Page 15 of Bound to Burn


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Ihit the light switch and the fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker, trying to decide whether they want to stay on or not. My shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, echoing loudly in the quiet space as I walk over to unlock the door. The gate grinds as I lift it up, sounding like a jail cell. Looking out in the parking lot, I spot Sasha’s jeep. It’s a tan piece of shit that’s in need of a wash. Through the back window I can see the pink fluffy car seat covers which makes me shake my head, but when I peer a little closer, I notice she’s not in the driver’s seat.

Wondering where she is, I open the door and walk out into the parking lot, looking around. Two dumpsters squat next to each other against the wall of the apartment building behind me, graffiti all over it mirroring the building. A few pieces of garbage skip across the lot, but there’s no Sasha.

I walk out to the street and look down the block towards Angel’s thrift store. It’s only when I turn the other way that I see her, walking towards me with a surfboard tucked under her arm. Her wet suit is rolled down around her waist, the sleeves tied at the front, revealing a bright pink bikini top.

She stops in front of me, propping the board beside her and my mind goes blank. My thoughts are stuck in quicksand, and all I can focus on are the thin straps of her swimsuit, carelessly tied at the back of her neck. Water drips from her blonde hair and falls like rain down the slope of her collarbone to the valley between her breasts.

I swallow.

Hard.

“Hey, boss,” she says, out of breath and smiling at me as if this is a normal way to start your first official day on the job.

“What are you doing?” My voice finally begins to work but comes out sounding like a pubescent boy, and I have to clear my throat.

“Surfing,” she answers casually, as if it should be obvious from her attire and the fact that she is carrying a large surfboard. “You said to come in a little bit after you opened.” She chews on her lip, like she’s not sure how to take my questions.

“I know, but,” I pause trying to wrap my head around it, “you went surfing?” I lift an eyebrow. I shouldn’t be surprised; she looks like the typical California girl with her blonde hair and golden tan.

She scoops the board up and I follow her like a puppy dog to her Jeep while she opens the door and then steps up to place the board back on the rack.

“You don’t surf?” she asks casually as she finishes securing the surfboard and peers down at me. It’s those large golden-brown eyes behind long dark lashes that unsettle me. She’s so young… and I shouldn’t be staring

“No.” I squint up at her.

“That’s a shame. Your shop is like two blocks from the beach.” She yanks on the strap to secure the board and then jumps down effortlessly.

“No time. I run this place by myself.” I gesture behind me.

“That’s too bad.” She pauses. “I could teach you a few things.” She raises an eyebrow and uses that voice of hers where it’s hard to determine if she’s still talking about surfing.

I clear my throat gain. “You know the saying; you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

She places a hand on her hip. “Just because it’s a saying doesn’t mean it’s true.” Her mouth tilts into a smile. “And you are far from being an old dog.” She winks at me and reaches inside her Jeep to grab her duffle bag from the passenger seat. “Do you mind if I change in the bathroom?”

After slamming the Jeep’s door, we walk across the lot to the record store. I open the door for her and she stops just before entering, turning to look at me.

“Were you worried about me?” She tilts her head, the water glistening like diamonds on her golden skin.

I knit my brows together.

“You were looking down the block as if you were worried about me,” she says innocently.

“It’s not the best neighborhood.” I open the door wider, indicating for her to go inside. “Bathroom’s next to my office,” I say, as if she doesn’t already know.

I’m busying myself by refolding some of the graphic t-shirts on a shelf when Sasha emerges from the bathroom. Her hair is mostly dry now, but she’s tied it on the top of her head in a knot. The wet suit is gone, replaced with jean shorts and an off the shoulder white blouse, still showing the thin straps of her pink bikini top tied around her neck. A thin gold necklace glistens against her collarbone.

My eyes linger too long to be casual, and she notices. Her finger reaches up to pull at the string. “Forgot to pack…” she pauses, her cheeks flushing pink, “well, anyway.” She lets out a deep breath, letting the strap fall back against her skin.

“You did tell me to wear appropriate footwear.” She taps the toe of her pink glittered Converse on the tile, proudly. “So at least I got that right.”

I have to force back a smile because as absurd as they are, they fit her perfectly.

Pink.

I’ve never liked the color pink more than I do right now.

“Do you always surf before work?” I tap on the screen of the register to wake it up.

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