Page 15 of Poker
My forehead wrinkles with confusion at the hardware store cashier’s comment. “Excuse me?”
The teenager nods at the items he’s scanning. “This might as well be a murder kit.”
I take in what I’m purchasing: garbage bags, bleach, other cleaning products, zip ties, a shovel, gloves, a roll of thick black plastic, and cute rubber boots with polka dots on them.
Damn, he’s right. This looks bad.
Chuckling, I shake my head. “You either listen to too many podcasts or watch too much Dateline.” The boy grins sheepishly. “I’ve got a property that needs to be cleaned, and I’m putting in a garden at my house.”
“And the zip ties?” he asks, his curiosity getting the best of him.
“For my tomato plants. Little suckers need to be attached to the stakes, so they’ll grow right.”
“Whatever you say,” he retorts, clearly not convinced.
He gives me the total, and I pay with cash, which only furthers his suspicion, if his expression is any indication. Poor kid’s probably going to be watching the news for any murders for a while, wondering when I’ll strike.
“Have a great day!” he calls after me as I exit the store.
Shaking my head, a grin splits my face.
Fucking kids and their overactive imaginations.
“Meri?”
I stop in my tracks at the familiar voice and turn to my left. Poker strides toward me, glancing at the items in my cart as he advances.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask.
“Apparently, the same thing you are,” he says, nodding at my purchases.
“Buying a murder kit?” I quip.
He rears back. “What?”
I explode into laughter at the horror in his eyes. When I can’t get control of myself, he rests his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
By sheer force of will, I compose myself and grin. “I’m good. But shit, you shoulda seen the look on your face.”
Poker shakes his head. “So, not a murder kit?”
“No.” I tell him the same thing I told the cashier, and the relief in his eyes is comical. “I was just about to head to the warehouse to start cleaning up.”
“Right. Which leads me back to your original question. I was gonna pick up some supplies before going there myself.”
“Well, no need to waste your money,” I tell him. “I’ve got it covered. And really, you don’t have to help me. It’s not like there’s a lot to do.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he says, leaving no room for protest. “You hungry? I can grab some takeout and bring it with me.” My stomach chooses that moment to growl, and he chuckles at the sound. “Guess that answersthatquestion.”
“I could go for some pizza,” I say.
“Works for me. Any preference on toppings?”
“As long as there’s lots of cheese and no anchovies, I’m good.”
“Got it.” He starts to walk backward. “Gimme time to order and pick it up, and I’ll meet you at the warehouse.”
