Slater: VILLAIN

3.

I'D LEFT A TRAIL OF blood leading into Ricki's at the corner of Third Avenue, and I wanted an egg-salad sandwich.

The chime of the bell resonated through the store. Utterly silent and almost empty, save for the bearded man scanning the chip aisle. He didn't notice me until I turned to him, a blank expression on my face and a hand clasping the side of my ribcage. I stared at the cool ranch Doritos slung under his arm and grimaced.

When he saw me, he froze. His eyes widened and his mind turned blank. He dropped the grocery basket on his arm, beer cans and energy drinks clinking inside. I didn't catch many of his thoughts before he sprinted out the back exit, a look of terror on his face.

The soles of my boots clicked on the tiled floor as I strode inside.

"You're driving all the customers away. At this rate, I'll never earn anything."

My stomach ached in protest as I turned around. Rohan Chandran was rolling a bucket and a mop forward, staring helplessly at the blood on the ground. I would have argued that the floor was already so dirty, no one would bother to notice. But no. No point in lying to myself. I'd been here enough times for him to know standard protocol.

"I'm pretty sure you should be dead from the blood loss. How many times are you gonna get stabbed?"

"Egg salad sandwich. Now."

There was the wet slap of cloth on stone and the scuffling of water. Then a scoff as Rohan said, "Maybe you should go someplace else? I heard the hospital has some good food. And hot doctors. They'll patch you right up. No extra cost."

His gaze didn't meet mine, but I could tell he was annoyed. Not just at me, I realized, as there were more things on his mind than Slater. In his corner store. Driving the market away.

$5,500 in debt. $5,500 debt, and nothing to show for it. There goes the big dream, Chandran. There goes sports marketing, and chilling in a big ol' mansion in Malibu with your concubine. What is the point of a degree if you can't even afford it? One in business, no less. University of New York, my ass—

"I can't go to the hospital."

"So this is the next best place?"

"When you're done cleaning up the floor, can I have my sandwich?"

Rohan wasn't nearly done. The water he was using to wash all the blood was stained a deep pink, and it would take him a while to see the tiles revert back to their off-white colour. Still, he stacked his palms on top of the mop, blew out a sigh, and rolled it to the side. "I don't know how you eat those things. Ricki's business is drowning. I think you're the only one keeping him afloat."

"I'm not picky."

"I don't get that, either. You seem like the type of person to be picky."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Picky about what you eat. What you do. Who you know. You know, stereotypical villain shit." He was behind the counter now, crunching in some numbers at the register. "The usual?"

I nodded.

"Eleven-eighteen."

When I reached into my coat to grab the money, my stomach sizzled with pain. The wound was still pulsating, the knife twisting into my gut fresh in my mind. I winced but paid it no heed and placed the bills on the counter. Twelve, and he could keep the change.

"Who got you this time?" Rohan looked at me, giving his question careful thought. "Red Lynx?"

She's hot. Red Lynx is hot, Rohan thought. God, if she stabbed me, I'd say thank you.