Starbursts and Assassins (John Wick)

Chapter one: Hard On for Lays Chips

Disclaimer: I do not own the John Wick franchise or anything pertaining to the John Wick series. I only own my OC. 

This is a slow burn fic. Also, it's more humorous than the movies.

***

There's rain on the windows when I hear the sliding doors groan open. The little drops reflect the lights of the cars parked outside: husbands waiting on their wives, who came in half an hour ago only to buy milk but have wandered to the cosmetics section and are now sniffing the Chanel perfumes.

The man that walks in is not the sketchiest of the bunch already in here. He wears a dark grey hoodie with the soaked hood over his dripping dark hair. His jeans are dry though, which is odd because of the pouring rain. But it doesn't really bother me as I scan him briefly and return to the lottery I'm counting, spread out on the cash counter.

Bling Bling Lady rings up her almost one-hundred bucks worth of lottery and then tells me to have a wonderful night even though we both know I'm going straight home to a quiet house and The Office.

The guy who always buys condoms passes by but this time he's added Vaseline to the mix and won't stop grinning, which makes me sort of uncomfortable. I've seen worse.

Miss Patricia scurries in on her tiny little legs, wishes me a good evening, and heads to the back to snatch up her meds. When she comes back to the front, she eyes me and motions for me to come to her. I drop my pen and prepare for some nonsense, but as I approach, I can see she's troubled by something.

"Hey hon," she says, which makes me smile like it would to anybody. "There's a man just standing in front of the chips and he's got a - uh - bulge in his pants."

"Oh God," I mutter.

"God has nothing to do with this," she hisses, tossing red hair over her shoulder. "Just have your manager tell him to leave the premises, please."

I roll my eyes and watch as she scurries off. She's usually a really chill woman, so the fact that she took the time to come and tell me there's a pedo jerking it in front of the chips means this really bothered her. But I can't call my manager because it's a pregnant mom of two, and if she sees a weirdo rubbing one out over some Doritos, she might as well break her water and slide the baby right out.

I decide to ignore it. Listen, I'm just a gal with no fighting skills and the strength of a human toddler. There's no way I'm fighting a grown man jerking it to Pringles.

It's about twenty-three minutes until he appears. I know it's twenty-three minutes because I'm counting down the minutes until I get to leave this place. And I know it's him because not only does he indeed have a bulge in his pants but also, this asshole is actually holding himself over his pants.

And he's holding a bag of regular Lays lazily in his right hand.

Ew.

He saunters over to the cash, eyeing me from red-rimmed eyes and dark lashes. I can feel the goosebumps crawling up my spine.

There's a feeling that settles in the pit of my stomach, rolls over my ribs like thick smoke. My palms gather sweat quicker than Eminem. Quicker than my boss trying to pull an Ollie on a skateboard.

"Good evening," I attempt as he comes to the counter. My voice wavers but I just assume he's a loser with a kink for a real crunchy chip.

"Hey."

Okay y'all, I'm rattled because I really didn't expect this guy to even be able to string words together let alone greet me like a decent human being.

I'm trying not to greet his bulge with my eyes as I ring up his stupid bag of chips with my nails because who the fuck knows what's on that bag.

"A dollar fifteen."

He scrummages through his pockets and I have to resist a groan of disgust. He hands me a bunch of coins that are warm when they settle in my palm, and I swear I almost gag. The cash rings open and I dump the cash in.

But right before I'm about to close the drawer and hand this creep his receipt, he says, "Leave it open."

When I look up, I'm facing the barrel of a gun.

"What the fuck."

There's no more bulge in his pants and don't ask me why I looked there but now there's a gun in my face that probably smells like wiener.

"Hand me the cash," he demands, his watery, red eyes eyeing me down the barrel of his stupid handgun.

I gulp, the fear in my chest burning, my heart thumping so hard against my ribs that I fear my skeleton will melt.

"The whole drawer?" I ask.

He cocks his head, frowning deeply. "The money, dumbass!" The shout echoes and now I'm pretty sure the entire store heard him. Fuck, I hate being in the spotlight.

"Damn, keep it down," I mutter, reaching into the cash. "The girls here only gossip, and if they hear that I was held down by what looks to be a fake gun, I'm gonna be the new pariah around here."

I see the gun waver, tremble, seconds before I hear the blast. It's like sitting inside a very small room with a very young child and that child hasn't been fed in forever.

It's real fucking loud.

My first thought after this fuckass shot me is to wonder if there's now a hole in my brand-new uniform that I had to chase the Office Administrator around for weeks to get.

But then there's a stinging pain under my collarbone, and I'm waiting to feel the warmth of blood on my flesh and for the pain to peak and for my heart to send me into hysteria. But none comes. Only smoke and a slight dinging sound as the crushed bullet falls to the linoleum floor.

My cheeks are red when I turn to the weirdo. His eyes are so wide, glistening under the tacky pharmacy lights. His fingers are white from clutching the gun, trembling from the whole fucking situation.

His lips part, and I think he's just going to order me around and despite the fact that I have now just recently discovered that bullets ricochet off of me, I would totally follow his orders. I'm nice, okay?

"So, anyway," I mumble. "Still want the money?"

And's that's how I, Ophelia Marston, ended up getting kidnapped by the CIA or the FBI, I don't know which one it is, and have been chased by a madman with impeccable focus.

Because some fuckass weirdo with a hard on for Lays chips shot me and the bullet didn't hurt me. Because I'm, apparently, bulletproof. 

***

John in next chapter.