Marlboro Lights

Crossing my legs and shifting in the uncomfortably hard chair beneath me, I eyed the paperwork my father was currently leafing through. The stack was high and he'd barely made it through the first inch, though we'd been in this position for the better part of an hour. I was growing impatient, and not just because the backs of my thighs were going numb.

"Dad," I tried, to no avail, as his face registered nothing.

I tried again.

"Dad..."

Still nothing.

As I leaned forward with plans to catch my father's attention by waving in his face or shoving his papers off his desk - I hadn't decided yet, I was going to let the moment decide - a thick hand on my back pulled my attention away from my distracted parent. I glanced up worriedly and in perfect timing, a thick pair of lips shrouded in an overgrown mustache came down upon my head. I cringed and tried to coil away, but his hand was keeping me in place.

"Keeping your old man in check, Jetta? Good to see you kid," the man above me said, before lightly tugging my ponytail as he winked and left my side, disappearing into an office at the back of the room.

Scowling, I turned back to my father, who still had his nose buried in his paperwork.

"Isn't that grounds for Justifiable Homicide?" I asked with what I'm sure looked like crazy eyes, I reached back to fix my ponytail while simultaneously shooting daggers at the door my harasser had just gone through.

My father didn't bother to look up, but I saw his lips curl into a diverted smile. "Not if your intended target is the Police Chief and you're sitting in a Police Station."

"Well then, let's go," I suggested impatiently, "Let him follow us out. I know how to hide a body, dad."

"You're not murdering my boss, Jette," he replied simply, like I'd asked for something as reasonable as a third helping of spaghetti at dinner.

"Dad," I hissed, "It's been twenty two years and he still hasn't gotten my name right. Are you ever going to correct him?"

"It's your name, kiddo, that's your jurisdiction."

Even while holding this conversation, warped as it was, he still hadn't lifted his eyes from the papers in front of him. Fed up with talking to the top of my father's head, I reached out and forced the manilla folder he was working out of closed.

"Detective Marwood," I growled, finally succeeding in catching his attention. "If you're not going to correct your boss' improper use of my name, and you're not going to let me do the world a service and kill him now, then I suggest you stop with the paperwork and take me to lunch like you promised an hour ago."

With something in his smile that resembled pride, my father held his hands up in defeat. "You got me, kid. Let's go."

Nodding with a satisfied 'hmph', I stood and pushed my chair against the front of the desk, keeping it out of the way. My father stood as well, and as he gathered his jacket from the back of his chair, he also reached for the folder I'd closed in protest. Immediately, I slammed reached out and snatched it up.

"You can have it back after you feed me, deal?"

Letting out a resigned sigh, "Alright, but know that blackmail is illegal and I could have you arrested right now. I'd even let Chief Straub do the honors."

I laughed mockingly as my father guided me through the maze of desks, holding the door open for me and following closely behind, a protective hand in the middle of my back as we passed a man in handcuffs.

"That'd require him to put down his dozen donuts. I know where the Chiefs priorities lie, dad. Don't kid yourself."

Opening another door for me and shaking his head with incredulous eyes, "Have you always been this mouthy?"

"Only when I'm hungry," I informed him, shifting the folder under my arm to dig for my sunglasses in the front pocket of my bag over my shoulder.

"Let's get you some grub then, I'm not sure how much more whiplash I can take."

I grinned triumphantly as we met sunlight, the early afternoon Georgia sun blazing overhead, "Finally, you're catching on."

As we navigated the slightly uneven steps leading out of the station and down to the street, my attention was pulled to the side street. Nearly empty save for a dark blue sedan and a motorcycle that looked incredibly familiar, I watched as two men shook hands quickly, before coming together for what looked like a secret meeting straight out of a suspense novel. They leaned in close, the taller of the two casually glancing around them as if to assure they were alone. He may have thought he was being sneaky, but he was failing miserably. Their backs were turned to me, but as my father and I began to curve away from the building and towards his cruiser, I saw all I needed to. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, jet black hair styled to look like some sort of dangerous GQ model. There was no doubt in my mind that the shorter of the two guys involved in the shady conversation near the alley was the same handsome stranger I'd serviced in my store the day before.

A whistle from beside me - I assumed an attempt to garner my my attention - broke my concentration. "Jette, eyes ahead," my father's voice rang beside me.

I nodded an absentminded reply and as I was turning to look away from the suspicious activities across the way, Handsome Stranger turned and - just like in my store window - caught me staring. He looked confused at first, then almost angry, but the recognition was obvious; even from so far away, he remembered me.

"Jette, what the hell are you staring at?"

Finally, I turned to face forward, just in time to see my father opening the passenger side door of his car for me. His eyes followed the trail I'd just broken and as I slid into my seat and waited for him to release the door, he looked on.

"Do you know those guys?"

"One of them's a customer at the store, I think," I replied, shrugging and forcing the door shut as he finally broke his stare and moved around the front of the car to his seat.

"Alright, what's so interesting about a customer from my hardware store having a conversation outside of a police station?" He asked, turning the key and revving the old car to life.

I turned my judging eyes to my father, pulling my seat belt across my chest and clicking it into place. "First, our store. Second, for a top Detective, your sleuthing skills are embarrassing."

Pulling out onto the highway, eyes locked on the road but an amused smile across his face, "You think you're so much better? Tell me then, why are you studying Social Work and not Criminal Justice?"

I snorted in laughter, "Because I want to help people, not intimidate them into submission."

My father placed a hand over his heart, feigning heartbreak, "You sure know how to make your old man feel good about himself."

"Just get us to the restaurant before the Taco special ends, or I'll tell you how Ireally feel about your job."

* * *

Removing the sign on the front door of the hardware store that read 'Out For Lunch' and unlocking the single deadbolt, I slipped inside and flipped the light switch on. I carried my bag of leftovers to my counter and deposited them inside inside the tiny personal refrigerator, then took my seat, ready to waste another four hours waiting for customers that probably wouldn't come. I cracked open my newest magazine and settled in, only half of my mind occupied by the celebrity gossip as the other half wondered what Handsome Stranger had been doing outside of the police station.

As I flipped the pages of my magazine and imagined an elaborate scenario where Handsome Stranger - I really needed to figure out something easier to call him - was a foreign gangster out for blood and money, and maybe a side helping of the kind of sex you only see in movies, I barely heard the telltale sound of the door bell dinging as the front door opened. I was so lost in thoughts of Agent GQ - much better - that I didn't notice the hovering customer waiting for my attention.

I snapped my eyes up as the customer cleared their throat and immediately met the gaze of Agent GQ himself, eyes as rich and warm as I remembered them. I carefully placed the magazine down, moving slowly so as not to thrash around like our last encounter, and stood from my stool. I wanted to say something, anything, but couldn't find the words or the courage.

Thankfully, he spoke up first. "Do you carry Valvoline 4-stroke?"

My eyes narrowed as I racked my brain, trying to figure out what on Earth he was talking about. "What?"

His lips curved into a smile, "It's motor oil," he stated, "For motorcycles."

I blushed deeply before nodding like I'd known all along what he was talking about. "I'll um, I'll have to check. Follow me?"

He nodded and stepped aside, patiently waiting as I made my way around the counter, making sure to step over the boxes I still hadn't unpacked. I led the mystery man to the third aisle, walking all the way to the end of it before crouching down and reading the labels of the bottles in front of me.

As I began to dig through the dusty bottles, I heard his accent ring out clear above me. "Were you in the city this morning? Could've sworn I saw someone who looked just like you."

I paused momentarily, before deciding that looking busy rather than busted was important, "I was visiting my father," I answered, pulling bottles out and placing them around me as I searched for the specific brand. "I saw you in the alley..."

He was quiet for a moment, then I heard his voice again, much closer this time, "Business meeting."

As my fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle that read Valvoline 4-Stroke Motorcycle Oil', I resisted the temptation to question what kind of business had meetings into alleys outside of police stations. So I stood in silence, taking a surprised step back as I came face to face with him. He was smiling, almost dangerously, and it was slightly unnerving.

"Your oil," I said quietly, holding the bottle out.

We were incredibly close. So close that I could see the flecks out gold and brown in his eyes and the fine details of his face. I was mesmerized. He was stunning. I'd never seen anyone so beautiful up close, and it was wickedly intimidating. He stared down at me with that dangerous smile of his for a moment longer than I was comfortable with and only broke away, taking the bottle with him, when the door bell dinged again.

"Jette," someone from the door called out, "Jette, where the heck are you?"

A blush creeping in as I had no choice but to slide around Agent GQ and rush back to my counter, I greeted my father's partner, who was waiting in all his suited Detective glory. He had brought me the sweatshirt I'd left in my father's car, and had draped it over the counter.

"Thanks, Shawn, you headed home?" I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible, though my heart was still racing from my stare down with the physical embodiment of perfection just moments before.

"Yep, your dad asked me to drop this off. The two of you coming over for Sunday supper tomorrow?"

I nodded quickly as I took my seat again, pulling my sweater down to my lap, my eyes darting to the aisle that my handsome stranger still hadn't emerged from.

"We'll be there," I finally answered, forcing my attention back to Shawn. I smiled politely, "Thanks for my sweater. Give Audrey a hug for me?"

Snatching a candy bar from the rack beside my counter, Shawn nodded and reached out to pat me on the head - I really needed to have a talk with my father's co-workers about annoying touches and the anger they created deep within me. "See you then, kiddo," he added, finally turning for the door and waving over his shoulder and he peeled the wrapper back from the candy bar and took a bite before disappearing into the sunlight.

My eyes immediately found the stranger again, eyeing him as he approached my counter with his one court of oil. "What were you doing back there for so long? Hiding?"

He chuckled, "Restocking your shelves."

"Oh."

I punched in the price of the oil and told him his total, turning to see he was already sliding a few bills across the counter. Picking up the oil and immediately heading for the door, the dangerous smile back in place. He looked right at me, making direct eye contact like I was always taught to but never did because it made me incredibly uncomfortable.

"Keep the change, Jette."

Shivering slightly as the sound of my name rolled off his tongue like honey, or maybe acid - I hadn't decided, the feeling hadn't settled yet - I instinctively called out, "Wait..what's your name?"

He pushed the door open first, lifting dark sunglasses to his face and setting them in place, "Zayn. Have a nice day."

And he was gone.

I repeated his name aloud to myself, but it sounded nothing like when he said it. His accent made it sound like 'Zen', which was incidentally the exact opposite of how I felt at that very moment. Something about our nonverbal encounter in the dark aisle, and the way he said my name, had lit a fire inside of me and I began to impatiently tap on the counter, wondering when I'd see my handsome stranger named Zayn again.

Notes

Seven chapters to go before we are caught up, let me know if you enjoy this at all!

xx Katie