“Some grumpy Santa you are,” he muttered.
Her eyes darted about the area, casing the automatic exit doors a few feet away. She was the last person in line. The only other person nearby was a gorgeous guy with a light brown ponytail, leaning lazily against the wall, scratching off a lottery ticket. Amazingly, he wore a Santa Claus outfit, too, but his hat, beard, and wig were stuffed in his belt.
He resembled Brad Pitt, but older…and better.
The Brad-Santa glanced up, gave her a quick once-over, and winked.
Darn! Caught smack dab in the middle of a leer! Her heated face probably matched her suit. Jessica lifted her chin haughtily and pretended she’d been looking at something else, like the bare wall behind him. Hah! Who am I fooling? And, Lordy, haven’t I had enough of womanizing egomaniacs in my life? I can’t believe I’m about to perform a criminal act, and I’m ogling some lech in costume.
The lech laughed.
She was about to snarl, but it was her turn at the service desk.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. “Put up your hands. This is a stick-out,” she yelled in a too-shrill voice to the gum-chewing guy behind the counter whose name badge read “Frank Brown, Assistant Manager.” He gulped and swallowed his gum with a squeak.
Brad peered up at her with faint interest through eyelashes that could double for brown feather dusters. “Stick-up, baby. You mean stick-up,” he offered helpfully, his lips twitching with amusement.
“This is a stick-up, Frank,” she amended, brandishing her gun. Thank heavens the thing isn’t loaded or I’d be in big trouble. Pointing the weapon at the smiling Santa, she ordered, “And don’t give me any of your lip, buster, or I’ll wipe you up, too.”
“Wipe out, not wipe up,” the long, tall Santa laughed.
His ridicule made her so mad she clenched her fingers over the gun, which, to her amazement, went off accidentally. And, holy cow, it shot a big hole in the Pepsi machine about three feet to the right of the jerk’s ear.
Her heart slam-dunked to her throat. Oh, no! Julio told me it wasn’t loaded. I even shot it once in the woods and nothing happened. It can’t have real bullets in it. It can’t.
She took another peek at the Pepsi machine. There was an opening the size of a basketball in the glass front. The bullets were real, all right. Oh, geez!
Frank screamed.
The hooker called out, “Way to go, big boy! Ho, ho, ho!”
And the Brad-Santa ducked.
Through her peripheral vision she saw a young girl at a cash register, a bag boy, and two customers throw themselves to the floor.
One man cried out, “Oh, God! This is probably one of those maniac postal workers taking us hostage. I’ll miss Christmas with my kids.” Then as an afterthought he added, “Hallelujah!”
“Do you think we’ll make CBS News?” the female clerk asked. “Wouldn’t ya just know this would happen on a bad hair day?”
“Shit!” Brad exclaimed, his lottery ticket fluttering to the floor. “Are you nuts?”
Her heart was slowing down to a gallop. Okay, that was a close call, but I’m okay now. No serious damage. I can mail a check next week. Calm down. Pretending that her shot had been deliberate, she threw her shoulders back and aimed directly at the shivering assistant manager, being careful not to touch the trigger again. “You’re next, Frank, if you don’t give me my money.”
“An…anyth…anything you want,” Frank sputtered. He started to stuff bills in a cloth bag.
“No!” Jessica interrupted sharply. “Just thirty-nine ninety-five.”
“Wh-what?” Frank choked out.
Everyone was gawking at her like she was a psycho. She was, of course. “You heard me. Give me thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. And make it quick. I’ve got an itchy thumb here.”
“Trigger finger, sweetheart,” the smirking Santa corrected again, snickering. “You gotta get the lingo right if you’re gonna follow a life of crime.”
She frowned in confusion.
“It’s an itchy trigger finger, not thumb,” he explained patiently.
“Thumb, trigger finger, big difference!” she said, waving her gun dismissively at him. “And stop interrupting me.”
“Hey, be careful where you aim that thing,” he growled, edging toward her. He probably planned to tackle her. Not a good idea when the curse was in motion.
“Stay where you are,” she warned, raising the revolver higher.
He stopped, eyeing her warily.
“Thirty-nine ninety-five!” Frank squealed. “Hey, I know who you are. You’re that whacko nun who came in here last week demanding her money back for a defective Buzzy Burp Bear.”
“I am not a nun,” Jessica said weakly.
“Piggly Jiggly has a two-week refund policy,” Frank explained to the wino and Brad, “and the damn nun…I mean, the nun…had it for a month before she brought it back. Said it wouldn’t burp. Hah! She’d probably been playing it nonstop all that time and wore out its burp battery.”
“A nun?” the wino whimpered, backing away from her as if she had something contagious.
“I am not a nun.”
“Hot damn!” the Santa-with-an-attitude whistled. “A holy bandit!”
“I am not a nun.”
“Clara…that’s your name, Sister Clara,” Frank chortled. “Boy, you are in big trouble, lady. I’m gonna report you to the police…and the Pope.”
“I’m not Clara, I tell you. I’m…I’m Clara’s hit guy.” She realized her mistake at once, and before Santa could pipe in, she corrected herself, “Hit man.” Then she added, “And I’m not in big trouble, because you owe me…I mean, Clara…the money for the stupid bear, and that’s not stealing. And I’m going to pay for the damage to the Pepsi machine. So there!”
“And here I thought I was gonna have a dull Saturday night. This is more fun than playing the lottery, or doing laundry.”
Jessica gave the crud-that-would-be-a-heartthrob a withering appraisal. As if he had any difficulty filling his nights! He probably had women lined up with numbers. He probably drove a Porsche. He probably had a penthouse. He probably posed for centerfolds.
Unfortunately, she knew a few guys just like him; in fact, one of them had been her Christmas Curse six years ago. Except he’d looked like Mel Gibson with a paunch.