Page 104 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“They didn’t forget me.”
He frowns, but it’s playful. “Let me guess. You were just as charming with them on the way here?”
I mentally strangle him. Twice.
“I figured.” He nods and stalks off.
Dickhead.
“Phone?” I ask the teen who takes his sweet time punching in Hart’s payment.
The register pops open. He stuffs the cash in, takes out the change, and drops it into his tip jar. Then he looks at me.
“Boss doesn’t like it when people use the phone.” The kid points behind me. “There’s one right out there.”
I follow his gaze outside to an old phone booth. If you could call it that. The sun-bleached thing looks more like a relic of the past than anything that’d actually function today.
“Does it work?”
He shrugs. “It takes quarters.”
I sigh.
“Right. Quarters.” I turn and take two steps.
“The chips will be seven dollars and forty-nine cents.”
I pivot to him. “For chips?”
He shrugs. “Costs more for delivery out here, and—”
I drop a bill on the counter and storm outside. The sun hits me, and I pull my shades over my eyes.
“Did you pay for those chips?” Hart leans against the bus, one leg raised, arms folded, wearing his sunglasses so I can’t see his eyes.
Not that I want to. They’re probably being as smug as the way he’s standing.
I lift my middle finger, my boots hitting the ground with purpose.
The phone booth is covered in years of grime, and the glass is cracked in a few spots.
I dig out the change in my pocket and find a couple of dimes, a nickel, and no quarters.
This day just keeps getting better and better.
I head back toward the door.
“I’ll just be here while you’re wasting daylight.” Hart’s voice echoes across the empty lot.
I’d like to duct tape his mouth shut.
Inside, the teenager isn’t standing behind the counter. I hear broom bristles sweeping the floor, and glance down the aisle where the bag exploded, which was all Hart’s fault. He started the snack war. The ass should’ve paid for them.
The teen hunches over, brushing broken chips into a dustpan.
“I need to get some quarters.”
He straightens, the broom dangling from his hand, gives a nod, and starts walking back to the front. Nice and slow, just like the traffic coming and going from this place.
