Page 29 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

“The maximum number of hours. What’s the max?”

He sighs. “Ninety-nine, but it’s going to cost you a hundred-fifty plus tax.”

“Sure, just put it all on there,” I say, pulling out my card and tapping it against the counter.

“Anything else?” he asks.

“Just these,” I say, sliding a box of tampons and the energy drink toward him. “Could I get a bag too?”

“It costs extra.”

I’m seconds away from jumping over the table and mimicking what Kostin did to Jerry the other night. Why would I care about the cost of a bag when I just loaded a hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of minutes on a goddamn SIM card?

“Just ring it all up. I don’t care about the cost,” I say, tapping my debit card against the counter faster.

“Just doing my job,” the cashier grumbles.

I stay silent. The minute I finish paying for my stuff, I tear the box of tampons open and shove the phone into it. I don’t care that the cashier is confused by this. With any luck, I’ll never see him again.

At least I have my phone.

---