Well, look at this shit, will you?
It mocked her with the sleek curved side resembling a woman’s shapely hip.
Why is Jason so concerned about his fingers all the sudden? Does he want to make sure they’re soft as he runs them over his mistress’s flawless skin?
Gut clenching, Mary backed up and muttered, “Fuck him. He can buy his own shit.”
Frown owning her brow, she experienced a round of dizziness as the jostling crowd of unfamiliar bodies continued brushing against hers.
“What was I going to pick up?”
She flinched at another unyielding elbow shove.
“Oh yeah.”
Two aisles over, Mary grabbed a bottle of bleach and package of yellow gloves, still stumped as to why the men in her life couldn’t seem to aim their damn piss inside the toilet bowl.
Maybe it’s some type of innate drive to flop their dicks around and mark their territory, she mused.
Laughter erupted from her throat as a vivid image slammed into her frontal lobe. She hovered her naked ass over Jason’s favorite boots and dribbled a little stream of pee down the side before he jumped from the shower and lit out the door to God knows where.
I have every right to mark my territory too, damn it!
Her shoulders slumped, the imagined victory short-lived and leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
Does he think I’m stupid? He claimed his department on forced overtime for four days in a row now, but Audrey’s husband worked the same shift. Whenever she called to chitchat, she could hear Lou’s deep voice somewhere in the background. He was with his family, so where the hell was Jason? A plan hatched to follow him, but the hassle of loading the kids up and enduring their nonstop questions and never-ending battles tempered the burning need. Attempts to relax a few muscles failed.
Get a grip and quit finding problems where there is none.
The marathon battle across five more aisles destroyed all progress toward a happy attitude. With growing intent, she snatched a carton of Blue Bell ice cream and children’s cold medicine. The kids would be in bed by seven even if she had to drug their little butts.
Focused on the ten items or less checkout line, Mary’s ribs slammed against the cart handle. Stunned at the aggressive move by a tall blond flying out of the makeup aisle, she stood her ground despite the throbbing pain. The idiot with perfect hair, flat belly, and clothes not found hanging on a rack at Walmart didn’t even bother to shoot over an apologetic look as she continued scraping the buggy along the side of her own.
She acts as if I don’t even exist. What a bitch!
The nitwit glided up to the grinning checkout dude more than eager to serve her—Daryl to be exact, if his nametag was correct.
Eyes narrowed into thin slits, Mary studied the woman unloading four individual wrapped prime cuts of beef, frozen broccoli, expensive shampoo, conditioner, eyeliner, mascara, nail polish, styling gel, and a People magazine.
Oh, hell no. Way over the limit.
She surged forward and then bit her tongue.
Screw it. I could be back in the car by time I make a point. Another time. Another place.
Even the delightful image of the asshole’s bleeding body rolling under the van tires couldn’t stop the swell of anger heating her face.
Little Miss Privileged using her looks to get ahead in life. Typical. It flies by fast, honey. Let me toss a little advice, you blond bimbo. Better start learning some manners to go with your future wrinkled face.
Still fuming, Mary saw the smitten boy eyeballing the woman’s tight ass as she leaned over to place the two bags into her cart. The fumbling shove of her own meager four items across the scanner came with no direct eye contact afforded prissy bitch. She gained surprise when he looked over to throw out monotone, rehearsed lines of bullshit more than obvious he repeated day in and day out until they no longer connected to his brain.
“Did you notice our savings day bonanza signs? Tomatoes are on special this week. Everything’s fresh at Bagwell’s Market. You owe twenty-four, eighty-eight.”
The kid slumped against the register, bored expression in place while waiting for a card to slide through a slot or some cash to drop on the rubber conveyer so he could push her out of his life. The highlight of his bleak existence had just occurred, so it was all downhill from this point.
Brow cocked in indignation at the attitude, Mary knew he didn’t give a shit if she had an opportunity at fresh produce. Might even piss him off if she acted delighted and made him wait while she browsed around and found one perfect tomato to bring back to the register. She couldn’t stop the low, husky growl erupting as he repeated the register total to hurry her along to oblivion. Her neck heated.
Hey, you asked. Don’t get your boxers in a wad because I gave it some thought, mister.
Lips tight in anger, Mary opened the Louise Vuitton knockoff purse her sister gifted two Christmas’s ago and looked inside. Mouth parting in surprise, every bit of angst seeped out of her pores, leaving her feeling light and invigorated. The dull throb owning the base of her skull winked out. Gone. Muscles relaxed for the first time since walking out of the hospital eight years ago while clutching a wailing infant in shaking arms. The sublime sensation was foreign yet craved—like taking a huge gulp of air after being underwater for too long. She grinned at her discovery.
Oh, I remember you. How’d you get in there?
Daryl made a point of clearing his throat on an exaggerated grind. “Hey, lady. Are you planning to pay or what?”
She narrowed her eyes. A persistent clock ticking down until time to pick up the hellions, the milk-soaked sugar she left behind, dirty dishes waiting in the sink, and her damn underwear stuck up the crack of her ass didn’t seem so important anymore. Everything clicked into place, and she reached inside for the one thing which never judged or mocked.
Mary Galesh lifted the Glock 19 out of the open maw of a purse smelling of chewing gum, Pepto-Bismol, and the menthol cigarettes she hid from her husband over the last year. The weapon felt good in her hand—heavy and powerful. Racking back the slide, she sensed a burst of adrenaline rushing through every vein as eager ears caught the familiar sound of a bullet chambering, energizing her.
Face lifting to present an exuberant smile, she pointed the business end at Daryl’s belly and popped a round into the little white button positioned just above his belt buckle, visualizing the projectile tearing through the lower bowel and shattering his spinal column. Long, tanned fingers laced over the gushing wound, not helping one damn bit. The shit was coming out whether he liked it or not.
Gaze flicking up to confused brown eyes, she winked and whispered for his ears only, “Hell yeah, I can see it. Now you’re realizing what the fuck was standing in front of you this whole time. Aren’t you, buddy?”
Chapter 2
With nothing but a gurgling sound spewing between Daryl’s pale lips and boring her silly, Mary swiveled, extended the gun, and aimed at the back of Ms. Prissy, blasting her in the shoulder while the moron stood frozen to the sparkling tile—still cringing from the loud boom announcing Daryl’s quick demise.
The skinny body swung about in a perfect one-eighty, a gift from the physics gods. She thanked them for giving ample time to pop the bitch in the left boob. Blondie dropped like a stone. She wondered if the coroner would find silicone mixed with the bright-red splash flowering out on the front of the white Niemen Marcus capped-sleeve blouse.
Glock swinging to the right and up forty-five degrees, she nailed the bubble camera attached to the ceiling and enjoyed a surge of pride as she annihilated the one on the far left without stopping to aim. She basked in the sounds of blood-curdling screams ripping through the air, displays falling