Read Online The Road to You by Marilyn Brant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marilyn Brant
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and mustier than where I worked, but that depressing, end-of-the-line feeling I got just crossing the threshold was identical.
Only two people were in the store—the clerk, who was a twenty-something, very fair-haired male, and an old lady, who wore a thin print dress and was coughing up half a lung into her handkerchief.
I didn’t have a problem with the old-lady shopper. I’d served an endless stream of customers like that. Always on a strict budget. Always a little sick with something. Almost always alone.
The clerk, however, gave me a distinctly negative vibe, especially when the very first time he glanced at us he shot us a look so irritated you would’ve thought we’d interrupted him in the middle of his lunch break.
Donovan drew in a surprised breath next to me when he spotted the clerk, and I knew why. We’d both been expecting Ronny Lee Wolf to be a Native American.
But this dude looked more Scandinavian than anything else, with eyebrows so blond they disappeared into his pale skin, and none of the traditional Chippewa facial features. Forget the “Wolf” surname, if he had even a drop of Native American blood I would have been surprised. Apparently, he was Ben Rainwater’s “cousin,” although maybe that term was used loosely. We knew for a fact that Ben had lived on the tribal lands when he was alive.
Unless the clerk wasn’t Ben’s cousin. Unless he was somebody else entirely—someone filling in for the cousin.
I couldn’t shake the hope that this cold, creepy guy might not be Ronny. That the real Ronny would be someone else. Someone more approachable. Someone who wouldn’t make my senses tingle with the absolute certainty that we couldn’t trust him.
“You two need anything?” the clerk asked, a hard edge to his voice.
For a moment, Donovan looked as if he might stare the guy down, but then he seemed to remember his role and, instead, broke into a sloppy grin. “Just a couple of supplies, man. We’ll find ‘em.” He grabbed a loaf of bread. To help, I snatched a jar of peanut butter and held it up like a prop.
The clerk grunted but continued to eye us suspiciously. Every tiny hair on my body rose when he looked in our direction.
The old lady coughed some more in that unhealthy, croaking way. Hunched over her little plastic basket with just a few items in it, she said, “Ronny, are you out of tomato soup? I don’t see none here.”
“Might be a few cans in the back, Ms. Ida,” the clerk—who was Ronny, oh, damn—called out to her, his voice softening a little when he said her name. “I’ll check for ya quick.”
He disappeared for a minute, and Donovan, whose first thought actually mirrored mine for a change, murmured, “Shit. That’s him .”
I nodded and sighed.
Donovan sniffed the air and gazed down the aisles. “Something just smells funny about this place,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “I think he’s selling more than Wonder Bread and Jif.”
“Weed?” I mouthed.
“Maybe…or maybe something stronger,” he mouthed back. “Acid. Angel dust. Cocaine. I don’t know.”
Ronny returned and handed over one soup can to the older lady. “This is all we’ve got for now. I’ll get an order put in for more this week.”
The Ida woman shuffled to the register, purchased her few items and left. Then, unfortunately, the clerk’s full attention was on us.
Donovan swung into action, turning up his laidback charm-o-meter and finally putting to use some of the information he’d collected last night. He grinned again at the clerk. “So, man, you’re Ronny Lee Wolf, right?”
“What’s it to you?” Ronny threaded his fingers through his fine blond hair, which was longish in the back and stringy, like the way some stoner in a rock band would wear it.
“Just wanted to make sure I had the boss, you know, the big man.”
How Donovan managed to make that line sound sincere was beyond me, but it seemed effective in buttering up Ronny, at least a little.
Only two people were in the store—the clerk, who was a twenty-something, very fair-haired male, and an old lady, who wore a thin print dress and was coughing up half a lung into her handkerchief.
I didn’t have a problem with the old-lady shopper. I’d served an endless stream of customers like that. Always on a strict budget. Always a little sick with something. Almost always alone.
The clerk, however, gave me a distinctly negative vibe, especially when the very first time he glanced at us he shot us a look so irritated you would’ve thought we’d interrupted him in the middle of his lunch break.
Donovan drew in a surprised breath next to me when he spotted the clerk, and I knew why. We’d both been expecting Ronny Lee Wolf to be a Native American.
But this dude looked more Scandinavian than anything else, with eyebrows so blond they disappeared into his pale skin, and none of the traditional Chippewa facial features. Forget the “Wolf” surname, if he had even a drop of Native American blood I would have been surprised. Apparently, he was Ben Rainwater’s “cousin,” although maybe that term was used loosely. We knew for a fact that Ben had lived on the tribal lands when he was alive.
Unless the clerk wasn’t Ben’s cousin. Unless he was somebody else entirely—someone filling in for the cousin.
I couldn’t shake the hope that this cold, creepy guy might not be Ronny. That the real Ronny would be someone else. Someone more approachable. Someone who wouldn’t make my senses tingle with the absolute certainty that we couldn’t trust him.
“You two need anything?” the clerk asked, a hard edge to his voice.
For a moment, Donovan looked as if he might stare the guy down, but then he seemed to remember his role and, instead, broke into a sloppy grin. “Just a couple of supplies, man. We’ll find ‘em.” He grabbed a loaf of bread. To help, I snatched a jar of peanut butter and held it up like a prop.
The clerk grunted but continued to eye us suspiciously. Every tiny hair on my body rose when he looked in our direction.
The old lady coughed some more in that unhealthy, croaking way. Hunched over her little plastic basket with just a few items in it, she said, “Ronny, are you out of tomato soup? I don’t see none here.”
“Might be a few cans in the back, Ms. Ida,” the clerk—who was Ronny, oh, damn—called out to her, his voice softening a little when he said her name. “I’ll check for ya quick.”
He disappeared for a minute, and Donovan, whose first thought actually mirrored mine for a change, murmured, “Shit. That’s him .”
I nodded and sighed.
Donovan sniffed the air and gazed down the aisles. “Something just smells funny about this place,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “I think he’s selling more than Wonder Bread and Jif.”
“Weed?” I mouthed.
“Maybe…or maybe something stronger,” he mouthed back. “Acid. Angel dust. Cocaine. I don’t know.”
Ronny returned and handed over one soup can to the older lady. “This is all we’ve got for now. I’ll get an order put in for more this week.”
The Ida woman shuffled to the register, purchased her few items and left. Then, unfortunately, the clerk’s full attention was on us.
Donovan swung into action, turning up his laidback charm-o-meter and finally putting to use some of the information he’d collected last night. He grinned again at the clerk. “So, man, you’re Ronny Lee Wolf, right?”
“What’s it to you?” Ronny threaded his fingers through his fine blond hair, which was longish in the back and stringy, like the way some stoner in a rock band would wear it.
“Just wanted to make sure I had the boss, you know, the big man.”
How Donovan managed to make that line sound sincere was beyond me, but it seemed effective in buttering up Ronny, at least a little.
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