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After the band got signed and we blew up, they hired security for the band and I hired security for Iconic, for Frankie’s sake. And when I’m helping Frankie in the record shop, security is at both doors. We’ve had too many weird incidents to not have them on guard.
One time a woman rushed in with a used condom wrapper she dug out of a dumpster behind a stadium. She demanded to know if it was mine and if it was, she wanted me to sign it.
I’ve got a lot of fucked up stories.
Isla is not another record shop groupie, though. She takes what I throw at her and gives it back even harder. She doesn’t seem to give a single shit about my status. Something tells me she won’t be begging for a make-out session or using me for free beer or clout.
The thing is…I like being used. As gross as that sounds out loud, which is why I don’t say it out loud, I enjoy being used. I like it when I don’t have the pressure to call a woman after a night with her. I don’t want the usual expectations that come from sex looming over me. It keeps women in my bed, but wanting someone else, and I am perfectly fine with that. They use me to make the guys they’re chasing jealous, and that’s fine. I can’t give anyone what they need because I’ve never had it myself. Love doesn’t come naturally in my life. Actually, it doesn’t come at all. Never has. The way I see it, I’m just protecting them from getting hurt.
“Hey, this girl is pretty good. She just scored an eight out of ten on the quiz!” Kennedy calls over his shoulder.
The quiz is something super random that Kennedy developed for new hires. He asks them ten questions all centering around music, music artists, and the industry in general.
“Hey, that’s pretty good, sugar.” Realizing that I just called my new hire sugar, I pause.What the fuck, Bordeaux?
I look over at them immediately; both are looking back at me with twisted expressions on their faces. “What did you just call me?”
Welp. She’s pissed.
I honestly have no idea where that came from but I’m not about to let her know this. Where? How? Why the hell did I just call this woman sugar? I wrack my brain for a reason but none come.
I turn toward her and look her dead in the eyes. “I called you Sugar,” I laugh, “because you’re so sweet and bubbly.” She is so unbelievably not sweet. If anything, she is the opposite of sweet. She is feisty and fiery and gives me a goddamn run for my money—and I have lots of it. She’s sassy and spunky and just…a whole lotta woman.
Isla stands up from the floor where she and Kennedy are sorting through records and walks over to me. I watch as her hips sway and catch Kennedy gawking at her backside, which is definitely something that leaves an impression. She’s in dark denim wash jeans and a black tank top, her hair wavy and free.
“I am no one’s sugar, Bordeaux. Do you understand me? I am your grandmother’s employee and I have a name and I expect to be called by it. It’s Isla, in case it slipped your mind.” She points one long, red manicured nail at me, her gold bangles clanking as she waves her hand in frustration.
She’s seething mad at me but there’s something about the way she speaks that makes me fucking weak. My dick twitches in my pants from her assertiveness. The way she doesn’t give a fuck about how she’s talking to me right now. How she’s demanding that I respect her. She takes me calling her sugar as a disrespect, it really wasn’t. I think it was some kind of weird, endearing thing, but I don’t feel there’s any use in telling her that now.
I glance from her to Kennedy and he is wide eyed, waiting for what will happen next, no doubt loving the fact that she’s giving me shit.
“Loud and clear, Isla.” I look back at her and give her a salute. “Loud and clear.”
* * *
Just before closing time, she turns Lana Del Rey on the shop’s old record player. I don’t mind Lana; I just prefer something a bit harder, something with more grit.
She’s in her own world and I use this time to take in the way she moves when she doesn’t realize anyone’s watching. Reorganizing the records from A to Z is actually just busy work but since we aren’t exactly busy right now, I don’t have much else to tell her to do but I don’t want to send her home.
She moves her head in time to the music, every so often twisting her hips back and forth, shuffling through the inventory. I try not to stare at her perfect, peach shaped ass, but it’s no use. It’s like her ass has a goddamn magnet on it that’s tugging at my eyeballs. There’s nothing I don’t like about what she’s shown me of herself. And her body is top-notch. That doesn’t hurt anything, either. She’s got curves in all the right places—thick thighs and perfect hips. I refuse to imagine myself behind her, refuse imagining what she’d look like with those jeans down around her ankles.
I force my thoughts away from her, even if only for a few moments. Glancing outside, I see the growing crowd. They’re all just standing out there. Gawking at me like I’m some caged animal.
Sounds about right…
Isla and I haven’t talked since the earlier fiasco, aside from me assigning her the task she’s working on now, and it’s pretty damn safe to say that she isn’t my biggest fan right now. I’ve been going back and forth in my brain all day trying to be okay with this, but I’m not. We clearly got off on the wrong foot. Either that, or she just hates men in general. Or dick head musicians who don’t know how to keep their tongues at bay.
It’s probably better that one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen just hates me. I can’t ruin her if she doesn’t let me.
EIGHT
Isla
The door to the shop opens, bells chiming, but I don’t turn to see who it is. Bordeaux is up at the front. He can handle it. He sure seems to know everything, anyways. Oh, and he has no problem making up bullshit nicknames for people he hardly knows. What a sweetie. Sugar. I scoff.
I hear Bordeaux’s voice—his smoky tone, deep and welcoming. At least he’s respectful to the customers.
“Thanks for stopping in. Have anything in mind that you’re looking for today?” Bordeaux’s voice is intoxicating no matter how pissed off I am at him and that’s annoying to me. So, so annoying.
