Damsel in Distress

Damsel in Distress By J.T. Marie Christina Brown cracked her bubble gum surreptitiously as she glanced up at the clock on the wall above the drive-thru window. Ten to closing, though she’d have another half hour scrubbing dishes and mopping floors while her shift manager Sherry counted the till. Another fun night, she thought bitterly as she tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear. By the time she turned twenty-seven, Christina had hoped her life would have been so much more than ringing up customers for a number five super-size combo meal. She had a handful of classes under her belt, two whole semesters at the local community college behind her already, but she still wasn’t sure where she wanted to go. Nursing seemed a logical choice, if only because it almost guaranteed her a job after graduation. RNs were always in demand, and her aunt had retired from years working in the ER, so she was feeling the pressure from family to follow a similar route. But she was getting too old for drama, and having a histrionic customer b***h about cold fries was nothing compared to the horror stories Aunt Cindy had told of gunshot wounds and overdoses. Whenever Christina thought of the hospital tales she used to listen to so wide-eyed as a little kid, she wondered if her grades were good enough to major in something safer. Say, accounting. This late in the evening, the dining area was practically empty. There was a handful of college kids rough-housing by the soda machine, and around the corner—out of sight but Christina could see his reflection in the window by the door—sat a man in a baseball cap and flannel shirt reading a discarded paper. There had been a pretty woman in earlier, maybe a half hour ago, whom Christina had tried to flirt with while taking her order, but either she wasn’t a dyke or she was dating somebody, because she didn't respond to Christina’s flirting. Oh, she laughed along, all right, but when Christina dropped a few hints about quitting time, she didn’t pick up on them. Too bad, Christina thought, checking the clock again. Two minutes had passed since she looked at it last. She would’ve liked a little kissing and petting when she got off work. The woman’s name had been Angie Johnson, which Christina remembered only because she thought it odd that the name Angie was written on the credit card, not Angela. She even mentioned it, and earned herself a quick smile from the woman by crooning, “Annn-gie.” Like Christina was Mick Jagger or something. Another minute passed. It was obvious there would be no last minute customers, and even though Sherry frowned on locking the doors early, Christina didn’t see any problem in at least heading in that direction. Tapping the screen on the register to log herself off, she pushed through the door marked Employees Only and stepped out into the dining area. The college kids were shoving each other through the door, and Christina followed to lock it behind them. That left only the door by the bathrooms, which she’d lock at eleven on the dot. Not quite time yet, though. Maybe she’d use the bathroom real quick, just wash off her hands or something, anything to kill the last few minutes on the clock. As she passed the man reading the paper, she considered telling him they would close soon. But the grin he flashed her was a little off-putting—too wide, showing too many teeth, something—and Christina edged away from his table without saying a word. Let Sherry tell him to leave. Christina hoped he’d be gone by the time she came back out. She pushed open the door for the ladies’ restroom and spotted a pair of shoes in one of the two stalls. So Angie Johnson hadn’t left yet, had she? Maybe Christina’s flirting hadn’t been for naught, after all. Christina turned on the faucet and stuck her hands under the tepid water. The other woman would hear it running, maybe check her watch and see how late it was, and when she came out, Christina could say hi. Then what? How bad would it be to try to pick up a woman in the restroom at work? She can wait outside in her car until we lock up and then maybe we can get a drink somewhere, talk a little, get to know each other… Behind her, the door to the restroom pushed open. Christina glanced up, half-expecting to see her boss Sherry there, looking frazzled. She even had a reply ready—“Be right there, just let me wash up.” But it wasn’t Sherry. It wasn’t a woman at all, but the creepy man from the dining area who Christina had last seen leering at her over the top of his paper. She turned off the water and turned, leaning up against the sink. “Wrong bathroom,” she said. “This is the ladies’.” “I know.” His voice was a bit gruff, almost gravelly. Over his flannel shirt he wore a sleeveless hunting vest with pockets in the front. One hand was tucked into the pocket; the other reached behind him to lock the restroom door. As the bolt slid home, Christina started, “Hey! You can’t—” He pulled his hand free from the pocket and aimed a small, silver pistol at her. “Don’t scream,” he warned. “I’ll shoot.” Christina couldn’t take her eyes off the gun. “I don’t have any money,” she told him. “My purse is up front. I can get it for you—” But when she moved toward the door, he blocked the way. “It isn’t money I’m after.” He circled around, trapping her between him and the wall. She inched away from the sink, mind racing. If it wasn’t money he wanted, then what? When it hit her, she bit back a sob. s**t, s**t, s**t.