[Previously FEATURED] Retail workers have the least chance of being haunted, hurt, or killed. At least, that's what three cashiers assume. When Temple, Marilyn, and Martine meet little Sienna, they find out how wrong they are about job security.
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Temple Tannon thrummed her fingers on the black counter top. She played with her hair. She re-applied lip-gloss. Anything to distract her.
Temple had an addiction. Even with her intellect she knew that. Yet, she couldn't stop. The thrill was too great.
Rush, her boyfriend, had blown through their money over the weekend. Funds Temple set aside for rent now coursed faintly through his veins, in the form of hard liquor. If she had been older (and smarter), she would have ditched him months ago. Since Temple was only 19 and a high school dropout, as far as she and Rush were concerned, they were solid.
Her boyfriend did make for an excellent excuse. Like, because of Rush, I've gotta borrow a few bucks for gas. By borrow, Temple's mind meant steal. And by a few bucks, she meant a couple of five-dollar bills.
Cashier pay wasn't exactly competitive. Not to mention the hostile work environment. The other cashiers treated Temple like a leper. Not to her face, of course. No one was brave enough to offend live and in person, but she heard their whispers.
Anger fueled her pilferous hand, the same hand which pressed the 'no sale' button on the cash register. The drawer popped open, and Temple feigned surprise. She checked the proximity once, twice. She shot a glance up at the camera and flipped it off. She had it on good authority that they didn't work.
She pocketed the paper prize. On her hand, she scrawled the word gas as a reminder to stop after work. If Rush found the money, it would be used to buy an entirely different sort of liquid.
Marilyn Adler whisked past Temple, clicking away on the nearest register screen. She threw out a smile.
Temple wrinkled her nose.
"Hello, Marilyn!" She forced the greeting from between clenched teeth.
"Hi, Temple." Marilyn kept typing, essentially ignoring her.
She crossed her arms. Bitches. She was surrounded by bitches.
It didn't help that the temperature in the store had shot down by twenty degrees. Cheap bastards. The world was full of bastards and bitches. She hugged herself for warmth.
Instead of lessen, the cold intensified. When she blew out a breath, a small cloud followed. A reflection on the computer screen caught her notice. A face.
The haggard stranger released a puff of air from between thin lips. Familiar lips. Temple's fingers circled her mouth, her action mirrored on the screen.
"What the f--," she stopped.
When her mouth moved to speak, so did the stranger's mouth.
Then the stranger spoke: "Blue eyes?"
As if triggered by the strange inquiry, a black shadow streaked across the ceiling. Yet, when Temple narrowed in for a second look, there was nothing. Even stranger, back on the computer screen, the only reflection was her own.
Temple gathered a deep breath.
Rude. I have brown eyes.
She convinced herself that she was over-worked, and definitely underpaid.
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