with coffee? What was wrong with coffee that tasted like coffee? Who needed maple-strawberry-peanut-whatever? Even worse: not only was the flavor weird, but it also tasted weak. The woman had great legs, but she didn’t know how to make decent coffee.
In a strange way, that made him like her more. If she’d made great coffee, she would have been too perfect. This was better. God knows he wasn’t perfect, so the fact that her coffee sucked put them more on the same level.
But he seriously needed a cup of coffee, and no way was he swallowing so much as a sip of that poison. There was an open-all-night service station/convenience store just down the road, though, that would have coffee—maybe not the freshest in the world, but he was used to old, bitter coffee; that was why he used both sugar and creamer, to make it drinkable. Too bad sugar and creamer couldn’t do anything to disguise the awful flavor of Jaclyn’s brew; if they actually started seeing each other on a regular basis, he’d have to take over the coffeemaking, because he couldn’t drink that swill even to be polite.
When he got to the convenience store, a guy dressed like a construction worker was putting gas in a dusty Ford pickup. A ten-year-old black subcompact was parked off to the side; probably the clerk’s ride. As Eric pulled into a parking slot, the construction worker finished fueling and stood for a moment waiting for his credit card payment slip from the pump. He tore it off, carefully folded it, and put it in his wallet, then got in the truck and drove away.
Going inside, Eric nodded to the clerk, a skinny guy with a receding chin who had been watching through the window as the construction worker gassed up, and went straight to the coffee counter at the back of the store, where the motor oil, gas additives, and windshield washing liquid were shelved. The clerk looked faintly alarmed, and edged back behind the checkout counter.
Eric caught a glimpse of himself in the shiny surface of the coffee machines, and grimaced. No wonder the clerk looked a little worried. Not only did he need a shave, but he hadn’t even dragged his fingers through his hair before leaving Jaclyn’s. He hadn’t tucked his shirttail in—after all, he was going home to shower and change clothes, so he hadn’t seen the need—but he’d pulled on his jacket to cover his weapon. All in all, he looked as if he’d just had a mug shot taken.
He pulled a tall cup from the stack and dumped in two sugars and one creamer, then filled the cup to the brim. As he was fitting a black lid on the cup he heard a vehicle with a loud muffler pull up to the store. The engine didn’t cut off.
Shit . What were the odds? What were the fucking odds?
Instinctively he ducked down, hiding himself from whoever came through the door. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the driver was having trouble getting the car started, maybe the battery was low, so he didn’t want to take the chance of cutting off the engine and not being able to get it started again.
He heard the chime over the door as it opened, and momentarily the sound of the running motor was even louder. It was nothing, he thought. Even an idiot would notice the car parked practically in front of the door, and realize someone else was in here with the clerk. And only a cop would hear a car left running outside and immediately think Quick getaway . His Spidey sense had short-circuited after a hot night of sex, that was all. Traffic outside was picking up as dawn came closer, not a good time for a robbery, any fool knew that.
It was noth—
Crash!
Something was knocked over, the harsh sound exploding in the small building along with yells and swearing, then a hoarse voice yelling, “Gimme the money, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off!”
Fuck. It was something.
Damn it, he knew it, he’d known it as soon as the car pulled up outside. His weapon was in his hand, and he didn’t remember drawing it. It was just
In a strange way, that made him like her more. If she’d made great coffee, she would have been too perfect. This was better. God knows he wasn’t perfect, so the fact that her coffee sucked put them more on the same level.
But he seriously needed a cup of coffee, and no way was he swallowing so much as a sip of that poison. There was an open-all-night service station/convenience store just down the road, though, that would have coffee—maybe not the freshest in the world, but he was used to old, bitter coffee; that was why he used both sugar and creamer, to make it drinkable. Too bad sugar and creamer couldn’t do anything to disguise the awful flavor of Jaclyn’s brew; if they actually started seeing each other on a regular basis, he’d have to take over the coffeemaking, because he couldn’t drink that swill even to be polite.
When he got to the convenience store, a guy dressed like a construction worker was putting gas in a dusty Ford pickup. A ten-year-old black subcompact was parked off to the side; probably the clerk’s ride. As Eric pulled into a parking slot, the construction worker finished fueling and stood for a moment waiting for his credit card payment slip from the pump. He tore it off, carefully folded it, and put it in his wallet, then got in the truck and drove away.
Going inside, Eric nodded to the clerk, a skinny guy with a receding chin who had been watching through the window as the construction worker gassed up, and went straight to the coffee counter at the back of the store, where the motor oil, gas additives, and windshield washing liquid were shelved. The clerk looked faintly alarmed, and edged back behind the checkout counter.
Eric caught a glimpse of himself in the shiny surface of the coffee machines, and grimaced. No wonder the clerk looked a little worried. Not only did he need a shave, but he hadn’t even dragged his fingers through his hair before leaving Jaclyn’s. He hadn’t tucked his shirttail in—after all, he was going home to shower and change clothes, so he hadn’t seen the need—but he’d pulled on his jacket to cover his weapon. All in all, he looked as if he’d just had a mug shot taken.
He pulled a tall cup from the stack and dumped in two sugars and one creamer, then filled the cup to the brim. As he was fitting a black lid on the cup he heard a vehicle with a loud muffler pull up to the store. The engine didn’t cut off.
Shit . What were the odds? What were the fucking odds?
Instinctively he ducked down, hiding himself from whoever came through the door. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the driver was having trouble getting the car started, maybe the battery was low, so he didn’t want to take the chance of cutting off the engine and not being able to get it started again.
He heard the chime over the door as it opened, and momentarily the sound of the running motor was even louder. It was nothing, he thought. Even an idiot would notice the car parked practically in front of the door, and realize someone else was in here with the clerk. And only a cop would hear a car left running outside and immediately think Quick getaway . His Spidey sense had short-circuited after a hot night of sex, that was all. Traffic outside was picking up as dawn came closer, not a good time for a robbery, any fool knew that.
It was noth—
Crash!
Something was knocked over, the harsh sound exploding in the small building along with yells and swearing, then a hoarse voice yelling, “Gimme the money, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off!”
Fuck. It was something.
Damn it, he knew it, he’d known it as soon as the car pulled up outside. His weapon was in his hand, and he didn’t remember drawing it. It was just