had enough of womanizing egomaniacs in my life? I can ’ t believe I ’ m about to perform a criminal act, and I ’ m ogling some lech in costume.
Thor laughed.
She was about to snarl, but it was her turn at the service desk.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. “Put up your hands. This is a stick-out,” she yelled in a too-shrill voice to the gum-chewing guy behind the counter whose name badge read “Frank Brown, Assistant Manager.” He gulped and swallowed his gum with a squeak.
Thor, who’d been studying his lottery ticket, peered up at her with faint interest through eyelashes that could double for brown feather dusters. Blond hair, brown lashes, nice! she thought with what was probably hysterical irrelevance. “Stick-up, baby. You mean stick-up,” he offered helpfully, his lips twitching with amusement.
“This is a stick-up, Frank,” she amended, brandishing her gun. Thank heavens the thing isn ’ t loaded, or I ’ d be in big trouble. Pointing the weapon at the smiling Santa, she ordered, “And don’t give me any of your lip, buster, or I’ll wipe you up, too.”
“Wipe out, not wipe up,” the long, tall Santa laughed.
His ridicule made her so mad she clenched her fingers over the gun, which, to her amazement, went off accidentally. And, holy cow, it shot a big hole in the Pepsi machine about three feet to the right of the jerk’s ear.
Her heart slam-dunked to her throat. Oh, no! Julio told me it wasn ’ t loaded. I even shot it once in the woods and nothing happened. It can ’ t have real bullets in it. It can ’ t.
She took another peek at the Pepsi machine. There was an opening the size of a baseball in the glass front. The bullets were real, all right. Oh, geez!
Frank screamed.
The hooker called out, “Way to go, big boy! Ho, ho, ho!”
And the Thor-Santa ducked.
Through her peripheral vision she saw a young girl at a cash register, a bag boy, and two customers throw themselves to the floor.
One man cried out, “Oh, God! This is probably one of those maniac postal workers taking us hostage. I’ll miss Christmas with my kids.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “Hallelujah!”
“Do you think we’ll make CNN News?” the female clerk asked. “Wouldn’t ya just know this would happen on a bad hair day?”
“Shit!” Thor exclaimed, his lottery ticket fluttering to the floor. “Are you nuts?”
Her heart was slowing down to a gallop. Okay, that was a close call, but I ’ m okay now. No serious damage. I can mail a check next week. Calm down. Pretending that her shot had been deliberate, she threw her shoulders back and aimed directly at the shivering assistant manager, being careful not to touch the trigger again. “You’re next, Frank, if you don’t give me my money.”
“An . . . anyth . . . anything you want,” Frank sputtered. He started to stuff bills into a cloth bag.
“No!” Jessica interrupted sharply. “Just thirty-nine ninety-five.”
“Wh-what?” Frank choked out.
Everyone was gawking at her like she was a psycho. She was, of course. “You heard me. Give me thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. And make it quick. I’ve got an itchy thumb here.”
“Trigger finger, sweetheart,” the smirking Santa corrected again, snickering. “You gotta get the lingo right if you’re gonna follow a life of crime.”
She frowned in confusion.
“It’s an itchy trigger finger, not thumb,” he explained patiently.
“Thumb, trigger finger, big difference!” she said, waving her gun dismissively at him. “And stop interrupting me.”
“Hey, be careful where you aim that thing,” he growled, edging toward her. He probably planned to tackle her. Not a good idea when the curse was in motion.
“Stay where you are,” she warned, raising the revolver higher.
He stopped, eyeing her warily.
“Thirty-nine ninety-five!” Frank squealed. “Hey, I know who you are. You’re that whacko nun who came in here last week demanding her
Thor laughed.
She was about to snarl, but it was her turn at the service desk.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. “Put up your hands. This is a stick-out,” she yelled in a too-shrill voice to the gum-chewing guy behind the counter whose name badge read “Frank Brown, Assistant Manager.” He gulped and swallowed his gum with a squeak.
Thor, who’d been studying his lottery ticket, peered up at her with faint interest through eyelashes that could double for brown feather dusters. Blond hair, brown lashes, nice! she thought with what was probably hysterical irrelevance. “Stick-up, baby. You mean stick-up,” he offered helpfully, his lips twitching with amusement.
“This is a stick-up, Frank,” she amended, brandishing her gun. Thank heavens the thing isn ’ t loaded, or I ’ d be in big trouble. Pointing the weapon at the smiling Santa, she ordered, “And don’t give me any of your lip, buster, or I’ll wipe you up, too.”
“Wipe out, not wipe up,” the long, tall Santa laughed.
His ridicule made her so mad she clenched her fingers over the gun, which, to her amazement, went off accidentally. And, holy cow, it shot a big hole in the Pepsi machine about three feet to the right of the jerk’s ear.
Her heart slam-dunked to her throat. Oh, no! Julio told me it wasn ’ t loaded. I even shot it once in the woods and nothing happened. It can ’ t have real bullets in it. It can ’ t.
She took another peek at the Pepsi machine. There was an opening the size of a baseball in the glass front. The bullets were real, all right. Oh, geez!
Frank screamed.
The hooker called out, “Way to go, big boy! Ho, ho, ho!”
And the Thor-Santa ducked.
Through her peripheral vision she saw a young girl at a cash register, a bag boy, and two customers throw themselves to the floor.
One man cried out, “Oh, God! This is probably one of those maniac postal workers taking us hostage. I’ll miss Christmas with my kids.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “Hallelujah!”
“Do you think we’ll make CNN News?” the female clerk asked. “Wouldn’t ya just know this would happen on a bad hair day?”
“Shit!” Thor exclaimed, his lottery ticket fluttering to the floor. “Are you nuts?”
Her heart was slowing down to a gallop. Okay, that was a close call, but I ’ m okay now. No serious damage. I can mail a check next week. Calm down. Pretending that her shot had been deliberate, she threw her shoulders back and aimed directly at the shivering assistant manager, being careful not to touch the trigger again. “You’re next, Frank, if you don’t give me my money.”
“An . . . anyth . . . anything you want,” Frank sputtered. He started to stuff bills into a cloth bag.
“No!” Jessica interrupted sharply. “Just thirty-nine ninety-five.”
“Wh-what?” Frank choked out.
Everyone was gawking at her like she was a psycho. She was, of course. “You heard me. Give me thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. And make it quick. I’ve got an itchy thumb here.”
“Trigger finger, sweetheart,” the smirking Santa corrected again, snickering. “You gotta get the lingo right if you’re gonna follow a life of crime.”
She frowned in confusion.
“It’s an itchy trigger finger, not thumb,” he explained patiently.
“Thumb, trigger finger, big difference!” she said, waving her gun dismissively at him. “And stop interrupting me.”
“Hey, be careful where you aim that thing,” he growled, edging toward her. He probably planned to tackle her. Not a good idea when the curse was in motion.
“Stay where you are,” she warned, raising the revolver higher.
He stopped, eyeing her warily.
“Thirty-nine ninety-five!” Frank squealed. “Hey, I know who you are. You’re that whacko nun who came in here last week demanding her
Similar Books
