"Listen, bud," the girl says curtly before the door chime finishes sounding, her purse thudding on the front counter. "My card was charged for gas on the pump out front. I can't get a hold of my bank to cancel it." She waves her phone rather ceremoniously, close to his face. The young gas station attendant is nonplussed, unblinking as she continues. "That means I need you to refund it, okay?"
He sized her up, looked out at her car, at her face. He tapped a few things on the screen of the register and feigned what he felt was convincingly apologetic. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't refund this transaction. You're sure you didn't pump any gas?" His voice had a slight drawl, and a coolness to it that was at once suave and worrisome.
"No, I didn't pump any damn gas," she spits, rolling her eyes, fiddling with her phone again.
"Really ma'am. I'm sorry about the gas, your card, uh - please, just have them on the house." The apologetic gas station cashier hauls up and pushes over a case of beer from behind the counter to his young patron. His expression isn't hiding that he has... less than wholesome intentions, his eyes swimming with hunger, scanning her figure again. This is definitely a city girl, passing through. She's not from around here, not by a long shot. He notices a California plate. Perfect pick. Girl #1.
"Asshole, seriously? You fucking piece of shit rednecks, with your garbage ass gas stations that you don't fucking manage. I hate it out here. How do you even live? I want a fucking refund. I get it, your pump is broken, your system is fucked, whatever, but look, I got charged for the gas. Do you get that, dumbass? Do you know how a cell phone works? I can't CALL them." She holds up her phone, waving the mobile banking screen in his face more aggressively, looking aghast at his noncompliance. He doesn't pay any mind and blinks at her. What a bitch. This one was perfect. The tension, annoyance in his face, melts into a polite smile when she's made eye contact with him.
"I insist! It's just one little thing, ah, our container laws are really bizarre in this part of the county? You'll just, you'll have to...
...Drink them here."
His gaze is firm, intimidating, almost scary. He's serious. He wants to put this annoying bitch in her place.
Drink them here. The words echo in her head. "What the fuck are you talking about? That's not a real thing, I'm not an idiot, are you..." - a slight pause, expression a little pained, confused - "hitting... hitting on me right now?"
Drink them here.
She wasn't... busy tonight? She wasn't hurrying through... She'd drink them here.
Apprehensive, she cracks open the cheap can of beer. One sip. Wait, that's actually pretty tasty. A proper, big drink, swallowed with a quiet gulp. It didn't even taste like beer. The shit acted like ambrosia.
Immediately, she showed the slight paunch of a tiny beer gut. She didn't notice, took another delicious swig. Chin softening, face a little rounder, thighs properly filling her shorts.
"This tastes, like, really fucking good." She sounds taken aback, confused. She's oblivious to the changes. "I don't remember liking... uh..." She looked at the label. What the hell? "...PBR so much. Uurp."
He just smiles, reaches to stroke her hair, lets her take another sip. Her hair is getting... a little messier, too, the strands frizzed and curled and styled haphazardly, looking less salon-coiffed and more beercan-rolled. She's a little visibly chubbier all over, down to the fingers gripping her suspiciously delicious can. They're chubbing up right before her eyes but she isn't paying attention while she swigs heartily. She frowns a little, brow furrowing, as she chugs down a big gulp. She's... got a bit of a headache?
