The refrigerated food section consists of a single refrigerator that's better equipped to house only soft drinks it's so small. Despite its size, there are three sandwiches, two salads, what they're calling freshly made soup, and a wrap to choose from. If I learned anything from the short time I spent in college, it's to not consume meat from questionable sources. The wrap, sandwiches, and soup all have that some form of meat in them, but neither of the salads do. Being cautious, I opt for the salad. On my way to the register, I grab a couple small bags of peanuts, a bottle of Coke, and a pack of gum. I like to keep a few snacks in my desk drawer, but since I haven't been going anywhere, I haven't had a chance to refill my stash lately.
Just as I'm leaving the register after paying, I start to get that feeling I'm being watched. Unfortunately, it's a feeling that I have become accustomed to these last few weeks. I didn't see the short guy who's been following me around lately on my way here, but that doesn't mean he's not out there lurking somewhere. The thought creeps me out, causing me to pick up my pace and rush out of the pharmacy as quickly as I can. My poor Coke is being shaken all to hell inside the plastic bag that I'm gripping with my left hand. I fish my keys out of my purse and clutch them with my right hand as I head straight toward my Jeep. Nervously, I keep looking behind me, so distracted by the possibility that I'm being followed that I don't even notice the man leaning against my driver side door until them almost on him.
"Well, look who decided to venture out," Grady says in a grumble. His presence puts me on the edge immediately. I take a step back, fold my arms over my chest, and let my face give him a full explanation of how I feel. My eyes narrow, and my mouth turns down into a pout.
"How did you know I was here?"
"Remind me, babe, to give Jeremy Whelan a break next time he does something to piss me off," he says. I have to bite back the smile that's going to rat me out. I want, more than anything, to tell Grady that Jeremy is going to end up pissing him off quite a lot in the future. I'm willing to bet that, with a daughter as pretty as Cheyenne is, Grady has had his fair share of heart attacks. As much as his displeasure at Cheyenne's interest in Jeremy would entertain me, it's none of my business. I’ve learned my lesson—when it comes to Cheyenne, Grady doesn't want to hear my opinion. Not that he's particularly fond of my opinion on any other topic, either.
I’ll have to remind myself that Jeremy Whelan has such a big mouth. It’s curious that he saw fit to tell Grady of my whereabouts. Little asshole.
“Is your ass trying to clean the door of my Jeep, or are you trying to make a point?” I ask. In an odd reaction, he smiles. He almost looks friendly, and if I didn’t know better, it might relax me some. But I do know better. Grady smiling is never a good thing. I’m tempted to scan the parking lot to see if he ran someone over or maybe he sliced my tires. The paranoia is getting to me. I tell myself that I’m just being dramatic.
“What? I can’t just stop and say hi to my favorite secretary?” he asks. I raise an eyebrow and check my tires real quick. They all look fine, but there’s so many things he could do to damage the functionality of my Jeep. Brake wires can get cut, power steering fluid can mysteriously leak all over the pavement, and if he’s feeling particularly evil, he could even rig the thing with explosives.
“What did you do?” I ask suspiciously.
His smile widens, and a chuckle rumbles in his chest. I almost think he looks happy, but then I remember who I'm talking to. He shrugs and looks around as innocently as I imagine he can. I don't want him to know how much his being here actually bothers me. I mean, this entire situation is getting out of hand. Sure, I have kind of done it to myself. But why should I have to compromise my beliefs just because he has something to prove?
I shouldn't.
Mr. Beck is not someone that I want to be agreeing with right now, but I have to wonder if this kind of intimidation is standard behavior for the club. And if this is par for the course, then what kind of town am I living in? Maybe I'm just na?ve, and totally out of touch, but in all my years living here in Fort Bragg, I never really considered that the awful rumors that circle about could be true. Yeah, I never imagined that the Forsaken Motorcycle Club were a bunch of choirboys, but I never really believed the rumors that they were thugs, either. Maybe I'm completely off base about Jeremy Whelan if he's tipping Grady off to my whereabouts.
"You're kind of paranoid, aren't you?"
Duh.
"No, of course not. Our meetings have gone so well in the past, Sterling. I'm thrilled you could pay me a visit," I say. More sarcasm falls off my tongue in those few sentences than I think I doled out during my entire adolescence.
"Told you, babe. Don't call me Sterling."
Now I'm the one with the huge smile on my face. It's true, he has asked me not to call him Sterling. It's almost funny that he thinks I would care after the way he's treated me. And what the hell is up with him calling me babe all of a sudden? While it is much preferred to bitch, it still makes me uncomfortable.