Page 20 of The Eleventh Hour

I walk her to the front of the house, where a waiter stops hers. He holds up a silver tray with a black dahlia on it.

She snatches the dahlia up and leaves quickly, turning only to wave at me as I hurry after her. The black sedan waits for her, and as soon as the door closes, she’s gone.

I stand there thoughtfully on the doorstep, wondering who Jax Shade is and why a dahlia would make someone turn such a ghastly shade of white.

Jax

“You have a phone call,” Eugene shouts out of his office door. His tone and the look he spears me with lets me know that I’m going to hear about it later. I put down the box I’m restocking the shelves with and move behind the counter. I lean my hip on the wall and pick up the phone. The store is dark because the electricity is off again. Only the pale light from the sun shining through the front windows is giving us anything to work with. You’d think the phone’s would be out, too, but oh, no, thanks to technology, I don’t even find escape in blackouts.

It used to freak me out. Now, it’s kinda soothing. We can’t serve customers like this, so we get to clean and stock shelves until the power comes back.

“Hello, Jax speaking,” I say in a bored tone. I know perfectly well the mouth-breather isn’t going to talk. It’s been the same thing for ten months. Occasionally, when and if the freak is feeling particularly inclined, I get a chuckle. I hold the phone to my ear for a couple minutes, staring blankly at the half-stocked shelves.

The only thing that’s new is a heinous pink dog food sign with a cartoon dog and a slogan that reads, ‘Bow Chow’. Our dog food sales are doing worse since the sign came in. But Eugene won’t hear a bar of complaint. I hang up the phone and scuff my foot on the polished linoleum. Black streaks cover it, and there’s almost no shine anymore.

The store isn’t doing well. Not much in Hurricane is. Eugene’s parents owned the small supermarket and ran it until Mr Braiezer passed away from the lung condition that seems to have touched every family in Hurricane. Mrs Braiezer survived him by three months, and then quietly slipped away in her sleep. Eugene took over, but he doesn’t have the heart or the head for business.

I should start looking for a new job. The process of getting approval from Sparrow can sometimes take a while.

Eugene throws open the door and stalks out. He’s a thin man with deep acne scarring and tiny little eyes that have a constantly pinched look about them. He lacks empathy, and it shows in the way his lip curls when he looks at me and Cherise.

“I have told you not to bring your personal problems to work. Leave the phone calls at home.”

“I didn’t give out this number,” I say stubbornly for the millionth time.

Eugene leans against the wall. “I can’t afford to keep you both.” The abrupt bomb drops into the cold, dim room and explodes my life. Crap, rent, food, bills. I’m going to have to use my running money.

My throat tightens. “I see.”

“You work hard, I know you do. I’ll give you a good reference. Uh, well, you know I’ve been trying to sell the shop for a year now and nothing. I can’t afford to keep both of you on.”

I look up, following his line of sight to Cherise Plight. Nineteen-year-old Cherise, with her one-year-old son, who has asthma. Medication is expensive in Hurricane. The difference between life and death can be being able to afford to cash the doctors scripts.

“You made the right decision,” I say quietly. To be honest, I’m shocked by his compassion.

He shuffles, unable to look me in the eye.

“I’d keep you both if I could,” he grunts.

Eugene is a grumpy bastard, but he works hard and tries harder. He’s been mostly fair to me over the last few months, I concede.

“I know. I’ll just finish the shift, and then I’ll clear my locker out.”

The phone rings, and we both turn our heads and glare at it. The dull trills of the phone fill the shop, and the dirty beige of the handle with its nasty cord hang on the side of the wall taunt me. It’s a throwback to an era long gone, meant to be cute. It’s become a source of frustration and fear for me, and I have fantasies about smashing it. I take a deep breath and pick up the receiver.

“What do you want?” I snarl.

There is silence, and then my favourite stalker laughs. I slam the receiver back on the wall and close my eyes.

“I have to let your psychiatrist know,” Eugene says softly. He’s leaning against the back door, fiddling with a piece of plastic straw. Is there regret? Guilt? Probably, but I imagine Sparrow pays him well.

Of course, he does, fucking crazy shrink. I can’t even be angry about it, bitter, yes, but not angry. We’re all working to death for a couple of dollars here and there.

“It’s all good. I have a session with him tonight,” I say breezily.

“I’ll ring tomorrow morning.”

I whip my head up in surprise. “You don’t have to-”

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