THE SECOND LOCATION
Angel's Pov
“Thank you, sir,” I say to the cabby as we step down. He doesn't respond just speeds off down the road and I straighten shrugging, to see see Bobby watching me
He's looking at me like I’ve grown two more eyes. He gives a slow blink and then jerks his head toward the shop’s glass door. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s go.”
We walk toward the entrance side by side. He opens the door for me, which is sweet but in a way that it doesn’t quite fit him. The door creaks like it’s tired of doing its job.
The moment I step inside, the air changes. It's damp, not the kind of damp that suggests water spilled inside recently, but a heavy, wet-cloth kind of smell, like someone came in soaked to the skin and never left.
I stop just past the threshold, instinctively grasping the curler bag a little tighter in my hands.
The shop is. . . .something. I blink against the low, yellow lighting, taking it all in.
I can barely see the walls; every spare inch of space is crammed with random things. Blenders, tangled cords, old irons, weird metal boxes I don’t recognize. Everything looks used — not vintage or refurbished — just plain used. And old.
Are these the appliances Bobby was telling me his friend sells?
The little bit of the walls I can see is grey, the type that looks like muddied white. The air is thick, almost hot and I feel like if I stick out my tongue I'd taste it.
A man steps out from behind a counter, paunch first. He's wearing an apron, stained with grease, which he's wiping his hands on. There’s grease smeared in streaks across the front, like it’s been a long day. His head is bald and I have a feeling it's not by choice and his eyes rake over me, squinted.
His perusal isn't creepy. Just. . . careful, throughout. Like I'm meat in a butcher table and he has to select the best part.
“This her?” he asks Bobby, jerking his chin toward me. His voice isn't gruff, instead it has a sort of false cheeriness of someone trying to sell you something, “The girl for the fridge magnets?”
“Yeah,” Bobby says, nodding enthusiastically.
I blink. How did he know?
Well, the cab ride here was silent with both Bobby and I on our phones so he could have texted his friends then.I wasn’t even thinking to notice.
The man, Bobby’s friend, waves me over. “Then come on over here, Angel.”
The way he says my name makes my spine twitch. The familiarity in it, like he's been thinking about me. I don't know, and I'm not sure I like it
He leads me to a cluttered table where a small spread of fridge magnets lie haphazardly across a towel. They look like the newest things in the shop. Some are shaped like animals, others are just blobs of color and abstract swirls. A few cartoon characters peek out from beneath the pile.
I pick up two of them, the only ones with colour. One has a russet, smiling fox on it, and the other has a purple thing I think is supposed to be a dog.
“You like that?” the man asks, watching me closely.
“Yeah,” I nod.
He grins, flashing a smile starring a missing tooth at the side and one crooked one next to it. “I’ve got more in the back. These are just what I had displayed.”
He leans in a little, voice dropping like he’s letting me in on a secret. “I guarantee I got your favorite childhood cartoons back there. You like cartoons, don't you?”
“I do,” I say, offering a smile. I'm sure if like his offer, if I could remember anything from my childhood. “But these are okay, thank you.”
He looks disappointed, his sales vice slipping, “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Without missing a beat, Bobby steps in to help his friend's business. “No, Angel,” he says with a grin. “We came all this way. I won’t let you leave without the best.”
“But this is the best, to me,” I reply, shrugging. I really don't know any cartoon characters to care about.
The man shrugs, throwing his hands up. “All right then, Bobby. I’ll ring her up.”
He punches a few buttons into a dusty register and turns the screen toward me.
My eye brows jump in surprise. I mean, I don't really know how much it's supposed to cost but that? For two magnets? The price seems steep.
I fiddle with the bag in my hand as I wonder if I can say I don't want them anymore. But I'm already here, referred to this guy.
No wonder they want me to buy more. This is grossly overcharged, I'm sure.
“Is there anything else you want to buy? I'm sure. . . Gale has it,” Bobby says casually, another avenue to charge me more, no doubt.
The man behind the counter looks up, curious. He pauses. I feel their eyes on me, smiling too easily. I don’t like this.
I need a reason to leave, something Gale won't have in his shop, something they can’t sell me. The shop in my mind’s eye, I say the first thing that pops into my mind, “Hats.”
Bobby blinks. “Hats, really?” His voice pitches strangely, like it caught on a laugh.
What's funny about hats?
“That's great,” Gale says, clapping his hands, “I sell hats!”
I turn to him, surprised. He does? “You do?” I ask, swallowing hard.
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug, already moving. “They’re in the back.”
Well… so much for that plan.
I glance toward the windows, where shaft of light struggle to get in through smudged glass. My feet itch to move. The sooner I buy a stupid hat from this man the sooner I can get out of here. But it's going to cost me, I already know.
“Alright, show me,” I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.
“Right this way, ma’am,” he says, holding a curtain open.
I step in first, brushing past the fabric. It smells like old laundry.
The room is small, barely bigger than a closet. It’s cluttered, like the rest of the shop, but there’s no shelf of hats. And no windows. Just one shelf with odd, mostly broken items; knives, a crude hammer, parts of appliances.
I turn, confused. “Where—”
A thick hand grabs me across the throat, crushing my screams before they even form and the bag with my curler inside drops from my hand. Another hand presses a cold, wet, musty cloth tightly against my face, backing my body into a soft stomach.
My body jerks, instinct kicking in. I thrash around, swinging wildly, elbow crashing back into something, maybe an arm, but it does nothing to release his grip.
Black spots bloom in my vision. My limbs are growing heavy, very heavy. My head feels woozy, like it's stuffed full of cotton wool.
I think I wa
nt to take a nap. . .
I faintly hear the sound of my seizure bracket hitting the ground as my legs give out.