Muted blue neon light reflected off the wet asphalt of the small parking lot at the rear of Exposé Adult Video. A small OPEN sign flashed above the blacked-out single entrance door.
The parking lot had two cars: an unoccupied early ’70s Honda Civic and an ’83 RX-7. The RX-7 sat quietly idling, with two people inside.
“You ready to do this?” Tristan asked, turning to meet her gaze.
“Look,” she said, “this’ll be easy, just in and out. I’ll do the talking, you walk the aisles. These cashiers are all trained to give the money up.”
“This BB gun trick better fuckin’ fool them, or we’re fucked,” Tristan said nervously.
“It’ll work. I’ve done this back home in Detroit a couple of times. These cashiers don’t want any trouble — they’re not heroes,” she replied coolly.
Exhaling the last of her cigarette, she cranked the driver-side window closed.
“Oh, while we’re in there, grab a video or two. Something kinky. I can use the distraction when we get home,” she said, leaning over to kiss him before climbing out of the car.
Wendy stood, stretched, and smiled. That tingle — the one no dick could satisfy — buzzed like a nest of bees in a bottle.
Pushing the door open, the electronic ding was immediately swallowed by the music. Tristan froze mid-step, the door half open, and turned to Wendy.
Wendy saw it — he was scared. The fear was painted all over his face.
“What the fuck, T?” she chided.
Tristan turned. “This song. My ex — she loved it. But like, until I met her, I’d never heard it. Only goth kids knew this shit. It’s pretty creepy. I think it’s by the Cocteau Twins or some shit.”
“Dude, who cares? These cum-dumpster video stores are all run by emo rejects. Get your head together and stick to the plan,” Wendy said.
Tristan pushed the door all the way open. Fluorescent light blazed from above, momentarily blinding him. He scanned the store as his eyes adjusted. At the checkout, he saw the cashier from behind, unpacking something.
He stage-whispered over his shoulder, “One cashier. Looks female.” Then he peeled left toward the section labeled New.
A predatory sense settled over him as he looked at titles, tucking a VHS — Booty and the Ho’fish — into the back of his jeans.
Tristan shifted his gaze to follow Wendy as she walked toward the cashier.
Time slowed. His cheeks flushed. The female cashier looked toward Wendy, and in that moment, she met Tristan’s eyes.
He shouted the only thing he could think of to get Wendy’s attention.
“CORKSCREW!”
Wendy slowed. A smirk formed at the corner of her mouth.
As “CORKSCREW” echoed through the store. The cashier, mouth agape, recognized Tristan — and Tristan’s safe word. Her eyes shifted to the girl approaching the counter. This was her. The whore he’d cheated on her with.
Wendy paused, momentarily confused, and turned to glance over her shoulder. Her smirk shifted; her lips formed an O. Time resumed, and she turned back around.
Two things happened. An ear-piercing verbal tirade assaulted her — and a bruising blow from a dildo bounced off the side of her face.
“You fucking cunt whore!” Lara screamed as she hopped up and swung herself over the counter. Her feet scattered a display of pocket pussies and cock rings across the floor.
Tristan sprinted up the aisle, skidding to a stop behind Wendy just as Lara’s punch landed. He knew Lara was a fighter — they used to wrestle, play fight. But this? This was Mortal Kombat finisher material.
Wendy’s head snapped to the side. He watched her eyes roll up as the sound of breaking bone made him flinch.
She crumpled, face-first into Tristan’s heaving chest. The hand in her pocket went limp, and the BB gun clanged to the floor.
Tristan, terrified, held Wendy’s limp body and stared at Lara.
Lara clutched her hand and danced around the scattered boxes. Rage-tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
Tristan quickly laid Wendy on top of the BB gun. As he looked up, the door chimed.
A middle-aged man walked halfway in, took in the scene: a knocked-out girl on the floor, boxes everywhere, another girl pacing, and some poor guy caught in the middle.
“Uh — I’ll come back later,” the man said, and turned around.
“What the actual fuck, Lara!” Tristan shouted as he started to stand.
“You asshole!” She pointed at him.
“I think I broke my hand on your slut girlfriend’s face!” Lara laughed.
“I’m gonna fucking lose my job — again! Jesus fuck, that hurt!”
She paced, kicking random boxes into piles, cradling her hand.
“You need to drag that bitch out of here,” she snapped, pointing at the heap that was Wendy.
“Okay, Jesus. Give me a sec. I’ll get her out. Why don’t you go get some ice — or a broom — to clean this shit up? We’ll be gone before you get back,” Tristan pleaded.
Lara turned and stalked toward the Employees Only door, “I can’t believe this shit!”
Tristan leaned Wendy on her side and stuffed the BB gun back in her pocket. He rolled her onto her back, scooped her under the arms, and dragged her toward the door.
He shuffled both of them out of the store and rested her on the wet pavement. He opened the passenger door and stuffed her into the seat. He tossed the BB gun and the video behind the seat and closed the door.
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he walked around the back of the car. He paused, smirked, opened the door, and flopped into the driver’s seat,
“Fuck,” he screamed, pounding the steering wheel.
Wendy stirred, her head lolling.
Tristan stared out the windshield.
The OPEN sign flickered and turned off.
He had no idea how to drive a stick shift.