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Back in the day, our dad would have known what to do, since he used to work as a detective. Now he rarely helps us out, especially with anything related to the past. Plus, he also hasn’t replied to the text I sent him earlier, so who the hell even knows where he is right now.
“Can I help you?” The store owner, a fifty-something-year-old guy with thinning hair and wearing a floral, button down shirt and board shorts emerges from the back room. He eyeballs us warily, then his gaze zones in on Bailey. “No touching the merchandise unless you plan on buying it.” He points to a sign hanging behind the counter that basically states what he just told us.
I open my mouth to say, well, I’m not sure yet, but Bailey speaks first.
“We don’t need to buy this. It belongs to me. You stole it.” She lifts her chin and gives the store owner a defiant look.
The store owner rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.”
“It’s true.” Bailey steps toward him, flipping her long, brown hair off her shoulder. “It was stolen from me a few months ago. I think you already know that, though.”
“I’m not a thief, so shut your trap, kid. That guitar was brought in here, and I gave the person cash for it.” He crosses the room, pushing past me, and reaches to take the guitar from Bailey. “I don’t steal things.”
Bailey’s nostrils flare. and her hands curl into fists. While I’m not straight-up sure if she’ll punch the store owner dude, she has been known to get into a few brawls and was even arrested for one once.
Not wanting to go down that road again, I jump between them, facing the store owner with my arms crossed. “Look, I don’t think you’re a thief, but what I do know is that guitar is hers. Someone stole it from our house, and now it’s here. We’d really like it back, so if you could help us out, I’d greatly appreciate it.” My tone comes out firm but polite. I hope it’ll be enough to win him over. I’m not holding my breath, though. This guy seems like a straight-up douchebag.
“Yeah, I can help you out.” He leans in, and I try not to cringe at the foul, rotten egg stench emitting from his breath. “Give me two hundred bucks and the guitar’s yours.”
I open and flex my fingers. “The price tag says one hundred.”
“Yeah, and I’m adding on a fee.” He smirks. “For having to deal with this shit.”
I grit my teeth.I will not hit an old dude. I will not hit an old dude.“That’s called false advertisement.”
“So? What’re you going to do about it?” He folds his arms, his smirk growing.
“I could report you,” I say. “I highly doubt that guitar is the one thing you’ve got in here that’s stolen.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Go ahead. Report me. Like I give a shit.” He casually leans against the counter, as if he has all the time in the world. “Newsflash, sweetheart, we live in one of the trashiest, higher crime towns in the state. No one gives a rat’s ass whether I sell stolen goods or not. The police have way bigger problems to worry about.”
Crap, he’s right, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him charge us two hundred dollars for the guitar.
“I’ll give you eighty bucks for it,” I say, and Londyn shakes her head.
“Two hundred and fifty,” he counters with that stupid smirk.
I usually try to avoid fights, but this dude seriously needs to get punched in the face.
He must see the urge written all over my expression and in the twitch of my hand, because he says, “Go ahead and hit me. Like I freakin’ care. It’ll be like getting hit by a kitten.”
He may say that now, but he hasn’t been punched by a Harlyton sister before. Sure, we may not look tough—our builds are tall and slightly gangly—but that doesn’t mean we don’t know how to throw down a proper punch.
We all started taking self-defense and kickboxing classes the moment our dad first made us move, and we learned how to toughen up quickly. The first move was only a couple months after our mom died when Dad sold the house because, according to him, we needed a fresh start. Apparently, that fresh start meant moving into a rundown house in the middle of the sketchiest area of the city where robberies, drug dealings, and every illegal activity imaginable took place. When I asked my dad why we couldn’t rent a place in a better area, he told me we couldn’t afford it. It made no sense—still doesn’t—since he made a decent profit off our house. What he did with the money is beyond me, since he refuses to tell us.
Anyway, as much as I want to punch this shithead store owner in the face, we’re pressed for time.
“Can you take Bailey and Payton out to the car?” I ask Londyn, gently prying the guitar away from Bailey.
Londyn’s gaze flicks between the store owner to me. “I’d rather not leave you alone with Creepy Creeperson over here.”
“Who the hell are you calling creepy?” The store owner glares at her.
“You, obviously, since I’m staring right at you,” Londyn quips with a smirk.
She rarely gets this sassy. I think I might be wearing on her, or maybe the move is.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure Londyn when the store owner’s face starts to turn bright red. “You can wait right outside the door if you want to. I just need to talk to him for a moment.”
