Styx & Stoned (The Grim Reality Series Book 2) (21 page)

If you haven’t read how it all started,
keep reading chapter one of
To Catch Her Death.

B
eing a widow wasn’t as glamorous as
it sounded. Unless a person had the money to grieve properly—say in a tropical
country, drowning in endless Mai Tais—it really kind of sucked.

I should know. I’ve been a widow
for a year now. Twelve long months of clawing my way through each day. My name
is Lisa Carron. I’m a thirty-five year old, single mother of three, and today
is the one year anniversary of my husband Jeff’s death.

It was also a year ago today I
started letting my appearance slide. Grief will do that to you. Lay you low and
drag you into dark places you never thought you’d go. In my case it was carbs
and elastic waistbands.

For the last year my kids had come
first, my depression last. Tasks like dressing and combing my hair took a back
seat to more important activities, such as lying on the couch and staring at
the ceiling, or scouring the cabinets for spilled chocolate chips. None of my
pre-widow clothes fit anymore. Still, I hadn’t been motivated to clear off my
treadmill and fire that baby up.

One aspect of widowhood I had
enjoyed was wearing black. I know that wasn’t a thing anymore, unless you’re an
elderly lady from the old country, but I embraced it none the less—maybe a
little too enthusiastically. Everything I owned was black.

I’d fallen into a rut and until a
few days ago, when my daughter casually suggested I run a comb through my hair
as to not scare the neighbor kids, I hadn’t realized how far I’d sunk. That was
my
Aha
moment. It was then I’d realized my kids had weathered the crisis
of their father’s death and emerged on the other side in far better shape than
me.

The revelation was bittersweet. I
mean, kudos to me for being an awesome mom, but damn. My frizzy ponytail
belonged on the backend of a horse and my nails looked like I’d been buried
alive and clawed my way out of the grave. In a word—I was a hot mess. What I
needed was a long dip in Lake Lisa.

 Determined to get my act together,
I dropped off the spawn of my loins at my parent’s house for the weekend. Once
back home, I popped a cork on a bottle of Riesling, sat at the table, and
planned out two kid-free days. The excitement made me a little giddy—or maybe
it was the wine—anyway, for the first time in a year, I sketched out a Saturday
that was all about me.

That night I slept like a baby and
when morning dawned, I rolled out of bed ready to face the day. A slight ache
beat against the inside of my skull, but it was nothing a few aspirin couldn’t
cure. Plus, the Riesling had totally been worth it.

I showered and headed to the
Holiday gas station near my friend Vella’s hair salon. Getting my hair done was
number two on my list. Buying my bucket of soda number one. The sugary nectar
was the only legal substance I knew that gave me the sustained energy I needed
to get through my day of errands—and sadly, the main reason I’d become a little
fluffy.

Before I could shut off Omar, my
ancient minivan,
The Hokie Pokie
, my mom’s special ringtone, erupted in
my purse. A million terrible scenarios sped through my mind. Fine, maybe I
wasn’t completely comfortable with being away from my kids.

I flipped off the ignition and
scrambled to find my phone. “Are the kids okay?”

“They’re fine, sweetheart.” Mom’s
placating voice soothed my panic back to a normal level. A small plane from the
nearby airport buzzed over the car. “Where are you? I hear traffic. Are you
running errands?”

Translation, did you get your big
butt out of bed?

“Yes, I’m at the Holiday station
near Merrill Field. I’m getting gas,” I lied, not needing the lecture on the
hundred ways soda could kill me. “Did you need something?”

“It’s sixteen degrees out.”
Temperature
update brought to you by my mother, the neighborhood weather monitor.
“Are
you wearing your winter coat?”

“No, it’s not that cold.” Refusing
to wear my parka until it hit zero had been something I’d done since I was a
teenager—a personal affirmation that I was an Alaskan woman. Plus, it irritated
the hell out of Mom, so I’d kept up the tradition. Childish, I know, but some
days I just needed that win.

“You and that stupid habit. One day
you’re going to catch your death.” Her heavy sigh hissed through the receiver.
“Anyway, what do you have planned for today?”

“I’m on my way to Vella’s to get my
hair cut.” Vella was my best friend and supreme ruler of all hairstylists in
the universe. “Possibly my nails.”

“Oh good, you were starting to look
like a mangy Cocker Spaniel. Have her hit those roots with a little color too.
You’ll feel better.”

Translation,
she’d
feel
better.

Having grown up with Mom’s
backhanded comments; I now ignored them—for the most part. I was secure in my
frumpiness and looked passably acceptable to be seen in public, though Bronte,
my daughter, would argue that point.

“Mom, are you sure you’re okay
keeping the kids this weekend? I can get them after my hair appointment.”

“Nonsense. We’re making ghost sugar
cookies for Halloween and your father is pulling out his gun collection later.”

In the background I heard a
collective cheer from my twin sons. “Are you nuts? Do not let the boys anywhere
near those weapons.”

“They’re just show pieces, honey.
The boys will be fine.”

Show pieces my ass.

“Uh huh.” My father was a retired
cop and had an unhealthy obsession with firearms. But arguing with my mother
was pointless. It was a sad state of affairs when a fifteen year old was the
most responsible person in residence. “Could you put Bronte on the phone?”

Several seconds of silence passed
until my daughter came on the line. “Yo.”

“Hey, do me a favor and make sure
the boys don’t touch Grandpa’s guns.”

She gave me her perfected
annoyed-teenager-grunt. “How? They don’t listen to me.”

“You’re clever. Figure something
out.” Bronte was more devious than both her brothers combined. It was a trait I
stopped fighting and now used to my benefit. “If the boys come home unharmed,
I’ll buy you those hockey skates you want.” Even though they weren’t top of the
line the skates would still set me back. But my kids’ safety was worth it.
“We’ll get them after I pick you up Sunday.”

“
Right
after you pick us
up?”

“I promise.” I couldn’t waffle or
she’d think I was bluffing. “Straight from grandma’s house to the store.”

She was silent for a few seconds,
but I had her. She’d been asking for new hockey skates since last season. “I’ll
see what I can do.”

“Thank you, sweetie. Tell Grandma
I’ll call her later. And hey…Mommy loves you.”

Bronte made a gagging sound and
ended the call. I smiled, knowing nobody would be going near my father’s gun
collection.

I dropped the phone into my purse
and opened my van door. It squawked in protest, the loud kind that made
everybody cringe and turn to stare. I kept meaning to have my dad look at it,
but then I’d be subjected to my mother’s endless affirmations on how to
bounce
back
from losing Jeff. Like she knew anything about being a widow. Sure, it
might seem like my dad was dead when he sat in his chair watching TV, but he’s
just quiet. I’m almost certain my mother hadn’t drained
all
the life out
of him—yet. So I lived with judgmental looks and the knowledge that one more
thing in my life was falling apart.

The cold October wind swirled
around me and slipped between the collar of my black polar fleece jacket and
neck. Shivers rippled along my shoulders. I yanked the zipper up and walked to
the front door, tilting my chin toward the sky. I hated when my breath flash
froze the material of my jacket to my face. It was like a mini wax job.
Considering the lack of attention I’d given my upper lip over the last year, I
wasn’t taking any chances.

I pulled open the glass door to the
convenience store and held it for a large, bald guy with bad manners and a
worse looking trench coat. His dark eyes darted to me and then away. Hunched
and limping, he slumped past without as much as a
thank you.
Rude
bastard. Normally, I would have graced him with one of my famous snarky
comments, but the way he skulked past sent a serious case of the heebie-jeebies
up my spine. Instead, I ignored him and headed for the soda machine.

Something about fountain pop made
it better than drinking it from a plastic bottle. Maybe there’s more fizz, less
sweetness. Maybe it’s the straw. A lot of things taste better with a straw.
That’s not a proven scientific fact, just my personal opinion. Let’s just say
that I have researched soda drinking over the years.

Mr. No Manners slinked past and
around the back of the store to the refrigerated section. I focused on getting
my jumbo beverage, not making eye contact with him. A cellophane wrapper
crinkled behind me, drawing my attention. I glanced over my shoulder. The first
thing I saw were firm, male buns. The man straightened and perused the
artificial ingredients on a package of pastries.

I silently scoffed. From his trim
physique and well-rounded tush, it was obvious this guy had never enjoyed the
luscious processed goodness of a mass-made pastry. He was too fit—too outdoorsy
looking, with his healthy glow and casually tousled brown hair. He definitely
gave off an Alaskan man vibe—
I hike, compost, and brew my own beer from wild
berries I picked myself.
Yeah, I knew the type well. People like him rarely
bought anything that contained more than three ingredients, and those pastries
were only eaten by hardcore junk-foodies. I never touched them myself. The
texture reminded me of soggy florist foam or crumbling sheet rock. Not that
I’ve ever eaten either.

Still—I might have been a grieving
widow but I wasn’t dead. After one more appreciative look I returned my
attention to filling the vat of soda.

As I slid my thumbs along the edge
of the plastic lid to snap it on the cup, a deep voice shouted, “Give me all
your cash.”

My head whipped toward the front of
the convenience store. Mr. Bad Manners held a shot gun pointed directly at Doug
and Roger, the mini-mart cashiers. Yeah, we’re on a first name basis.

Like a heavy rock sinking into
thick mud, the situation registered in my brain.
Holy crap, it was a
fricken’ holdup.

My fingers dug into my soda cup, my
eyes growing wide as paralyzing fear rushed through me. I think I stopped
breathing, not wanting to draw the robber’s attention. My first thought was of
my kids. Things were finally getting back to normal. Well, as normal as they
could be. No way was I going to attempt some adrenaline inspired hero crap that
would no doubt get me killed.

From those thoughts of survival, my
mind quickly jumped to the fact that I might be on the nightly news and
probably should have dressed better. Random Thought Syndrome—I was one of its
many sufferers.

The snack cake guy stood unmoving.
It didn’t appear any of us patrons were looking to be local heroes, or from the
robber’s crazed stare, a possible fatality.

 Rock music from the local radio
station filled the silence. I mentally urged Doug or Roger to start shoving cash
into a bag, but neither moved. Unfortunately, it seemed I didn’t possess Jedi
mind powers.

“Money! Now!” Sweat trickled down
the robber’s stubbly face and he waved the shotgun at the boys. His head
flicked several times to the side, as if he had a nervous tick. Nervous tick
equaled itchy trigger finger as far as I was concerned.

“Don’t shoot, sir,” Doug finally
said. He reached toward the cash register and punched a button. The till dinged
and the drawer slid open. “I’m just gonna get a bag to put the money in, okay?”

Good move, Doug.

“Hurry up.” The robber glanced
around the store, his gaze lingering on me longer than I liked, before darting
back to the cashier. “And don’t trip the alarm.”

Doug nodded. His hair, a
substantial sandy blond fro with a huge comb sticking out the side, bounced up
and down like a dandelion puff bobbing in the breeze. Plastic bags crackled as
he attempted to work it free it from the pile. Cars sped along Glenn Highway
beyond the large glass windows, completely oblivious to the ensuing robbery and
the innocent patrons inside. My heart beat against my throat and my mouth went
dry. Taking a sip of my soda was tempting but the scene with tyrannosaurus rex
from Jurassic Park kept playing in my mind.

Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. Maybe
this monster won’t notice you.

Seconds ticked by and still Doug
fumbled under the counter. I knew these two college guys weren’t the brightest
bulbs in the string of lights, but seriously, how hard was it to get a stupid
grocery sack?

Doug crouched slightly and when he
straightened, he held a big ass revolver aimed at the bald guy.

Time seemed to slow.

Several things happen at once. The
robber’s eyes widened, comprehension that the cashier now sported some serious
firepower dawning. His gun jerked up, and before I had time to drop to the
floor, Doug pulled the trigger.