Blockading us on every side, floor to ceiling, were brilliantly lit displays of neon colored dildos, vibrators, fetish stuff, DVDs, books and magazines. There were boobs and genitals everywhere. Truckers browsed magazines and checked out toys, glancing surreptitiously at Petty from beneath their cap brims.
My instant panic felt like the flu—-surreal, delirious, feverish. I had to get Petty out of here before she realized what she was seeing. This might really and truly send her over the edge, and if she pulled a gun in a store like this, we were really and truly fucked.
I hoped since she’d probably never experienced anything like this, none of it would register.
Petty blinked in the unforgiving fluorescent light, and she had that unfocused look she got when she wasn’t really present. But it couldn’t last, because sooner or later her eyes would light on a big veiny cock and she would figure it out.
Ray watched her face, confused by her seeming indifference. So I stepped into her sight line.
“Petty,” I said in as calm and quiet a voice as I could muster, “this is a sex shop. Let’s go right back out the door.”
“It’s a what?” she said, in a normal tone of voice. Heads swiveled toward us.
“We need to leave.”
“But I have to use the bathroom,” Petty said. “And I need a—-”
And there it was. Her gaze had landed on who knew what, and her eyes grew round and enormous. Now she saw everything. She turned in a circle, surrounded by the truckers’ barely concealed boners.
She ran for the door with me close behind her. In the parking lot, I now saw the sign we had missed on the way in, groggy and exhausted as we were, declaring ADULT SUPERSTORE!
Petty paced in front of Ray’s semi truck.
“What was that? What was I looking at?” Petty said. “What was that?”
I held my hands up as if trying to calm an angry animal. “Take it easy, Petty. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She paced some more. “Why would they have all that naked . . . the little statues of . . .” She shuddered.
Ray walked out of the door, a big grin on his face. “See anything in there you liked?” he asked Petty.
He reached out to tickle--squeeze her waist.
“No!” I shouted, but it was too late.
Petty spun around and lunged at the guy. Whip--quick, she was behind him, had him tipped backward with her arms restraining his. Ray looked completely astounded, a How did I end up like this? expression on his goofy redneck face.
“See if he’s got any weapons,” Petty said to me.
No more giggling or guffawing from Ray. Only stupefied gasping. “What the fuck?” he said.
I was rooted to the spot, afraid any sudden movement would trigger a violent slash--fest on Petty’s part.
“Frisk him!” Petty said, wrenching Ray’s arms as she did so.
He grunted in pain, and his pleading eyes rolled in my direction. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“You shouldn’t have touched her,” I said.
“What the hell kinda whore are you anyway?” Ray choked out.
Petty’s head swiveled toward me, her eyes demanding an explanation or a reason not to kill this trailer--park Casanova. And then it hit me.
“Ray, I think you got the wrong impression about us,” I said. “We’re students. We just needed a ride. We’re not in business. You understand what I’m saying?”
“But you got no bags or nothing . . .”
Petty’s mouth dropped open, but she didn’t loosen her grip. “You mean—-he thought I was a prostitute? Is that what he thought?”
I nodded.
She squeezed him tighter and he squealed. I held up my hands palms out and almost said her real name. It was automatic. I had to concentrate. “It’s a misunderstanding. Let’s just go.”
“Not until this guy apologizes.”
“Okay.” To Ray, I said, “How about you apologize to the lady?”
“Sorry,” he said hoarsely.
“Satisfied?” I said.
“I should cut your throat, you sicko,” Petty said to him.
Ray’s knees buckled, and the only thing keeping him on his feet was Petty’s iron grip. Just then another trucker came walking out the building’s side door. He had a large bag of goodies in his hand, which he dropped on his foot when he saw what Petty was up to. He plucked up the bag then reached for his phone.
“Drop it,” Petty said.
He didn’t.
“I said drop it.”
He held up the phone to focus the camera.
Petty let go of Ray, yanked her gun out of its holster and pointed it at the guy with the phone, who hadn’t gotten his shot framed the way he wanted it yet. He froze with his phone out in front of him.
Ray collapsed to the ground.
“Drop . . . the . . . phone.”
“But—-but it’ll break . . .”
“Drop it!”
He did, and it did.
“We’re leaving now,” Petty told them. “We didn’t hurt anyone. Don’t call the cops, or I’ll come back here and finish the job.”
Ray and the phone man both nodded dumbly, slack--jawed and glassy--eyed.
Petty backed away, aiming the gun with both hands, back and forth, between the two guys. Once we reached the edge of the parking lot, she stuck the gun in her holster and ran.