Sheila watching us beyond his shoulder. She’s shaking her head, but she’s not worried. She knows I can take him too. And she’s sick of being pushed around. I’m sick of watching her be pushed around.

“Listen, jack-off! Just ring up the beer, and I’ll get out of here,” he says.

I fold the bill into quarters and hand it back to him, letting it linger in my hand waiting for him to take it.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, bro,” I say, and I hear Sheila snicker behind him. When he turns to look at her, she busies herself quickly, pretending to straighten the deli display. Chuck is now peering out of his office. He’s…less amused.

Carson—I think that’s his name—pulls the bill from my hand, crinkles it and tosses it against my chest. I let it fall to the ground.

“Keep the change,” he says, picking up the beer and tucking it under his arm. I pick up his money quickly and round the counter, confronting him—chest to chest. I grab the beer before he has time to react, shoving his crumpled money back at him.

“You’re not of age. And I know you’re not. I read the football roster, and you’re a sophomore—a true sophomore. That makes you…twenty at the most?

“Dude, f*ck you! Give me my beer,” he says, reaching for it. I tug it away, toying with him. I can actually see his face growing red. I step back behind the counter and drop his beer in a cart to restock later. I turned my back for a fraction of a second, and in that time, he’s raced around the counter and has the collar of my shirt in his hand. The sensation of him yanking me backward chokes me a little. I see Chuck step out from his office with a bat in his hand. No way am I letting this guy kick my ass again.

I push hard, using my legs to shove him until his back is flat against the rack of firewood and propane—the lock digging into his shoulder blade. He works his arms around to grab more of my shirt, but I’m so full of adrenaline now, it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to get me off him.

“I don’t know what your deal is, but you need to leave this store…right now!” I seethe. “If I ever hear you are in here—that you’re trying to get away with your shitty-ass fake ID, or that you’re being a disrespectful *—I will find where you live, wake your ass up in the middle of the night, and drag you into the middle of the street to make sure your pleas for help echo for all of those nobodies that give a shit.”

My face is close to his. I sniff once, and lean my head to the side to crack my neck. The more I stare at his smug face, the more I wonder about how he treated Paige. I wonder if he ever hit her…or if he just treated her like shit with his words. Neither is acceptable, but if he touched her—hurt her physically—I will kill him now, without any more reason.

“Whatever, dude,” he says finally, pushing out from my arms, his muscles relaxing their hold on me. As he walks away, I keep my muscles flexed; I’ve learned he fights dirty. He’d turn around and clock me when I wasn’t expecting it. I watch him walk all the way out the door, down the sidewalk, and around the building.