Probably not our next meeting, right? I don’t think they will let us fool around at the store.
Seconds later, I got a reply.
Oh right, I meant in my daydreams about you. Make sure you get out of work as close to 5 as possible. It might be a little tight to catch my charter down there.
I suddenly felt bad. He was so busy and I was burdening him. Even though he was still doing his best to squeeze me in his schedule, I was definitely making his life more hectic. This shopping trip was probably going to work out, but I almost wished I had kept my mouth shut about Marty. It was hard to argue this wasn’t a negative element in whatever was going on between us.
I sat staring at my phone, thinking of what to text back, but there was nothing to really say. The best I could do was apologize when he arrived, because he wasn’t going to take no for an answer at this point. Once he set his mind on something, he followed through. Getting me protection items was evidence of that.
The rest of the day passed in a swirl of research and note taking. It looked like the BRIC strategy would be doable, to my relief. I could start preparing materials for my next business meeting with Vincent soon.
First though, there would be another non-business meeting.
At 4:59, I packed up my stuff and left the office earlier than I had in months. I knew Vincent would be waiting for me in his Camry by the time I got down.
***
“I thought we were going to the grocery store to get mace,” I said as I stared at a sign with a rifle and knife crossed over one another like crossbones. Bold letters read ‘Army and Navy Surplus’. The towering brick facade was almost as intimidating as what I imagined they sold inside. Vincent had driven us to the outskirts of the city on the pretense that there was an awesome grocery store there with lots of free food samples. But as I looked at the barren strip of highway to my right and the stretch of farmland to my left I knew we were miles from any grocery store.
“I knew you would’ve protested to coming out here, but I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. You need to protect yourself, Kristen.”
He was right, I would have protested—we hadn’t even gone inside yet and I was already itching to leave. Having weapons lying around my apartment was only going to make me more nervous about Marty making a reappearance. If I admitted to myself that I needed protection then I was also admitting that he was a legitimate threat to my safety, and I didn’t want to revisit that thought.
“Martin probably realized it was a bad idea to stop by my apartment,” I began, trying to convince him that the trip was unnecessary. “I bet he’s already gone.” I knew Vincent felt strongly about my safety but I was determined not to be treated like some damsel in distress.
He turned to me, his lips set into a thin line. “This is about more than that. You’re a young woman living in the city . . . I need to be sure that no one can hurt you.”
“Vincent, you can’t save me from everything.”
“I can try.”
I nearly blushed at his sincerity. Maybe I wasn’t ready to face the severity of the situation I was in, but Vincent was—I’d never seen him so persistent, and he certainly didn’t have anything to gain from bringing me here. My earlier fears that my relationship history had lessened his feelings for me were quickly dissipating.
Still, I tried to imagine what we would find in Army and Navy Surplus that would be of any use to me and came up empty—I envisioned gun-lined walls and cases of sharpened knives. I’d never so much as used a sling shot, let alone a real weapon.
“Well, you should know that I’ve never fired a gun or anything before,” I admitted bashfully.
Vincent took me by the hand. “Let’s look around first. We’ll find you something you’re comfortable with.”
I rolled my eyes as he ushered me through the entrance to the store, but I wasn’t going to argue with him since we were already here.
The inside resembled a massive warehouse and I was immediately hit by the sight of military accessories—army jackets, yucca packs, deactivated hand grenades, and antique first aid kits were only a few of the items that decorated the storefront. Beyond us lay conveniently labeled aisles for “cooking,” “outdoors,” and “defense.” I swallowed a hard lump as I considered the last one.
“Some of this is just for show,” Vincent said, gesturing to a set of novelty dog tags. “The stuff we’re looking for is locked in display cases near the back.”
As I fingered the length of an empty bullet casing poised on a nearby shelf I wondered why Vincent knew so much about this place, down to its very layout.
“Have you been here before?”
“Just a few times. When I was living from place to place after college I needed supplies I could rely on, things that wouldn’t break down. I got so used to shopping at places like this that I guess I never broke the habit.”
It was hard to imagine Vincent roughing it after having seen his house, but I knew he hadn’t always lived a privileged lifestyle.
“I also learned that you need to be able to defend yourself,” he added.
“What did you need to defend yourself against?”
“Nothing serious. People would sometimes try to take advantage of us, steal from us, because we were young and seemed vulnerable. It’s funny, even when you become successful you find yourself dealing with the same thing.”
“I guess I was young and vulnerable, too,” I admitted, thinking of how clueless I was when I began dating Marty. “Just in a different way.”
“Now you won’t be.” He put his hand on the small of my back and urged me forward. We made our way toward the defense section, bypassing a few shoppers, but the place was nearly empty.
As we approached the back of the store I spotted a glass display case that stretched at least ten feet across. Its shelves were illuminated from below so that the items crowded onto them seemed to glow.
A middle-aged man came out from a door behind the case, cleaning the barrel of shotgun with a rag. He had thinning grey hair cropped short to his head. He wore a forest-green jacket overloaded with pockets. A gray shirt underneath covered a paunch belly draping slightly over a pair of army cargo pants. His arms were so muscled that he seemed to be walking with his chest permanently puffed out.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a distinctive accent as we approached him. The name tag pinned to his t-shirt read “Darryl.”
“We’re just looking for some protective equipment,” Vincent answered.