The Corner Store Witch

1. You Meet at an Inn

The game store clerk gripped the handle of the baseball bat she kept behind the counter. She'd only had to threaten to use it once before, but this might be her lucky day. The irate man leaned over the counter, huffing at her like a constipated dragon. He had an eternally youthful face but had never lost his baby fat. Age 18-35. Her favorite demographic

"I want to speak to the manager," he said, crossing his arms.

"I am the manager," she said, fingering the baseball bat. She wouldn't need it, yet. He'd have to get through the time-honored litany of slurs and insults first.

"I want to speak to the manager," he enunciated each word carefully like she hadn't heard him the first time.

"I am the manager," Leone said like she was speaking in slow motion.

He arched an eyebrow. "You're too young."

She resisted a grin. Young was a creative first choice. Most people went for woman first. The racist ones jumped straight to black. She said, "My sales associate—" who had undoubtedly passed off this asshole to her "—sent you to me because I'm the manager."

It's like the man hadn't even heard her. He said, "Oh, you mean for this shift. Just put him on the phone if he's not here."

"Who?" Leone asked, frowning.

"The owner," the man tapped the counter, "call him so I can talk to him."

Ah, there it was. The good, old-fashioned sexism. Leone fixed the man with her own unflappable gaze. "I own the place. I manage the place. Now how can I help you?"

She gagged out the last words. The man blinked, his forehead crinkling. His confusion over a young, black woman being in charge of the used game, movie, comics, and general nerd paraphernalia shop quenched his rage like ice water dumped on coals. She relaxed her grip on the baseball bat handle. Thank god for stupid bigotry.

He plopped a plastic bag on the counter with several DVDs in it. "I want to return these."

Leone frowned. That was a straight forward request. Why'd he get so worked up over it? Courtney knew how to do returns, too. She shouldn't have sent this dumbass to her over clarifying their basic return policy. Leone pulled the receipt out of the bag and frowned.

"Sir, you can't return these. We have a two-week return policy, and you bought these over a month ago," she said with a sigh. So this was why Courtney fielded this grade-A a-hole to her.

"It should be one month," he snapped. "Bookman's has one month."

She sighed. "We have two weeks. We can't take these back, but if you want to do a resale—"

"I want full price. They're scratched."

Leone resisted turning her 'how stupid do you think I am?' gaze on him. She popped open the cases and examined the claw marked DVDs. His cat had gotten to these. She said, "I can't rebuy these, sir."

He pounded on the counter, making Leone jump. "You sell shoddy merchandise. I want my money back."

Leone glared at him while her right hand reached for the handle of her bat. She said, "We didn't sell these in this condition. That's not the kind of business we do here—the kind of business I do here."

And you think you're going to pull a fast one on the little ladies, she thought, coming in here, trying to pass off this junk and abusing our return policy. Her fingertips grazed the bat. She didn't relish threatening people—not even this guy—but she wasn't about to let him cheat her. This was her business, and it ran on a narrow profit margin. This place was hers, and no arrogant asswipe would tell her how to run it.