Page 12 of Targeted By Temptation
Eventually, I reached the counter where they had a small little sandwich station set up.
“Whatcha need?” the young man behind the counter asked. If he was twenty, I’d have been surprised.
I looked up at the menu board. They were all different sandwiches, one called “Martin’s Beast.”
“Who’s Martin?”
“I just work here, man. Do you want the Beast or not?”
So much for small talk.
“Yeah, I’ll take that.”
“Everything on it?”
I glanced down at the station in front of him. “Maybe no jalapeños.” Everything else could be taken off, but if he didn’t like heat, it was probably best to leave those off. “And maybe no pickles because the juice could leak into the bread.”
He just rolled his eyes and went to make the sandwich, wrapped it up, and slapped number 72 on it. How it became 72 when there were maybe 20 sandwiches on the board, I didn’t even begin to know.
“Thanks.” I grabbed it, along with a bag of gummy bears for myself and two bottles of water, and went to the register.
I paid with my own cash, for some reason feeling like using his was using him. I didn’t want him to think I was in it for the money. Not that I had spent a huge amount, but for whatever reason, what Ezra thought of me really mattered.
He was finishing up a call when I got back to the vehicle. I heard him say “brother,” but it didn’t sound like a family-ish kind of way. Or maybe that was a byproduct of me reading too many mafia books in an attempt to get an understanding of what I was getting into.
In hindsight, that had been a horrible idea. Because either the mafia people were just as bad as in the books, causing me to live in dread of what was to come, or they were far worse than the books, in which case I was going to be ill-prepared. Neither of those were good.
“Hey.” I handed him the sandwich. “I got this for you.”
“Why?” He looked from the sandwich to me.
“I don’t know. You looked hungry?” I climbed in the vehicle and threw his money on the driver’s seat, not wanting to get into anargument, which I had a feeling was going to come if he saw me return it. This way it was already done. No argument. At least that was the plan.
My seatbelt was buckled and my gummy bears opened when he opened up his side and looked down at the money.
“I gave this to you.”
“Yeah. I don’t need your money.” It sounded rude, and I hadn’t meant it that way. “I mean, you’ve done enough for me. I didn’t want to take your money.”
I could’ve sworn he growled, and I instinctively leaned back.
“Is that why you bought me a sandwich? As a thank-you?”
“Maybe. Sort of. I don’t know. Just eat it. It looked good.” How could I explain I was compelled to feed him.
“What is it?” He mouthed 72, the label on it.
“Martin’s Beast.”
His eyes went wide. “That sounds like you’re talking about someone’s dick.”
And the second he said it, I started cracking up, because he was right. It did. “How about just call it the number that’s on the paper wrapper.”
“Yeah, I think that’s a little better.” He opened it up. “Actually, this looks pretty good.”
It had been cut into quarters, and he handed me one. “Eat.”
He wasn’t asking. Still, I was going to argue until I saw that he, too, picked up a hunk and took a bite.
