All The Ways We Touch [BxB]

one - lucky chances

"Fifty-six on pump two." Dirty fingers slapped a sticky pile of bills on the counter, covering the lottery tickets displayed beneath the glass countertop. "And some of the Lucky Chances."

Jamison looked up from the book he was reading, not bothering to hide his disgust at needing to unstick the money to count it. Untangling the bills was a vile process, one that made his skin crawl, but even so, it was still better than having no second job at all, even as the man watched him a little too intently. He'd long debated if this was some creepy kink or if people like him were just that stupid and poorly-mannered. Or maybe they were just drunk and horny while on their way home from the strip club, and when they got in their cars to drive home drunk, they saw they needed to get gas, and he was just an unfortunate casualty.

Each of the bills was crumpled and faced different directions, with some thickly coated in sticky glitter, no doubt coming from the so-called Gentleman's Club further down the highway, and others in literal dirt, as if he'd dug them straight out of the ground. All were moist, which wasn't strange given that they weren't too far from the coast, but with how warm they were, it felt more like sweat than the sea air carried on the autumn breeze.

After a minute, he laid all the bills out on the counter in piles by denomination and began counting them to the man as if he were a disgusted bank teller. "You have sixty-one dollars. With fifty-six on two, you'll have five dollars left, which'll buy two Lucky Chances, with one dollar back."

The man didn't seem to mind Jamison's grumbling. "Sounds about right. Just add the leftover buck to the pump."

'As if you even knew, douchebag.' Wordlessly, Jamison slipped the money into the register and tore off two scratchers, sliding them across the counter to the customer. Perhaps if Jamison were nicer, he'd have wished him luck, but unless the filthy fuck planned to share any winnings with him, he was happy for him to waste his money gambling.

After a standoff that resulted in Jamison threatening to quit on the spot, the owner of the gas station relented, and he was finally given a large bottle of hand sanitizer that was kept stowed beneath the counter. Even though he hated that it left his hands feeling coated and tacky, he was thankful for the alcohol in it helping to cleanse him of the sweaty, coated money he handled. He wiped his hands on the oversized, light blue button-down shirt the gas station had given him, embroidered with "Ben" on the upper left of his chest, which was no part of his name. Though with his history, and the revolving door of questionable folk that came through the gas station, he was happy that none knew what it was.

The man grabbed a penny from the "take a penny, leave a penny" tray and began to scratch it, eyes wide and unblinking. With each unveiling of a number, he grunted to himself, smacking his spit-coated lips.

Taking a half step back, Jamison's stomach lurched as spittle rained down onto the counter, and he pushed his book off to the side and out of the splash zone.

Growling, he slammed the penny down onto the counter so hard that it bounced off and onto the floor, and walked back out to the gas pumps, leaving the scratchers behind him.

"Nasty prick." Everyone who came through was some kind of prick, so he always assigned a variation that described them or their behavior. Even the nicer ones ended up as 'kindly prick' or 'cool prick' because whether they were the best or the worst, they all looked at him the same, like he was worth pitying. He couldn't stand those looks. They made him want to scream, to tell them that he didn't need or want their sympathy, that he was okay. Were he in an office, they'd look at him with admiration and cheer him on. So why did it matter that he was working late at a gas station? Why did that make him so much less than them? If only they knew what he'd gone through to be here, trying to study in this piss-yellow gas station. But then, well, they'd pity him even more. Or perhaps call the police, and he couldn't have that.