Rising From Shadows: The Billionaire's Cold Revenge
Chapter 8
Ephram pulled into the 7-Eleven on the corner of 5th and Main. He needed water. His throat was parched.
He walked out with a bottle of water, the cool plastic sweating in his hand.
A car pulled up next to his Honda. It was Erlene's red Porsche.
The window rolled down. Mrs. Wilson was in the passenger seat. Erlene and Andrew were in the front. They were laughing.
They stopped laughing when they saw him.
"Well, well," Mrs. Wilson cackled. She leaned out the window. "If it isn't the ex-husband! Living the high life at 7-Eleven?"
Ephram unscrewed the cap and took a slow drink. He stared straight ahead.
Andrew opened his door and got out. He walked over to Ephram, blocking his path to the car.
"Still hanging around?" Andrew smirked. "You got nowhere to sleep, buddy?"
Erlene stayed in the car, watching. She looked uncomfortable, but she didn't look away.
Andrew pulled his wallet out. He took out three twenty-dollar bills. He stuffed them into the front pocket of Ephram's hoodie.
"Go get a motel room," Andrew said loud enough for the people pumping gas to hear. "My treat. Consider it payment for keeping my seat warm for three years."
Mrs. Wilson laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
Ephram looked down at the money sticking out of his pocket. He looked up at Andrew.
He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a wolf looking at a rabbit.
Slowly, Ephram pulled the bills out. He held them up.
Riiip.
He tore the bills in half. Then in quarters. He let the pieces fall like confetti onto Andrew's polished Italian leather shoes.
Andrew's face went purple. "You crazy bastard! That's sixty dollars!"
Ephram stepped closer. He leaned in until his lips were inches from Andrew's ear.
"Save your money," Ephram whispered. "You're going to need it for the lawyers."
He shoved past Andrew, his shoulder checking him hard enough to make Andrew stumble.
"You're pathetic!" Mrs. Wilson screamed from the car. "You're just jealous!"
Ephram got into his Honda. He looked at them in the rearview mirror. Three people celebrating a victory that wasn't real.
He picked up the black glasses from the dashboard. He rolled down the window.
He threw the glasses out onto the wet asphalt.
A delivery truck roared past. The tires crushed the glasses, grinding the plastic and glass into dust.
Ephram touched his face. He felt exposed. He felt dangerous.
He floored the gas pedal. The Honda lurched forward, leaving the convenience store-and his old life-behind in a cloud of exhaust.
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