Free Collateral Damage by J.L. Saint Page B

Eight
    Fayetteville, North Carolina.
    Maryam “Mari” Dalton stared at the blurred array of chips stacked on the mini-mart’s shelf and gripped the shopping cart handles for dear life. Raw pain ripped through her as fresh as if someone had just plunged a knife into her breast. Cheetos, crunchy or puffy. Potato chips, BBQ or cheddar, ridged or baked. They all clawed at her heart and brought tears to her eyes. She blinked, sucked in air slowly, determined to hold the growing storm of grief at bay, but then spied the Doritos and the dam burst.
    You, a bag of Dorries, and my ’57 Chevy are all I’ll ever want . Neil’s teasing voice echoed through her mind, a bare whisper of his deep, rumbling drawl. His comforting arms would never hold her again. He was gone. The only person to have ever loved her was gone.
    She couldn’t do this. Not now. Not yet. Pressing her fist to her mouth to stifle her cry, she rushed for the exit, her head down, the folds of her h ijāb covering her head and most of her face thankfully hid her distress. She hadn’t wanted to see anyone she knew, hadn’t wanted to hear the condolences that would only scrape her pain raw again. She hadn’t wanted to go anywhere she and Neil had been together, so she’d driven past the airport in Fayetteville to buy food she didn’t feel like eating but did because of the baby.
    She hadn’t counted on the snack aisle. It had been Neil’s favorite section, his domain. He’d plan a get-together with the guys and then go crazy buying the snacks. Doritos were his favorite. Didn’t matter what flavor, from spicy to ranch, he loved them all and ate them with everything. He even put Doritos on his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches…
    Allah, please help me —
    “Miss! What’s wrong?” the elderly clerk asked as she ran past the only check-out line in the tiny food mart. She could barely meet his watery, blue-eyed gaze, magnified tenfold by his thick eyeglasses. The smattering of gray hair plastered neatly in place on his mostly bald head made her sob harder. Neil’s hairline had recently receded and he’d often ask her if she could love a bowling ball.
    “I must go,” she cried, blindly rushing. She reached the exit, barely registering the blurry, dark mass on the other side of the glass until she plowed through and the door hit the man’s face.
    “What the fuck!” he yelled. Blood welled in a cut above his sharp brow as he settled his hard gaze on her. His shaved head and tattooed temple were as abrasive as his aura.
    Mari stood frozen, horrified she had hurt someone, but before she could apologize, the man’s features twisted with rage and he shoved the door back at her. Her nails splintered and her fingers jammed and buckled from the force of the blow. She cried out. Thrust back into the store, her heart pounded, more from the chilling hate in his expression than from the pain stabbing up her arm.
    “Hey! What’s going on?” the elderly clerk yelled, running toward her.
    Mari pulled her hand close to her breast and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I—”
    “Bitch!” the man from outside yelled. He jerked open the door and barreled inside. He touched his cut brow then looked at the blood on his fingers. “You cut me!”
    “Let it go, Dugar,” said a second man, pushing into the store. Though sporting the same shaved head and tattoo, this man’s gaze only held disgust when he looked at her. “We don’t need any trouble. Slayer’s orders, man.”
    “Let it go? That’s what’s wrong with our fucked-up country now. That’s why we’re fucking doing what we’re doing. That raghead’s whore cut me and I’m not letting it go!”
    Mari staggered. She’d seen the reports worldwide about the violence. About Muslims attacking Westerners, Christians, Jews. About Westerners, Christians and Jews attacking Muslims. With the destruction of the worldwide oil industry, chaos had erupted. But that insanity, that hatred was somewhere else. Not here.