Page 64 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Chapter Twenty Six

Pocket Full of Sunshine

— Silas —

The bell over the door jingles as I step into the convenience store—a little shack wedged between miles of cotton fields and thick pine forest. A crooked sign out front reads “Delta EZ-Mart,” the paint peeling like old skin.

I glance around, nostrils flaring as I catch the stale tang of coffee, motor oil, and something faintly musty. Not the kind of place I’d choose to linger. But the locals don’t like questions—and they like them even less from a “foreigner” like me.

The cashier, a wiry man in his sixties with a baseball cap clamped low over his gray-streaked hair, barely glances up as I approach the counter. When he does, his eyes flick up and down, taking in my dreads, the glint of my septum piercing, and the dragon ink curling up my neck. His lips press into a scowl—weary disdain barely masked by a thin attempt at politeness.

“Can I help you with somethin’?” His words are clipped, as if fewer syllables might make me leave faster.

I lean an arm on the counter, lowering myself to his eye level. My voice stays low, smooth.

“Maybe.” A pause, just enough to stretch the silence. “I’m looking for someone. Redhead, tall, big personality.”

His gaze narrows, suspicion brewing behind the faded irises. He sizes me up, every inch of his face a map of tired distrust.

“Her name’s Sunday.”

“Don’t know no Sunday.”

He looks down, hands suddenly busy straightening an already neat pile of receipts.

Liar.

I feel the shift in his pulse, the hint of unease in his scent as he avoids my gaze. As if his stubborn loyalty alone could protect her from me. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t “belong” here.

A bell jingles faintly behind me. Another customer—a middle-aged woman with a perm and a purse the size of a small animal carrier—sneaks a glance my way as she heads toward the back. Her fingers clutch the strap tighter, her eyes flicking between me and the exit. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My patience is already worn thin, and this place isn’t helping.

The cashier clears his throat, his gaze darting to the woman and back to me. His hand inches toward something under the counter—a panic button, a baseball bat, maybe both.

“We don’t get many strangers here,” he says, his voice stiff. I can practically hear the unspokenespecially not your kindhanging in the air between us.

“Is that so?”

I let my dragon rise, just enough for gold to glint in my eyes under the harsh fluorescent light.

The cashier flinches. His fingers grip the counter too tight, knuckles going white. He tries not to look scared, but I can smell it on him—sharp sweat and that bitter scent of deep-seated resentment. It’s a stench I know too well. It clings to places like this.

“Look,” I say, keeping my voice steady… reasonable. “I don’t care about your town, your store, or anything else around here. I just need to find her. Then I’ll be gone.”

I hold his gaze, letting him see the edge of the blade beneath my calm.

“We don’t know her,” he says, slower this time, like he’s trying to make it stick.

I inhale slowly, pulling my dragon back. Its urge to lash out settles just beneath my skin, a molten threat waiting to break free.

Roxana’s waiting for answers, and my time here is slipping away. But it seems I’ll be leaving with as much information as I came with. Whether they know it or not, they’re protecting her—hiding her like some kind of treasure that needs guarding.

And fuck if that doesn’t piss off my dragon.

The cashier’s face freezes for a split second when the bell jingles again. His eyes dart to me, then back to the man stepping through the door, and his expression shifts—like he’s just been dealt a full house and doesn’t want to tip his hand.

I turn, tension coiling low in my spine.

The man tips his hat to me, his movements unhurried, deliberate. Mid-fifties, well-built, with the kind of face that inspires trust—a handsome blend of grit and sun-soaked charm, like a half-forgotten movie poster come to life. His blond hair is threaded with silver, and his piercing blue eyes seem to slice right through me.

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