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“What? You don’t think that’ll work?”
Connor turns to look at me, lifting an eyebrow and studying me up and down. “Could it? Sure. But I think you’d have better luck showing him your tits than destroying property. Or, you know, there’s always the option to buy it. You know, more flies with honey than vinegar and all that?”
“Oh.” Duh. I was more than happy to toss money Manuel’s way yesterday. Now I’m all kick ass and take names. Why? “I didn’t . . . think of that.”
“Let’s try that first. Just follow my lead.” Without waiting for my reply, he gets out and walks around the truck to open the door for me. Gentlemanly, despite the fact that he doesn’t think he is.
The inside of the pawn shop’s about as worn down and grimy as the exterior. Most of the stuff on display looks like it’s barely worth the space it’s taking up, let alone what some of the price tags are asking for them.
And it’s your usual assortment of pawn shop crap. Cameras, cell phones, a rack of guns on one wall, musical instruments, and electronics.
But I’m only here for one thing, and as we let the door close behind us, the tiny brass bell on the door frame jingling, I see the owner. Pawn Shop Pete, or at least the guy with that emblazoned on the back of his shirt, is probably in his mid-forties with three days’ worth of unshaven stubble on his fleshy neck and a few stains on the too tight polo shirt he’s wearing. Turning as the door closes, he hits mute on the TV he’s got on display that’s currently showing a game show. Ironically, the prize being given away right now is a high-end laptop computer.
“Hello, folks!” he greets. “Welcome. What can I help you with today?” Seeing Connor and me fully, his eyes brighten, and he jumps into full sales mode, making assumptions along the way. “Oh! Let me guess . . . engagement rings! Right this way!”
He hops up off his stool faster than I would’ve thought possible and opens a case, pulling out a tray.
“No, no . . . we’re here for—” I try to tell him. But it’s of no use. He’s made up his mind what we’re here for, and he’s a man on a mission. Woman and man together equals ring!
Too bad we’re not buying what he’s selling. I’m here for gigabytes, not gemstones. Besides, as I look at the collection of bands, my brain can’t stop making up stories. Each one of these bands represents a potential broken promise, a relationship that was supposed to end in happily ever after, only to fall apart into tears, guilt, and a few bucks exchanged in this shop for the incomplete relief of having to never look at the ring again.
It’s fucking depressing. Not that Pete notices as he takes a large, gaudy diamond ring out of the case and holds it up. “This one is perfect. So pretty.”
I wave my hands, still arguing. First, that diamond’s about as real as pro wrestling. Second, I want silicon. “We need—”
“Too big. I understand. Sometimes petite is the way to go, eh?” he jokes with Connor, assuming my protests are likely because of the cost of the large solitaire.
Connor offers an amused smirk as he crosses his arms and leans a hip into the case. Normally, I’d be mad about his potentially leaving marks on the glass, but this case hasn’t seen Windex in years. “Go on, you heard the man. Try it on.”
What? This is not a plan, this is not a ‘lead’ for me to follow. It’s a waste of time. Precious time. I’m about to argue with him, to just blurt out that I want my damn computer, but the amusement in his eyes stops me. And when Connor flashes a full white smile, I melt and grind my teeth at the same time. Insufferable asshole, he’s enjoying this!
Connor nudges me toward Pete, and I stumble over my own two feet.
“It is dazzling, isn’t it?” Pete says, misunderstanding the reason for my clumsiness.
“I’ve got you. I’ve always got you, you know that.” Connor speaks solemnly, like he’s making vows, not keeping me from almost busting my ass on this gross carpet that definitely hasn’t been vacuumed in years, much less shampooed.
I make a mental note to leave my tennis shoes outside when I get home. Then wash them. With bleach. Or maybe just burn them. I do not want to bring whatever germs are in this place back into my house. Nut and Juice would probably end up with an STD, and then I’d have to explain that to the vet. And something tells me he wouldn’t believe that they lay out on my carpets with their legs straight behind them, dicks down, and I might’ve brought home an antibiotic-resistant strain of who knows what from a pawn shop floor.
