---

“If you love me, you’ll do this for me,” Candy said, smiling.

Bobby checked the magazine in his nine-millimeter before slipping the gun inside his jacket pocket. They were talking about at least twenty-five hundred dollars. Maybe more. That made it a good score. Love had nothing to do with it, although it didn’t hurt.

Candy’s red shirt had been unbuttoned, her bra tossed to the floor, and her head between his legs. With his Levi’s pulled down around his ankles, Bobby would have agreed to anything she asked him to do.

But a couple grand made him even more obliging.

His black, big-block Chevy Nova SS was parked a block away, hidden in the shadows of the overpass where nobody passing by could see it. Candy was in the front seat waiting, car engine idling as fast as his heart was beating, holding out promises of things she was going to do once he returned with the cash.

She was a thrill junkie—the kind of girl addicted to risk and danger. Bobby was pretty sure he loved that about Candy, but it was more than just living on the razor’s edge when he was with her. He was obsessed with how good she made him feel.

He made his way across the street. Keeping his head down and eyes straight ahead, sinking into the shadows while avoiding street lights, he walked into the twenty-four hour convenience store with the gun in his pocket. He remembered that last kiss, the adrenalin pumping to his brain and the blood rushing in his veins when her lips touched his. The way she smiled seductively at him. Felt a surge of emotions deep inside that was better than the highs any drug ever gave him.

The last thing she said as he got out of the car was, “I like it when we get wild.”

No way he could forget that.

There was a kid behind the register with acne-scarred skin and long, stringy blond hair, no older than him, wearing one of those red Kwiki-Mart shirts and a matching cap like the one Candy had tossed on the Nova’s backseat. He was busy refilling coffee pots, wiping away a night’s worth of grime from the burners when Bobby walked in. He barely looked up until Bobby cleared his throat, getting his attention.

The clerk turned and Bobby pointed the nine-millimeter.

“Empty the register,” Bobby said. “Do it quick and gimme’ a couple packs of Camels while you’re at it.”

Something in the clerk’s face looked less like surprise and more like disgust.

“Out of Camels,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“How can you be out of Camels?”

The clerk shrugged. “Got Lucky Strikes if you want them.”

“I don’t smoke Lucky Strikes. Only Camels.”

“Guess you’re out of luck,” the clerk said.

“So forget about the cigarettes,” Bobby said. “Just get me the money.”

The gun shook slightly in his hand but he sucked up his courage, punching out his cool, knowing Candy would be impressed if she could see him.

“Ain’t got no time to waste,” Bobby added. “Give me the cash. And that bank deposit bag underneath the counter too.”

The clerk glared at Bobby, shaking his head from side to side. “Don’t know nothing about no bank deposit bag.”

Bobby braced his free hand on the counter and leaned forward, inching the gun closer to the kid’s face. “You don’t want to be dead, do you?”

“Can’t give you what I don’t got.”

“I know it’s there.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. If somebody told you about some bank deposit bag, they’re lying to you.”

Bobby shook his head. “Don’t got all night. Stop wasting time.”

“Telling you for the last time, there ain’t no bank deposit bag.”

“Stop fucking around and open the register,” Bobby said. “Then get me what’s under there.”

With a weak shrug and a sigh, the clerk popped open the cash register.

Bobby reached inside the drawer for a handful of fives, tens and twenties while the clerk went underneath the counter.

Candy told Bobby about the money they kept stashed in the bank bag. It was cheaper than a safe and nobody except employees were supposed to know it was there. The bag was filled with the day’s receipts, hidden beneath the counter until the next morning when the manager came in to take it to the bank. Candy knew all about that. Said she watched him stuff that bag with cash every night when her midnight shift finished. By the end of the day all those sodas, candy, cigarettes, coffee, chips and snacks bought by the tweakers, truckers, and tourists passing on the Interstate added up. Other guys might’ve lost their nerve and simply grabbed the cash from the drawer, running out the door without taking the bag.

But not Bobby.

He was thinking how happy it would make her that he remembered when the clerk came up fast with a sawed-off double barrel, aiming it at Bobby’s chest.

“What the hell?” Bobby asked, dropping the bills.

“Boss got tired of getting robbed all the time,” the clerk said, curling his finger around the triggers.

Bobby took a step back.

“Security cameras were a waste. Never worked none of the time. Figured a shotgun is the kind of thing makes a point that’s not too hard to understand.”
Bobby’s resolve weakened, hand trembling a little more as his gun dipped lower.

The clerk flashed a humorless grin. “Guess we got two ways this can play out. The first is you walk out of here and both of us forget this ever happened. You go away and don’t come back. Not ever.

“The second is me and you see who’s faster pulling the trigger. Take our chances that way.”

Bobby stared down both barrels of the shotgun.

He thought about Candy waiting for him in the Nova and how disappointed she would be when he came back empty-handed. The little pout of hers that hurt more than words. The way she could look deep in his eyes, taking away his breath without saying a word, stirring up feelings he never had before. Thought about the promise of what waited for him in the back seat of his Nova.

Bobby let out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding and eased the nine into his pocket. Felt that ache of desire slowly slip away. He took a few more steps backwards before turning quickly for the door, leaving the money scattered across the counter.

Wondered what he was going to say to Candy when he got back to the car. He would do almost anything for love, but even love had its limits.

Maybe she didn’t really love him that much.

Hell, it’s not like she ever told him about the shotgun.

---

BIO:

Michael Downing is a writer originally from New Jersey, now living in a small college town in Georgia. Over the past fifteen years he has written some plays, published a few books, and his short stories have been featured in various publications and anthologies (some that have even been nominated for Pushcart Prizes). He is still everything New Jersey: attitude, edginess, and Bruce Springsteen songs….but not Bon Jovi.

He can be found on social: Twitter/X: @kmwriter01 // Blue Sky: @kmwriter01.bsky.social // Instagram: @KMWriter01