The Sight Seer (Silver Moon Saga #1) Preview

Chapter One

I snapped my gum loudly as I flipped through a boring tabloid magazine that screamed in all caps on the cover that such and such couple was GETTING A DIVORCE! Of course when you read the actual article, they tell you that they heard this from a source who may have heard it from a friend of a friend of a friend, and they have absolutely no proof, but don't they look angry at each other in these pictures we snapped of them when they were trying to take a walk down the street? I rolled my eyes and tossed the magazine to the side, wondering if I could paint my nails without Bernard the drill sergeant noticing.

Sighing, I propped my hip against the counter and drummed said nails on the top of the register. It's deader than dead in here tonight. It was Friday night, all the smart people were out having fun, and I was trapped here in my lime green store-issued shirt ringing up smokers who barely glanced at me as they threw their money on the counter and snatched their packs of cigarettes out of my hands. Or Billy Preston, a kid in my grade, who came up with two boxes of condoms, smiling a yeah, I'm definitely going to have a fun time tonight while you're stuck ringing up losers at the Convenience Corral smile. Yes, it's actually called that, and I want to kick the genius who thought a Texan-themed convenience store would work in upstate New York. Yeehaw! At least they don't make us wear ten gallon hats, but I bet if someone shared that idea with Bernard, he'd jump all over it.

And then I'd finally snap and kill someone.

I checked the clock for the millionth time—I swear it was going backwards—and cringed when I saw I still had two hours left. Someone help me, please.

Pushing the swinging door open, I left the register counter to grab that bottle of dark purple nail polish I had been eyeing all week. The name, Wicked Nights, was pretty ironic—the only thing wicked about tonight was the fact that it was never ending.

"Gabi!" Bernard snapped, popping up suddenly in that annoying habit of his. I yelped and dropped the bottle of polish; luckily the floor was carpeted and it merely bounced and rolled away unharmed. Good. I didn't feel like spending my measly salary on that stupid polish that probably chipped after five minutes.

Realizing Bernard was staring at me, I mumbled, "What?" and snapped my gum a few times. He hated when I did that, which is why I did it.

His lips curled in a sneer under his thick brown moustache that resembled a dead caterpillar. How he had a wife who kissed him with all that hair hanging out under his nose was one of life's mysteries. "Productive as usual, I see," he said, his beady eyes focused on the nail polish on the floor.

"I was straightening up!"

We both knew it was a lie, but at least he didn't call me on it. "Go check out that punk in aisle two. I think he took a soda and shoved it in his pocket." He stalked away before I could protest, his bald spot gleaming in the horrible fluorescent lighting.

I'm pretty sure it was against the law to send a sixteen-year-old after a shoplifter, but Bernard never cared about crap like that. Heaving a huge sigh, I went in search of said shoplifter, finding him down the food aisle. He was staring intently at those little mini pound cakes that are sold individually, reaching out to squeeze one until it practically oozed out of the package. I curled my lips in disgust; if he popped the bag and squished pound cake fell on the floor, I'd be the one who had to clean it up.

Feeling Bernard's eyes on me from the office with its two-way mirrors, I said, "Hey, you can't do that to the cake. Not unless you're buying it. Then you can step on it for all I care. But outside, where I don't have to clean it, okay?"

The potential shoplifter turned to look at me. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes, his dark hair long and stringy and in dire need of a good washing. His black t-shirt was about two sizes too big for him, and had some disgusting sexual innuendo scrawled across the front in bright red letters. His jeans were also loose, his shoes old and ratty. But it wasn't his clothes that made me take a giant step backwards.