Being the devil's henchwoman-slash-personal-assasin is far from Avril Duchannes' dream job, but what other choice does she have when she's shot and killed in cold blood, and the devil himself lands on her doorstep with the offer? After all, she has...
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❝WOULD YOU LIKE A BAG WITH THAT?❞
Avril stared at the young cashier, taking in her spiky green hair, short lashes, prolonged breaths. Her name tag read MILLI. Two nipple piercing greeted her through her standard red polo. Her nails were painted black and at least two inches long.
She brought her attention to her items — a bottle of Tylenol and a Gatorade. The question was ridiculous. Why would she need a bag? Avril blinked, dazed. Was she being teased? She felt momentarily offended. Meekly, she shook her head. The action felt a little slow, so she shook her head faster. Maybe the cashier wouldn't notice her red eyes. Or her messy hair. No doubt she had already gotten an ample eyeful of her just-rolled-out-of-bed morning wear. No doubt half the line was staring at her like an idiot.
Feeling thoroughly stupid, she collected her two meager items and stuffed them into her purse. Then she readjusted the massive shades that sat atop her nose and cleared her throat. "Have a great morning."
The cashier quirked a pierced brow, before moving on to the next customer. She didn't get paid enough for this.
Avril shuffled out of Polly's convenience with a feeling of trepidation building in her stomach. It was barely 8 am, but her nerves felt as if they had been sautéed over what was to come.
She was traveling today.
She needed to be home soon if she wanted to be ready on time for the cab Irene was sending around to fetch her. She wondered what would happen if she missed it altogether. If she locked herself in her apartment, would they come up to look for her? Would Cassio be worried? Did she care?
She didn't think she did. She hadn't cared about anything in a while. Her usual ideals had been discarded, Avril Duchannes wasn't even Avril Duchannes anymore. She was someone New, someone who found herself falling into pattern, slipping into routine. She felt like she was succumbing to something.
Upon reaching her apartment, New Avril showered and dressed with the enthusiasm of a lost horse. She didn't feel like being pretty today. She was coming down from her high, and she was ready to crash and burn. She ignored her vanity and its assortment of cosmetics (but packed her makeup bag with her luggage), and resolved to straightening her hair. She'd only ever tamed the wild mass of curls twice in her life. These past encounters told her the ordeal would take almost half an hour.
She checked her watch. She had ten minutes.
Even she couldn't ignore the evident toll the past two weeks had taken on her. It had been two weeks since the night Cassio had passed out outside her mailbox. They seemed to have had reached a mutual understanding at that point. Their relationship — whatever it was — was to be strictly limited to the workplace, and even there, Avril was getting breadcrumb glimpses of him. She didn't want to admit that it was bothering her how little of him she was seeing. She didn't want to admit that he had somehow become important to her. Daniel Cassio had achieved relevance in the eyes of Avril Duchannes, and he didn't even realize it.
