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Sergio cracks open another beer. “This is better than the telenovela.”
Instinctively, I turn to run down the steps, but Sergio stops me. “Not your business,gringo.”
Gone is the playful guy from before, and in his place is the hard-lined face of someone putting me in my place. I narrow my eyes as I turn back to the window that looks down into the shop, hoping at least Emil will jump in. Mariana takes a step back, looking angry as Emil finally moves between them… holding Mariana back from slapping Gabriel again or to stop him from retaliating, I’m not sure.
“Gabriel probably fucked around without her,” Sergio explains.
“Without her?”
Sergio snickers. “Yeah, she’s okay if Gabriel’s with other women, just as long as she’s involved.”
I don’t want to know what that means so I don’t ask, but Sergio keeps talking.
“They’re always on again off again anyway, so who knows? I can’t keep track.” He waves at the Plexiglas and plops back down on the couch, already bored with the drama.
I continue to watch as Gabriel and Emil argue until he looks over at the bike Emil is working on and tips his head up to look at the lounge. We lock eyes, but he doesn’t acknowledge me, and I don’t acknowledge him either. We just stare at each other, which seems a lot longer than it really is. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting me to witness any of that.
Gabriel breaks our eye contact and leans into Emil as if he’s whispering something to him. Before he leaves, he takes one last look at Mariana who is seething behind Emil, then walks out of the shop without looking back up at me. Mariana follows, yelling in his wake, as Emil tries to pull her back in. I hear Gabriel’s bike start up and then see him pull up to the bay. He sits there with his feet planted on the cement, the bike in neutral, and he revs it. Mariana pulls away from Emil’s grasp and hops on the back of Gabriel’s bike. He shifts it into gear and peels out of the parking lot.
“Told you. Fucking drama,” Sergio says next to me, and I startle, not noticing when he got up from the couch to take another look.
He tosses the empty beer bottle in the trash. “Break times over,” he says and heads out the door, his heavy boots echoing on the metal stairs.
The music is turned back on, the heavy metal blaring throughout the shop once again.
33
LES PAUL VS. STRAT
CASH
Come Undone by Duran Duran
Iunlock the back door and pull the bike inside, securing the bolt. It takes up most of the space in the back room, but I don’t like leaving it parked outside at night.
It’s been a long day, and I throw the keys on my desk as I head into the front. The store is dark, the only light coming from the street lamp that filters in through the windows. Shadows from the passing cars sail through the store. Grabbing a sucker from the jar on the counter, I unwrap it and stick it in my mouth before looking up the stairs to my loft. There’s a flickering light, probably from a candle, that illuminates the doorway at the top of the stairs.
She’s waiting for me.
I take the steps two at a time and stop at the landing, leaning against the entrance and pulling the sucker from my mouth. My loft is not large, taking up only about half of the length of the store, with steep walls, and low windows. Sasha is sitting in my oversized chair in the corner with a book on her lap.
“You have quite the collection, Mr. Morgan.” She uses the book to point at my bookshelf, spines facing forward, lined up haphazardly, thin and short next to tall and thick ones.
I cock my head to the side, knowing that I told her it was okay to come by and wait for me, but not expecting to feel the way I do about her being here. I haven’t brought anyone here,ever.She looks like she belongs; even though her bright pink glittered Converse match nothing in the greys and blues of the color scheme of the loft.
She’s a contradiction to the woman who used to occupy this space, even before it became my home; a duality of light vs. dark in every way.
Sasha’s hair is in golden waves tumbling over her shoulders and spilling onto her chest. I can see the outline of her breasts, her nipples tight and straining against her shirt. She didn’t come here to tell me about her day. She came here for something else.
“I like to read.” My stomach tightens as she uncrosses her legs and moves the book from her lap, placing it on the table next to her. The candlelight flickers from the draft of the old windows.
The heels of her Converse rise nervously as she leans on her thighs causing my chest to ache. She is so fucking sweet, a dichotomy of young woman and old soul.
“How was your interview?” I ask, but I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about it; at least, not now anyway. I think we both know what this means. The end of summer is near. She’ll be starting school again. Whether she gets the internship or not, she’ll be moving on, and that thought makes a lump form in my throat.
“You never explained the difference between aLes Pauland aStratocaster,” she says, not answering my question.
I’ve been thinking about her all day. She occupies every square inch of mind. If she wants to know the difference, I will show her the difference. My eyes settle on her, and I feel the air shift in the room. A tether pulls taut between us.
