Isolation (Book #1 of the Taylor Series)

Twenty

Pushing the door open roughly, both Jules and Lacey look at me with wide eyes. With the prominent scowl and red cheeks on my face, I suppose they understand that I'm not in the mood for any funny business. I'm just ready to finish my stupid shift and get back home to the comfort of my bed. In this winter weather, I'm surprised I even motivated myself enough to get out of bed this early.

After I'd told Peterson that I'd been suspended for two weeks, she told me that I could just come in for my weekend hours-- meaning I have to go to work at 11 AM. Entirely too early, especially when I could be sleeping. At least I'm out of the house though. Even that humble thought can't reassure me or make me feel better. 

I groan as I step behind the secondary register and Jules turns back to the bookshelves. As he starts to restock the shelves, Lacey adjusts her weight behind the other register. They clear their throats at the same time, and I roll my eyes at how awkward they're being.

"What?" I sneer at her.

"Nothing, what's good with you? Other than your obvious sexual frustration?" She giggles, and I roll my eyes.

Puh-lease. Eve Nicholson doesn't get sexually frustrated. Not now, not ever. Sex is an overrated, physical experience used to reproduce. There are seven billion people on the Earth; I think the human race is covered for awhile. 

Besides, we've got people like Mom walking around. People who deem it necessary to have fifteen-hundred children. I, Eve Nicholson, am not one of them, and I absolutely refuse to end up like that. Sure, one kid is fine. Anything over that, it then stops being parenting and becomes being a babysitter. I would know considering that I have to babysit my eighty-seventh brother on a holiday that I could be filling up on Banana Creme Pie or Vegetarian dressing.

And it's my Aunt Erica's food too! The only person in my entire family, aside from Grandma Walsh, who actually knows how to cook a decent meal. Whether or not that's because she went to cooking school for a few years before she dropped out and got a job at her local Hooter's is irrelevant.

"I am not sexually frustrated." I smile through clenched teeth at a customer who awkwardly makes eye contact with me as they stroll through the entrance.

"Yeah, and this isn't my natural hair color." She mocks.

I'm surprised we even ended up on the same shift today. I hardly ever see Lacey, which is a bit disheartening. I practically taught her everything she knows at work and now she's capable enough to work on her own days during her own hours. I almost feel like a proud dad or maybe a melancholy dad experiencing his daughter driving for the first time or something. Then I wonder why she's working at this time anyways, shouldn't she be at school, enhancing her knowledge on fractions or something?

"I'm not. I'm simply frustrated. It's negative a million degrees outside, and I'm forced to be at work and then go home." Lacey narrows her eyes at me with a smirk. She doesn't believe me, so I decide to mess with her, "I hate the cold, it reminds me of the chilling touch of death before it kidnaps you from this beautiful life and holds you hostage in the subconscious, where you'll be forced to spend your days, hopelessly wondering the endless blackness. Then one day, all of your hopes and dreams of moving on and getting out of the blackness will come true. In 5.2 billion years when our sun expands then explodes, taking Earth with it, probably turning you into stardust along with everything else in our solar system. Other than that, I guess I'm okay."

I turn back to the front and focus my attention on the shelf in front of me that holds random gift cards and bookmarks. Some of them have turkeys with huge smiles, sitting in a pan willingly. Ugh. I hate Thanksgiving. I hate this Thanksgiving.

"Hey stranger," Stella greets me when she enters the store and walks in my direction, "What brings you into this neck of the woods?" She asks with a soft tone.