Page 25 of Before They Were Lovers

Day stood staring and grumbling under his breath at the only options of mozzarella or sharp cheddar.

The door chimed, a sound Day ignored as he continued to curse the ridiculousness of convenient stores when they were anything but convenient.

“Do exactly as I say, and you won’t get hurt!”

Day tensed, the air thickening like it always did when he and God were about to get into a bad situation.

“Don’t shoot me, please.”

The shaky request was made from a voice full of fear and dread. Day slowly slid the cooler door closed and eased to the edge of the aisle to see what he was dealing with.

He got a good look at the frail man in faded jeans and a threadbare black T-shirt, holding a .22 in a trembling grip.

Day wanted to laugh. There he was, thinking they were in danger. The immature robber hadn’t even bothered to check the rest of the store.

“Okay, I won’t if you just give me the money in the register and…and all of whatever is in the safe.”

Day rolled his eyes.

Waiting for a terrified store clerk to manage to get their shit together enough to accurately input a safe’s code was a classic rookie mistake.

“I’m sorry. I’m not the owner. I don’t know how to get into the safe,” the woman cried. “Please don’t shoot me. I have kids. Here. Take all of this, please. Here…”

“Um…can you like call the owner or something?”

The robber sounded almost as stressed as the clerk he held at gunpoint.

“What?” She sniffed.

“Call him!” the guy yelled.

Day walked up the aisle, and the robber didn’t register he was there until Day slammed his items on the counter.

“Don’t mean to cut in line, buddy, but you’re taking way too long.”

“Hey, hey!” The man turned the gun—Day doubted it was even loaded—on Day and shook it in his face. “Get over there. Don’t move!”

“Yeah, okay.” Day sighed. “But can you hurry up? The game comes on in an hour, and I still have to make nachos, and I’m fuckin’ pissed that I have to use sharp cheddar, so….”

The man squinted but was startled when the clerk pushed some crumpled bills and coins onto the low counter. With the gun pointed down at his own foot, the guy grabbed the money, scowling at the measly five- and one-dollar bills.

“That’s not enough!” he yelled, scrubbing his hand over the back of his head.

Day had seen enough addicts in his life to identify the signs of withdrawals. He knew how desperate they could get to score another hit. As a police officer, he could also tell the difference between a hardened criminal and an impostor.

“Dude, you gotta say no to drugs.” Day shook his head as he snatched a pack of bubble gum from beside the register, opened it, and popped a piece in his mouth.

The robber looked enraged, pointing the gun at Day’s chest.

“Give me your wallet…now!”

Day shrugged. “You’re shit outta luck because I didn’t bring it. I only grabbed a little cash to pay for my overpriced cheese and sour cream.”

The addict’s eyes were glazed and unfocused as he shifted from the clerk to Day.

“Empty your pockets. All of them.”

Day chewed noisily on his gum.

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