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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.
But the thing is... I like being used. As gross as that sounds out loud—which is exactly 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 hanging 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 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 I just called my new hire sugar, I pause. What the fuck, Bordeaux?
I look over at them immediately, both 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 that. 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 lot of 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. 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, violet-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, though it really wasn’t. I think it was some kind of weird, endearment 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 Robles.” I look back at her and give her a salute. “Loud and clear.”
* * *
Just before closing time, Isla 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. Re-organizing the records isn’t really something that’s high priority, but since we aren’t exactly busy right now, I don’t have much else to tell her to do tonight and I don’t want to send her home.
I send a quick text to the band group chat that Declan, Flynn, Miller, and I all have together.
Me: Anyone remember the last time I gave a shit?
Declan: Have you ever?
Declan: Jk!
Declan: Before we signed Hellfire’s contract.
Miller: What’s up?
I shouldn’t even go here because I know they will give me shit for a long time for this—but I need to talk about her to someone and they’re all I have. Aside from Frankie, and I’m definitely not talking about Isla to Frankie. I try to type something out, my thumbs and brain not working together. Nothing sounds right.
Declan: But did you die?
Miller: Oh, he definitely died.
Flynn: Sorry, guys. Just waking up. What’d I miss?
Me: New girl at the record shop. She’s fucking wicked hot. And she’s a fireball. I swear to god, I can’t think straight.
Not even a second goes by before the group chat explodes.
