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While I continue to work, I can still hear him moving around up front, the banging and shuffling of merchandise making it clear he’s irritated, which I feel bad about. I didn’t think it would upset him that much. Maybe he won’t ask me to come back after this, but I hope that’s not the case. I kinda like it here. There is a familiarity, like being home, where things are old but sturdy. Whereas everything else in L.A. glitters, providing an illusion of what’s inside, this place feels real.
I busy myself by methodically shuffling through the boxes and hold up a Carly Simon album. My fingers glide over the smooth surface of the artwork, admiring Carly’s high cheekbones and soulful eyes.
Something about Carly Simon makes me think of my mom, and I feel the need to explain myself to Cash.
“I don’t know much about my dad except that he came to the house once looking for my mom, but after she died, he never came back looking for me.” I say, casually flipping another album over.
It’s quiet for a few minutes before he speaks, and it’s as if he’s talking to himself and not me. “Sometimes people use sarcasm to hide deeper issues.” He leans around the wall so I can see his face.
“Are you saying I have daddy issues?” I ask, haughtily.
“Were you ever a stripper?”
I huff, “No,” and shake my head.
“Then I’ll venture to guess that your grandparents did a good enough job raising you to make up for not having a dad.” His head disappears.
I narrow my eyes, even though he can’t see me.
“That’s a bit sexist,” I challenge.
“Oh, yeah?” he replies.
“Saying that all strippers have daddy issues,” I grumble while effectively mocking him, only because I know he can’t see me.
“Sue me.”
There’s a long period of silence, but I don’t feel like an asshole anymore. I sit and stew, but the heat in my cheeks dissipates just as quickly as it rose. I hope I don’t get fired before I’ve even officially started.
I appear at the front and hop up on the counter, letting my feet dangle. Cash looks over at me incredulously, but he doesn’t tell me to get down or go back to work.
“I’m just taking a break,” I explain, and study him as he goes back to flipping through his phone.
Blonde hair falls onto his forehead and my eyes travel down his strong nose to his lips. Stubble peppers his jawline, the kind that you want to rub your cheek against, like a cat wanting to be petted. I think I visibly salivate as my eyes travel down his arms, biceps covered in ink, and I watch as the muscles flex as he scrolls through his phone. He wears a graphic t-shirt, a punk band I recognize but don’t know well, and jeans that fit tight, cut open at the knees. That’s not even the best part about him. He must sense that I’m staring at him because he looks over at me with those stormy grey eyes, and all the blood rushes out of my limbs, leaving me feeling as though I could fall off the counter.
“What are you doing?” I recover by leaning over to get a better look.
“Looking at guitars for a client.”
“Oh,” I say casually.
He notices me still watching him and moves the phone from my view like I’m invading his privacy. When he walks away, I look after him sadly, but take the time to survey the store. Posters cover the front window, blocking out the light. In the middle of the store are two columns, each decorated with stickers of bands and other random things. The records are sorted alphabetically and placed in stained wooden bins that people have written on over the years. There are all kinds of names and drawings on every surface of the wood. Along one of the walls are bins that hold CDs, and there’s even a rack for cassettes. If I thought people didn’t by records anymore, I’d be shocked if anyone bought cassettes.
Behind the register is a set of iron stairs and I wonder where they lead, but what is most interesting is the beautiful mural painted on the wall in front of me. The multidimensional blues and whites remind me of being inside a wave. It’s fitting for the area, seeing as how it’s only a few blocks from the ocean.
A few moments later, Cash returns and hands me a bottle of water, which I take gladly.
“It’s too quiet in here.” I look around and spot an old record player. “We should put on one of the records,” I suggest, jumping down from the counter and racing to the back, spotting just the one I want.
When I get back up front, Cash is waiting for me, cocking his head to the side. “How about thisGuns N’ Rosesalbum?” I hold it up between us.
With a disgusted look on his face, he says, “Never will aGuns N’ Rosessong be played in my presence.” He bends his head back over his phone.
I pucker my lips. “That’s odd, but I’ll take the bait. Did you get into a tiff with Axl Rose back in the day?” I joke sarcastically.
“We had a moment.” He doesn’t look up from his phone.
“M’kay, I’m just gonna put a pin in that.” I tuck the album under my arm.
