Chapter 1
Rosie
“You’re going to have a riot on your hands.”
I eyed the line outside, where a group of determined women crowded by the door, a few going so far as to bang on the store windows. My shoulders tensed. These women were out for blood. This was a “take no prisoners” situation. I could see it in their eyes. The thrill of the hunt ran through them, and they would eat me for breakfast.
This was my worst nightmare.
I hadn’t signed up for this.
I mean, I worked here, so technically I had. If you can call my employment via emotional manipulation from my boyfriend’s family a choice. I only worked at Davidson’s Discount Store because I was dating the owner’s son and somehow hadn’t put up a fight when they had insisted I join the family retail business after losing my job as a tech writer for a medical systems company. It was a toss-up which job had bored me more, but at least the tech writing gig had been virtual, and I had actually used my degree. Alas, the higher-ups had frowned on my comparing the sound of snoring to a dragon’s roar to describe the benefits of a sleep apnea device. Apparently, I had a history of sprinkling in references to magickal elements far more than I’d been aware of, and I’d been quietly asked to leave with the suggestion that I stick to creative writing.
When John’s family had immediately insisted I join them at Davidson’s Discount—because that’s what family does, Rose—I hadn’t had the energy to say no. Frankly, I hadn’t had the energy to do much, of late, and it had just been easier to go along with it when they gave me an apron and a key to the shop.
That being said, taking the easy way out was starting to look a lot like I was about to get mauled for the latest trending color of a forty-ounce water bottle. Apparently, TikTok had kicked off the need for a mustard-colored water bottle with neon pink writing on it, and for some unknown reason we were the only store in the metro area to get a shipment of them.
What had my life become?
When had I stopped caring enough to voice my opinion? To stand up for myself? Lately I felt it was just easier to say nothing because everyone else’s voices had grown so much louder.
And what I really craved was the quiet.
A lovely quiet life.
Without fluorescent lighting and neon discount price stickers.
Without my bland boyfriend who I held on to because I was afraid of change. Of rocking the boat. Of doing … anything, really. Nothing had lit me up, excited me, got my juices running, so to speak, in ages. I could feel, down to the very marrow of my bones, that I needed to make a change. But I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to do it. Not yet. Maybe if I had some direction or found a passion that excited me, then I’d finally work up the courage to walk away from Davidson’s Discount Store and the tedium of selling products I cared little for. They didn’t even have a book section.
Everyone said you needed to take the bull by the horns, but have you seen bulls? They’re terrifying. I was so not the type to wave a red flag at my future. Couldn’t courage come in the form of a thousand tiny steps neatly written out on a checklist in my color-coded and indexed notebook?
I eyed the feral women outside.
Where did they get their energy? Maybe I could bottle some of it and it would make me become bold and fearsome, ready to take on the world and Do Exciting Things with my life. Yes, I saw that in all caps, like when I scrolled Instagram and saw everyone out Living Their Big Lives. Maybe I didn’t need a big life, but I definitely needed a different one.
A buzzer sounded and I choked, taking a step back.
“Now, Rose, you’ll want to stand here to greet everyone.”
Still, he called me Rose. No matter how many times I’d asked him to call me Rosie. Even my mother had deemed me bland as an infant and had graced me with the deplorable name of Rose Withers. Getting people to call me Rosie had been a lifelong battle, but it was my small attempt at growth—like a flower reaching for sunshine instead of withering into sadness like my name suggested.
John’s hand came up and squeezed the back of my neck, and I looked up at him in disbelief.
“Greet? John, there’s no greeting. They’re going to run us over and beat us over the head with their purses until they get every one of these cups. The smartest thing we can do is move out of the way and let them at it.”
“But we need to tell them about our early Black Friday deals.”
They don’t care about your crappy deals on your crappy mass-produced crap, I wanted to shout at him. Instead, I pasted a fake customer service smile on my face and gripped my hands behind my back, digging my nails into my sweaty palms.
John’s father unlocked the doors.
Crappity crap.
“Ladies, welcome to—”
Before he could finish the sentence, he was knocked to his knees by an overzealous woman sporting three totes and the single-minded determination that only a quad espresso from Starbucks could give you.
“Dad!” It was too late. John pushed against the crowd, but it was like trying to swim against a Tsunami. When he took a shopping basket to the crotch, I winced as he went down, a long keening noise escaping his mouth. The women behind him leapt over him, mirroring Olympic hurdlers, and thundered toward the display of water bottles.
“Right this way, ladies,” I said, stepping way back and sweeping an arm out to point in the direction of the water bottle display. The idiots had placed the display at the back of the store, seeming to think that buyers would wander the shop and check out the other deals on their way to their destination. Instead, the crowd blasted past racks of Christmas decorations, Thanksgiving knickknacks, and boxes of wrapping paper. When a display of ornaments went flying, I sighed and stepped farther back and away from the pandemonium.
I couldn’t find it in myself to care about the chaos that was currently unraveling the store like someone had tossed a bouncy ball into a crystal shop. I’d quietly voiced my opinions at the staff meeting, pointing out that a ticketing system, or even just a table directly at the front of the store, would be the most seamless route to sell these bottles, but my thoughts had been immediately dismissed. As usual. It had been easier to bury my nose back in a book, nodding at the right times, than to point out how stupid they were being with their planning. Now, as John hobbled across the store to help his father off the floor, I shrugged.
I should feel bad for them. And in a loose sort of human way, I did. I never liked to see people get hurt. But since they were both up and walking, it didn’t seem like too much damage had been done, so I wouldn’t waste more energy caring. Just the right amount to not make me a sociopath, I decided, and slipped further out of their sight, not wanting to hear what they’d order me to do next. Instead, I walked down a long aisle full of kitchenware and household goods, trying to ignore how the screams from the crowd sent the hair on the back of my neck standing.
I liked people.
I swear I liked people.
I just liked them in small doses.
Small quiet doses.
Preferably when talking about books, playing board games, or in online forums that required little face-to-face interaction. It wasn’t that I was shy, necessarily, I’d just always found solace with a book in front of my face, and somehow along the way that had become a wall of sorts between me and the outside world. One which I dearly wished I could put up now, as I gingerly crept toward the shouts in the back of the store. Should I even try to do anything to help? What could I possibly say to break up a fight? I’d never even seen a fight in real life.
With the thought of seeing my first real fight piquing my curiosity, I picked up my pace, reaching for my phone to snap a few photos for my best friend, Jessica. She’d eat this up, that was for sure, and I could already hear her harassing me if I didn’t get footage of this. She was always yammering on about going viral and whatnot, but the only viral things I cared about were advanced reader copies from my favorite fantasy authors.
Hitting record and lifting my phone, I turned the corner at the end of the aisle and entered chaos. One woman lifted her tote bag and smacked another across the face with it, while a third grabbed two of the water bottles out of the other’s tote, and turning, she raised them in the air in victory. Without looking, she barreled away from the crowd.
In other words, directly at me.
I only had a moment to squeak out a warning cry before a mustard-yellow water bottle with Boujee Bitch written on it caught me in the eye.
And then everything went black.
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