“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said, shrugging. “I can’t count how many times I’ve needed to put it in the fridge for a day before I could eat any of it. It’s still fine. I usually remember to bring an insulated bag,” she added, looking through her bag full of reusable bags. “But I forgot it. Alright. That’s it. Have you been suitably entertained?” she asked, giving me a raised brow look.
With that, we headed to the register, finding Betty, the same woman who had been working the overnight shift since we’d blown into town to set up shop, standing there waiting for us.
She was one of those brash older women. Not quick to smile or offer small talk, but good at heart. I’d once seen her use a can of soup to hurl at some guy who’d grabbed a woman’s ass in the aisle as he walked past. She was also the type to look the other way if one of the houseless people in town happened through and snatched a prepared sandwich or power bar.
“Man who owns this place has fifteen more like it, all up and down the coast. He can afford a sandwich to two.” That’s what she’d said when Sway offered to pay for something one of the guys had taken off the shelf.
“Never seen you in here with a woman before,” she said as she scanned the items, giving me a raised brow.
Betty was an almost impossibly short woman. Five feet of concrete, as I’d heard her refer to herself before. Her salt-and-pepper hair was kept in a short cut, and she had the same small diamond earrings in each time I saw her.
She wore the required gray polo, black slacks, and black apron, but she wore her own gray zippered sweatshirt over it.
“Keeps this place colder than a witch’s tit,” she’d murmur to herself at times.
“I’m not with him,” Morgaine was quick to correct, making Betty raise her brows. “I mean, I know him,” Morgaine added. “But he’s just tagging along to annoy me.”
“Sounds like a man,” Betty said, and the two of them shared a smile. “For what it’s worth, he’s probably one of the halfway decent ones. Kinda attractive too, even with that face full of metal.”
“Halfway decent?” I asked, feigning insult.
“That’s about the best a woman could hope for, don’t you think?” she asked, looking at Morgaine.
“I think that might even be pushing it,” Morgaine said, clearly enjoying their banter.
“My feelings on men is that they are only good for a fuck. And half of ‘em ain’t any good at that either.”
“Amen,” Morgaine said, giving the older woman a smile.
“You get her home safe, you hear?” Betty asked, giving me a hard look. “Safe, and unbothered,” she added. “And if he bothers you, you let me know,” she said, giving Morgaine a nod.
“Got a can of soup with my name on it,” I said, nodding, then following Morgaine out of the store.
“I like her,” she announced as soon as we were outside.
“Of course you do,” I agreed, trying to wrestle the cart from her.
“I can push a cart myself,” she insisted.
“Sure you can. But you’re not going to,” I said, getting it free from her fingers and pushing it myself.
“You’re…” she started, looking for the right word.
“Chivalrous? Charming? A true gentlemen?” I quipped, watching as her lips twitched as she tried to keep them in a firm line.
“Frustrating,” she decided.
“Yeah, I’m that too,” I agreed, reaching into my pocket for the key fob as we closed in on the SUV. “This is us,” I told her, bleeping the locks. “In you get,” I added, opening the passenger door.
“I need to put the groceries—“
“In. You. Get.”
She lowered her eyes at me for a second before doing just that, letting me put the shit in the back before climbing into the driver’s seat to turn on the air.
“Take that fucking thing off,” I demanded as she wiggled her wig around. “No one is going to see you with this tint.”
The very illegal tint.
That we’d only managed to keep from getting ticketed for because Slash got a shady doctor to write him a note for the state saying his previous facial injuries gave him photosensitivity.
“But what if…” she started to object, leaving me to lean over the center console, reach up, and carefully pull it off myself.
“You must have been fucking dying under that,” I said, watching as she reached up to her head to work the secured braid free, then undoing it with nimble fingers.
I did not think about reaching over and helping her undo the rest of it.
Nope.
Because that would have been fucking insane.
I didn’t learn as much as I would have liked from my father’s side of the family, but I did know that hair was supposed to be sacred. And touching someone else’s hair was about bonding. You didn’t run your fingers through a strange woman’s hair.