The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(28)

She knew Toby.

From what I understood of his past reputation in Matlock, she might even have slept with Toby.

And she’d heard about the fight.

“Hey,” she greeted chirpily.

Damn.

“Hello,” I replied, grabbing the first thing on the belt to scan it and not for the first time noticing the woman never bought ice cream, and right now the entirety of her groceries centered around an abundance of different varieties of fancy bottled or canned water.

“Probably a drag having to work on a Saturday night,” she noted after I scanned a bag of frozen edamame.

“Pays the bills,” I muttered, going for the bag of frozen spinach, thinking the last person on earth who needed to know it actually didn’t was this chick.

“Still a bummer,” she said.

I just jerked my head in what could be construed as an affirmative.

“You know, just to say . . .” she started.

I braced for it.

And she sure gave it to me.

“Small town, folks talk. So, when I saw you at a register, I thought about it, I really did,” I looked to her after I scanned a case of St. Croix (grapefruit), “and I decided after you had your thing yesterday, that we girls gotta have each other’s backs. So I picked your line.”

I could tell by the gleeful light in her eye she wasn’t looking out for anyone but herself. In this instance, doing it getting her daily quota of mean-girl jollies.

“And I should warn you about Take ’Em and Leave ’Em Toby,” she finished.

I focused on her a brief moment and then reached for the next case of St. Croix (mango).

But I made no reply.

My sister had been seeing, then living with, and was now engaged to Johnny Gamble, and I’d been hanging with them and both the Gamble Brothers for months.

People talked, others gossiped, and some of them got off on doing it with or around folks who were intimately involved in a certain mix.

And I saw a lot of the citizens of Matlock. I figured the entire town had gone through my line at the store at least once.

So I really wanted to prick her mean-girl bubble and inform her that she was not the first person to share about Take ’Em and Leave ’Em Toby.

Though most people said it with what they thought was teasing “Ah, those Gamble Brothers” fun (and most of that “Ah, those Gamble Brothers” was about how solid Johnny was, and what a good-natured, ne’er-do-well bad boy Toby was, and I had to admit it never failed to rile me), when it was still judgey and gossipy, even if they didn’t exactly (maybe) intend it to be mean-spirited.

Bottom line for me, I knew Toby dipped in and out of Matlock since he’d graduated high school.

But he wasn’t forty, married with children and playing around on his devoted wife.

He was a young, insanely handsome guy who some considered a player because he played.

I’d played too.

You did that if you were unattached and enjoyed getting yourself some.

It didn’t make you an asshole.

And one thing I knew, Tobias Gamble was no asshole (notwithstanding him getting in my face the day before, but that wasn’t about assholery—even I had to admit that was about worry).

But I really needed this job, so instead of saying any of the fifty words that rushed to my tongue begging to be let out, I just scanned the case and reached for one of the six huge bottles of smart water she’d put on my belt.

Mean Girl did not seem to mind that I didn’t take the bait.

She kept fishing.

“You aren’t the first one he’s got all wound up about him,” she shared. “And don’t take all that Gamble Guy goodness for granted, you know, like thinking he cares enough to get in a huge fight with you on the street about whatever. Tobias giveth, and then without a thought, Tobias taketh away.”

I was about to say something to her, like, “Did you know we have a new line of frozen yogurt?” (when we did not, but I wanted to make her go look) when I heard, “No, that’s just you, Jocelyn.”

This came from down my belt.

I looked there to see next in line was an attractive woman around Jocelyn’s (and my) age who I’d also checked out dozens of times in the last months, and she did buy ice cream, so I knew she was my people even if she hadn’t been nice to me (which she always was).

Jocelyn turned to the woman and the gleeful, I’mma-gonna-fuck-with-you mean girl morphed into the bitchy, I-don’t-have-time-for-your-shit-when-you’re-fucking-with-me-fucking-with-somebody mean girl took her place.

“You aren’t in this conversation, Lorraine,” she snapped.

“Neither is this poor woman who you decided to aim your venom at this Saturday night, during which, I’ll point out, you’re grocery shopping and not out on a date, so you’re in a crappy mood. Put the fangs away,” Lorraine retorted.

I scanned some zero-sugar granola that cost more than a car (exaggeration).

“What I do with my Saturday nights is none of your business,” Jocelyn hissed.

“And what’s going on with Toby Gamble and your checkout person is none of yours. Keep your trap shut, pay for your groceries and move along,” Lorraine bit back.

I scanned some pretzels and a bag of chips made of lentils that probably tasted like dung and totally forgot my feet hurt, my back kinda hurt too, and I did this since it took all my attention to press my lips together in an effort to fight smiling.