Records Of Youth

Parker didn't give a shit. He grabbed the LV duffle from the backseat, casually unzipping it to pull out a fat bundle of hundreds, the paper snapping together with that delicious crisp sound as he stepped out.

Yeah, let 'em look. The automatic doors slid open with a ding, and the smell hit him—grease, salt, chicken. Heavenly. The place was decently packed. College kids. Some families. A few cashiers working the rush. And then his eyes landed on the cashier at the front.

She looked about his age, maybe a year older. Curly hair tucked back under her visor, soft brown eyes, tired but still polite as she worked through the line. Her uniform was neat, but there was no hiding the exhaustion behind that forced smile.

And now she was staring too. Everyone was.

Parker walked up like he owned the place—because, honestly, he felt like he could walk however fuck he wanted.

The girl blinked, straightening up.