Bound to Burn

3. Do People Still Buy Records?

3

DO PEOPLE STILL BUY RECORDS?

CASH

Going to California by Led Zeppelin

I catch myself too late for her not to notice that my eyes travel up her body from her toned legs to her trim waist, like the sleek lines of a Fender Stratocaster guitar. Still, I try to school my expression. I am not that creepy old guy who checks out girls half my age, except… I just did.

She seems unaffected by my outburst and gives me a small wave and a smile that brightens up the store. “Hi, remember me? Sasha?” she asks, tentatively.

I tuck the phone in my back pocket. “You’re the one that shoved a camera in my face.” How could I possibly forget her?

She smiles apologetically. “Sorry, I tend to do that.”

“What? Shove cameras in people’s faces?”

She laughs. “It’s rude, I know, but when the light is just right and the subject catches my eye, I can’t help myself.”

I know nothing about photography, but Erin thinks she’s talented, even getting her the gig at the festival we met at.

“I just don’t like having my picture taken,” I admit.

“Most people don’t.” I watch as she makes her way around the store as if she’s taking everything in. She turns in my direction. “Sounds like you’re having a bad morning.”

“You could say that.” I slump against the counter thinking about all the boxes of albums in the storeroom.

After inspecting the posters on the wall, she moves to the display of electric guitars lined up in a row. Her fingers lightly glide down the neck of the guitar. She plucks at the string with interest, her eyes roaming over the body.

“Do you play?” I ask, casually.

She looks over her shoulder at me, tendrils of her blonde hair caressing the back of her neck with the movement. “Is that a requirement for working here?” she asks.

“No,” I reply.

“Well then, no,” she says. “I’m not musically inclined.” She turns back to the guitar giving it one last curious look. “But sometimes I wonder if I should be,” she says, as if she’s talking to herself.

Before I get a chance to ask what she means, she turns to the posters in the bin and pulls one out.

“This is beautiful.” She inspects the screen print that is flat laid on cardboard and wrapped in protective plastic.

I walk over to where she stands. “That’s Patti Smith,” I point out.

“I know who she is,” she says, surprisingly.

The way she looks at the photo… it’s as if she’s trying to pull it apart so she can put it back together again. It reminds me of when I first learned the guitar. Emulating my favorite bassist was like dissecting their technique only to put it back together again with my own style.

Sasha looks young and I wouldn’t have expected her to know who Patti Smith is, but it’s nice that she at least knows some music if she’s going to be working here. She turns her attention back to the poster, admiring it. “This is the artist you were talking about.” She mentions the brief conversation we had at the festival when I asked about her photography.

Sasha turns over the poster, looking at price tag. “Wow.”

“I don’t know why I commissioned them for my store because no one around here can afford to buy them.” My customers are mostly kids from the beach, an occasional collector, or tourists stopping in on their way back to their hotel, not someone who would pay this much for a poster.

“Probably because you recognized the talent.” She flips through the bin, looking at the rest of them. “They are really beautiful.” Her eyes dance over each one with admiration, and I realize this is the most anyone has ever paid attention to these posters since I got them.

“Maybe someday my photos will be in a record store that no one can afford to buy,” she pokes fun at herself.

“It’s something to work towards,” I dead-pan, which gifts me a surprised smile from Sasha. She has dimples on each side of her mouth that become more prominent when she smiles.

“The only professional work I’ve done is the article Erin did for No Cover, and then the ones Alt Press used for the festival,” she explains.

“It’s not like I got paid for it, but I’m not complaining because having my name in a major music blog is worth more than money for me right now.”

I nod, walking back to the register where Sasha joins me, leaning against the counter. “I was hoping you were serious about needing help for the summer,” she says.

“Just for the summer?” I raise an eyebrow, trying not to sound too disappointed; partly because I really do need someone permanently.

“I’ll be going back to school in the fall,” she explains.

“Going back to Austin?” I don’t want to pry, but I’m curious. All I know about her is from Erin, how they met in a bar in Austin and ended up taking a road trip back to L.A.

“No. I only have a couple of classes left and I’m doing those online through UCLA, but I’m hoping to get an internship at Alt Press,” she explains.

I clear my throat. “I could use the summer help until I find someone permanent,” I say as I walk down the hallway to the back storeroom. I don’t hear footsteps behind me so I turn around.

“Are you coming?” I call to her, and she hurries after me, her boots clicking on the tile.

The room is littered with boxes, some soiled and others not, but I have no idea what the records look like inside, aside from the one I already cut open.

“I need someone to separate out all the damaged ones so I can ship them back,” I tell her.

Sasha kneels down, the muscles in her thighs straining and pulls one of the albums out of the box, inspecting it. “Do people still buy albums?” She looks up at me and laughs lightly.

“Yes.” I snatch the Led Zeppelin IV album from her, turning it over in my hand. “Such a shame.” I shake my head at the damage. “This is their best album, too,” I say absently, placing it back on top of the box in disgust.

“That’s debatable,” she speaks up, still kneeling in front of the box as she peers inside.

I c**k an eyebrow. “There is no debate.”

She flicks her golden-brown eyes up at me. “All music is debatable,” she counters. “Just like art is subjective.”

She has a point, but I narrow my eyes at her anyway. “You weren’t even born yet when that album came out,” I say, noticing how young she is. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head, exposing the multiple studs and tiny hoops that adorn her ear. I notice the thin gold chain that lies against her neck and the way her chest expands with each breath, causing the necklace to gleam in the overhead light.

“Neither were you,” she challenges.

Straightening up, she stands a good half a foot shorter than me, even with the heels of her boots.

“You so sure about that?” Compared to her I am feeling very old at the moment.

She looks as if she’s trying to carbon date the lines on my face. “You don’t look that old.” It’s not just the tone she uses, but the upturn of her lips that has me on edge.

I ask the stupidest question on earth. “How old do you think I am?”

The way her eyes roam over my face and down my arms… I already know I’m trouble. “Early forties I’d guess, only because I know you were in a grunge band, but honestly,” her fingers play with a stray piece of blonde hair that’s come loose, “you don’t look it.”

The way her eyes settle on me causes heat to rise up my neck. I turn away, busying myself with shifting boxes out of the way to make a path.

“What kind of music do you listen to then?” I ask, changing the subject.

She looks as though she’s flipping through a playlist in her mind. “I listen to all kinds, but I’m into classic rock at the moment.”

I chuckle. “I bet ʻ90s music is classic rock to you,” I tease, just for fun, because f**k, by now it feels like classic rock to me.

“No,” she laughs. “Actually, I don’t like ‘90s music.” She crosses her arms over her chest in a cute, defiant way.

I shift my weight and lean against the wall. “Is that so?”

“It’s too depressing and whiny,” she tells me.

I think I’m beginning to like her.

I push off from the wall. “If you can start now, we’ll sort out the details later.”

“Weren’t you in a ʻ90s band?” she asks, not waiting for my answer as she finishes. “I just trashed your genre and you’re offering me a job?”

“A trial period,” I clarify, ignoring her question. “If you work out, then all the better.”

She looks at me excitedly with those not-so-innocent brown eyes.

“I can’t pay much,” I clarify, “and it would only be part time,” I add.

“That’s fine.”

“Okay,” I say awkwardly.

For some reason, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now as we stand in the middle of the boxes. She looks at me for direction.

I place my hand at the back of my neck but then remember the box cutter, so I hand it to her. She kneels down again and starts to rip open another box.

“Have you ever worked in a record store before?” It’s probably something I should have asked before hiring her.

She looks up at me, blowing the loose hair from her face. “No, but I’ve worked in a few bars.”

She must be able to read the confusion on my face and adds, “I’m pretty good with people.” She c***s her head to the side and looks at me.

“That’s debatable.” I throw her own words back at her, and she purses her lips at me.

“Touché’.” She rises up on those long legs of hers.

“At least in a record store I won’t have to deal with anyone trying to grab my ass.” She smirks absently, moving the box with her foot so she can make room.

I’m no stranger to assholes in the music business, and I’ve been witness to a lot of unsavory stuff, but the thought of someone touching her prickles at my skin.

“I can guarantee that won’t happen here,” I reassure her.

“Oh,” she says, biting her lip.

Fuck. I rub the back of my neck, wondering if I made the right decision to hire her. I look down the hallway so I have something to do besides stare at her.

I notice the Jeep in the parking lot. “Is that yours?”

She follows my line of sight. “Yeah. I hope I didn’t park in the wrong spot,” she says. “There wasn’t one that said ‘employee of the month’,” she jokes.

I ignore her little joke and instead tell her, “I wouldn’t leave your camera in there.”

She wrinkles her forehead. “What makes you think I have my camera in my car?”

I dismiss her question because I’ve been around artistic people practically my whole life. When a physical object is part of your art form, you usually carry it with you. “This isn’t a great neighborhood. I wouldn’t want it to get stolen.”

She narrows her eyes at me and then walks down the hallway. The bell rings above the door as she exits. I wait for her up front, watching as she leans into the open car door and grabs the camera case from the floorboard. Moments later, when she comes back in, I point to the space under the counter in front of me for her to store it.

I move out of the way so she can tuck it onto the shelf.

“Jack used to sleep with his guitar,” I muse. “Had it tucked under the blankets and everything.” I laugh silently at the memory.

She straightens back up and levels me those beautiful brown eyes.

“What did you sleep with?” she asks, not so innocently.

Jesus. I am in trouble here.

I lean against the counter. “Not my guitar.”