The Pretender - Cora Brent Page 0,16

offer is extremely generous. While it might be true that the store could use a little extra help if he’s having surgery next week, I know that he’s doing me a favor in honor of his lifelong friendship with my father. And I’m in no position to turn down a favor.

“I would love the position. Thank you.”

Dee is pleased. “Wonderful. What do you think, Ben?”

Ben has grown bored with this conversation and returns to his place behind the counter. “You’re the boss.”

Dee wants me to start immediately since he’s here and can pull off a quick training session. The clipboard holds lists of the stockroom inventory and he jokes about how he’s the old school pen and paper type and will need to be dragged into the technology age kicking and screaming.

“Let’s go visit the stockroom real quick,” he says. “I’ll show you how to tell when the merchandise needs to be reordered.”

I’m already more familiar with the stockroom than I’d like to be but I’d rather forget about the near miss with the McGill brothers and the grudging gratitude I feel for Ben Beltran. Ben is now not just a schoolmate and fellow bus traveler but he’s also my coworker. The knowledge that I’ll be spending a ton of time in his company fills me with dread. And something else. Inside all those layers of feelings lurks a definite thrill. I don’t know what to make of Ben. Most of the time he goes out of his way to come off like an ill mannered jerk. And yet my gut tells me that he’s far more complicated than he seems.

Dee limps toward the back of the store and I follow him. He’s all business as he explains the long lists attached to his clipboard. I am paying attention but still a piece of my mind wanders. When Dee leaves me with the inventory list in order to go check the levels in the gas pumps, I quickly dive into my handbag in search of a small notebook that goes everywhere with me. It’s full of notes and thoughts and article ideas. I’ve just had a good one.

After I jot down a few short sentences I peer down the main aisle where Ben is talking to a couple of customers, a pair of girls wearing Devil Valley High jackets. They are young, probably Frankie’s age, but they giggle and flirt and I wonder how much additional business Dee’s store receives thanks to Ben’s extensive fan club.

He hands the girls their change and they giggle their way outside, as giddy as if they’ve just encountered a celebrity. Ben shrugs out of his vest and then hops right over the counter like it’s nothing. He stops short when he sees me standing in the doorway of the stockroom.

“Watch the front counter for a minute.”

“What am I supposed to do if someone walks in?”

“I guess you’ll have to use that enormous brain of yours to figure it out.”

“But where are you going?”

“Christ, you’re nosy. Got to take a piss.” He knocks on the restroom door to make sure it’s empty and then pushes the door open. Before disappearing inside he gives me a once over while his hand brushes the front of his pants. “Did you want to watch or something?”

I swallow hard. “You’re disgusting.”

He’s not offended. He simply shrugs. “Some people are into that. Anyway, keep an eye on the register.”

Ben disappears. I’m irritated. And weirdly turned on. The combination is confusing.

It’s also left me with a very determined thought.

Ben’s backstory is strange. No one in their right mind would choose to move from Chicago to far flung, struggling, tiny Devil Valley. Not unless they were hiding from something.

And if there’s anything phony about Ben Beltran then I plan to discover exactly what it is.

Ben

“Please. We’re family.”

“Not anymore.”

It’s just a fragment of a conversation. An old one, overheard years ago.

Yet it creeps into my mind at random times and has the power to tear my soul in half.

The echoes of voices in the weight room have receded and I’m somewhere else entirely when Kent snaps his fingers in my face.

I swat his hand away. “What?”

“What?” he mimics, then crosses his thick arms. “You’ve been dragging ass all week. Now you’re squatting in a corner and daydreaming like a fucking weirdo.”

“Not daydreaming for fuck’s sake,” I grumble and bend down to tie my left shoe. Daydreaming is definitely not a good description for the flares of violent memories that decide to take my