Page 11 of One
The robber throws a bag at Mr. Polinisky, nervously ordering him to fill it with cash and some of the Snicker’s bars near the cash register.
I can’t believe I’m being held at gun point in a convenience store. It feels like one of those out-of-body experiences I’ve read about somewhere. When your mind is in so much shock you feel like you’re floating on the ceiling Casper-style, looking down at yourself. The frantic heartbeat and cold sweats keep sucking me back into my body, though.
Now all the detective TV series I like should help me somehow. What would Jessica Fletcher do? Follow the perp’s instructions while taking in as many details as she can. I take a big breath. The robber’s face is covered, but it’s clear that the long black wool coat is too big for him. Old, but good quality. Average sneakers. Some kind of tattoo on his hand. The coat’s cuff is in the way, making it impossible to see.
Mr. Hottie’s hand squeezing mine pulls me out of my mental examination. “Stay close to me,” he whispers.
I frown at him. “Where would I go?” Maybe my confusion is due to the situation. But really, where could I possibly go?
“Nowhere.” He turns his intense gaze on me, and for a moment, it feels like his words have a deeper meaning. The shudder bolting down my spine isn’t caused by fright this time.
“Now, your turn.” The guy holding the gun steps forward and then throws the bag full of cash two feet away from us. “Put all your values in the bag.”
Values?
“Fucking amateur.” I hear Mr. Hottie mumbling, but he isn’t going nervously through his pockets like I am. He’s simply staring at the robber—more making a hole in his head with his eyes—and the guy seems a bit intimidated, even thoughhe’sthe one holding a gun.
“Y-you first,” the guy instructs me, pointing the slightly trembling weapon at my chest.
I give a hard swallow, and then hold up the wallet in my trembling hand. I’m about to toss it in the bag when the robber stops me.
“No. Come closer,” he says. “And empty all your pockets!”
“I only have my house and work keys, nothing else,” I explain to him. AndfuckI don’t want him to come visit me at home next.
“Everything! Hurry up!” he screams.
Okay.I take a big breath and attempt to step forward, but Mr. Hottie’s fingers tighten around my hand. Right, I told him I’ll stay close. But can’t he see the guy has a gun? And guns win. Always fucking win!
“Let him go.” The robber’s attention is on Mr. Hottie now. And his pistol’s muzzle, too.
“No.”
My head snaps toward the gorgeous, but crazy, dude next to me.
“I’ll shoot you in the face. Let. His. Hand. Go,” the guy barks.
“Still a no.”
Who’s this unperturbed, fearless demigod? And how is he managing to turn my briefs into a melting mess twice within minutes?
“Keep your damn hands up, you old geezer!” the robber suddenly yells at Mr. Polinisky. Then he turns to us again. “You think I won’t do it? ‘Coz I fucking will!” He sounds pissed, and if he didn’t have that thing around his head, I’m sure spit would have flown out of his mouth.
“Hard to do that with the safety on.” Mr. Hottie tilts his chin at the gun.
The robber automatically looks at it, and that’s when Mr. Hottie strikes. He propels forward, grabs the gun and… I can’t see the rest. Because he didn’t let go of my hand straight away, and abruptly pulled me forward with him, making me trip into the basket laying on the floor. Flapping my arms in a desperate attempt to find my balance again, I sway to the left, whimpering when an acute pain hits my ankle, and grab at the first thing I find. The robber’s head. Fuck my life!
The nylon makes my fingers slip, and I’m dangerously tilting toward the floor. Following my self-preservation instinct, I let my nails sink into the black fabric and tear it. Three bloody scratches appear on the robber’s screaming face, and a satisfied smirk attempts to curve my lips when I’m forcibly yanked away by the back of my jacket. Part of my weight falls on my hurting ankle, and I moan in pain before my back drops against a hard chest.
I hear the store bell ringing and get only a glance of the robber running into the dark while the angry owner follows him outside, holding a huge baseball bat.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Hottie’s breath is in my ear, making my terrified heart start galloping for a completely different reason.
“My left ankle. I twisted it,” I explain. He drops the gun in the bag the robber left behind, shifts near me, and lifts me easily off my feet.
I let out a high-pitched, embarrassing squeak and hurriedly hook my arms behind his head. He smells like expensive cologne and warm leather. And something else that is tempting me to lower my head and nuzzle his neck to find out. The macho display ends rather quickly. He gently helps me sit down on a plastic chair near the counter, and then moves a heavy brown carton and places it under my foot to keep it lifted.
“Thank you,” I say breathily.
