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I have no right to be angry. But I am. Ethan kissed me on the floor of my living room. I had assumed I would see him again in the morning. That was days ago. I miss him, even though I should hate him for disappearing on me again.
Halfway through breakfast, my cell phone vibrates across the table. My stomach clenches, the eggs in my stomach threatening to make a re-appearance. I sigh when I see Clarke’s name on my screen instead of Ethan’s.
I slide my thumb along the screen and read her text.
Clarke: You were right about Old City Records. Fred is popping major wood over the story. From what I heard in the break room, he scored you an interview for a part-time gig.
Before I can respond, a call from Fred Stephenson, my boss from hell, interrupts our conversation. Sucking in a deep breath, I hit the green button to answer and push my chair out from the table. “Hey, Fred.”
“Mia, cancel whatever you have planned for the morning.”
Hello to you, too.
“I need you to stop by Old City Records at nine o’clock for an interview with the owner.” His deep voice sounds like gravel and hurts my ear the way he barks each word. “I pulled a few strings to make this happen. After reading your notes, I think you’re on to something. Chase this lead and see where it takes you.”
Pressing the phone to my ear, I get up from the table to give myself some distance from Will. Even though we’re close, I can’t tell my brother about certain parts of my job. Following around drug dealers to write a story is certainly not one of them.
I move into the living room. “Sure thing, boss.”
“One more thing,” Fred says.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t fuck this up. Wear something short and tight. You have to impress the owner if you know what I mean.”
Actually, no, I don’t, you fucking asshole.
“I need the job and the story. I won’t disappoint.”
“Chin up, tits out,” he growls. “Call me when it’s done.”
Then, the line goes dead.
Why do all of the men in my life have to be such assholes and dirtballs? My chest aches at the thought of Ethan, producing a pang of anger mixed with shame and sexual frustration. I have to put my feelings aside and do my job. My career is on the line. This interview is a step in the right direction and the perfect distraction from Ethan.
Two hours later, I walk through the front door at Old City Records. Wearing knee-high boots and a black tank and skirt that I paired with a jean jacket, I look the part of the grunge rocker chick who could work at a record store. The holes Ethan never fails to give me shit about are interspersed along my jacket, complete with rock band patches I’ve collected over the years.
If Ethan wanted a dress-up Barbie, he should have chased down another puck bunny. Instead, he chose me as his next victim. Like most diseases, he’s hard to shake from my system. I wish I could pop a few pills and cleanse him from my body. But Ethan has a stronghold over me, consuming every thought of every waking moment.
I stop at the front counter and force a smile. “Hi, I’m here to see Connor about the part-time clerk position.”
A man with chestnut hair and deep brown eyes peeks up at me from the newspaper in his hand. How convenient that he’s reading my paper—The Philadelphia Inquirer. Not that it surprises me, considering it’s the most read in the city, but it sure is funny timing.
He sets the paper on a stack of records in front of him and leans forward. A smile reaches up to his deep brown eyes and illuminates his face. As if Fred told him to do it, he glances at my face for a second, before raking over my body with his lecherous gaze. He settles on my chest, making me feel self-conscious and also stupid for listening to Fred. But he was obviously right. And I need this job. So, fuck it. Ogle away.
“I’m Connor.” He reaches his hand across the counter for me to shake. “You must be Pandora.”
I almost burst out in laughter. Pandora? That’s my cover for this job. What the fuck? Like Pandora’s box.
Way to go, Fred.
Was that the best he could come up with? Or did he do that to fuck with me?
A common name like Mary or Patricia would have been better. A little heads up would have been nice. That asshole probably wanted me to mess this up. Not gonna happen, buddy.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle my laughter, hoping I can make it through this interview without screwing up. Maybe Fred knew how much I needed a laugh after the week I’ve had.
