Those soft brown eyes met mine, working their way into my chest. “The cashier . . .” She swallowed. “ . . . Well, he told me I had to buy something because I used the bathroom. And then I told him I didn’t have any money on me, and . . .” She hesitated.
“Jesus, spit it the fuck out,” I snapped. Anger crept beneath my skin, slow but searing. “Did he touch you?”
“No!” she responded too quickly. “It’s not that big of a deal . . . he just threatened he would if I didn’t leave.”
A deathly stillness fell over me. “You’re lying.”
She tossed her head, trying to shake off my hand.
My grip tightened. “Where?”
Her eyes came to mine with a spark. “He smacked my ass and told me I could pay another way, all right?”
I had to take a second to swallow down the burning rage so I could form a coherent sentence. Could this woman go anywhere without men losing their goddamn minds? The irrational part of me grew agitated, pounding at my chest and shaking the bars of its cage.
I ran my thumb down the indention in her chin. “Which hand did he use?”
Her gaze widened. “No,” she breathed. “You promised!”
Her voice was distorted by the rage rushing through me, drumming in my ears. Red crept into my vision, until she was covered in it. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of gasoline fumes, and then stood.
“No, don’t. Please, please, don’t, Nicolas,” she pleaded.
“I’m just going to talk to him.”
“No, you aren’t—”
I slammed her door.
A frustrated noise came from inside.
One lone black man was at the pump, filling up his old beater. A gas can sat on the oil-stained concrete; the one I had watched him fill while Elena was inside getting fucking groped. I grabbed the container and headed toward the station doors.
“What the fuck you think you doin’, man?”
“Some friendly advice,” I said without turning around. “Might get the fuck out of here if I were you.”
It took him two seconds to put it together.
“Aw, hell no,” I heard from behind me. A door slammed shut and a car drove off.
The ‘P’ on the Pronto sign flickered in and out. A bell chimed as I entered the harshly lit gas station with dirty, peeling laminate. The cashier stood behind the counter reading a magazine. He looked to be in his forties, with a balding head. His red, starched t-shirt said “David” in yellow.
“You the only one here tonight?”
The clerk flicked a gaze up, the end of a pen bit between his teeth. He pulled it out before saying in a heavy Long Island accent, “Yeah. What’s it to you?”
I ignored the question and looked around the dump. “Nice place you got here. You own it?”
The clerk glanced at the gas can in my hand. “Yeah.”
“Must be your livelihood, I imagine.”
His expression turned stiff. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not interested.”
“Can’t afford new floors, nor to replace your sign out front. I’m sure all income is going straight home. Wife . . . kids, maybe.” I undid the cap, and then sloshed some gasoline on the dirty laminate.
The clerk dropped his pen, taking a step back. “What the fuck are you doing?”