Bound to Burn

4. Run's in the Family

4

RUN'S IN THE FAMILY

SASHA

Everybody Wants You by Billy Squier

The back storeroom is an open space with shelves for storage and an adjacent office. The wooden door hangs open, providing a view of the old rustic wood desk inside. A computer sits amongst a pile of papers haphazardly strew over its surface. Past the desk, hanging on the wall, are dated band pictures.

I know Cash was in a band with Jack when grunge was at its height, but when they broke up, he bought this record store and has been running it ever since. Judging by the decor, it hasn’t been updated since either, but it adds to the vintage feel, especially with the light blue and white checkered tile flooring. The neon sign out front, Underground Records, has long lost its luster, but it seems to fit.

For the better part of the afternoon, I go through each box, separating out the damaged albums. The records themselves are still in good condition, but the sleeves are either ripped or soiled, making them unsellable.

I hold a Sublime album in my hand, flipping it over to admire the artwork. Going through the records, I’ve gotten to see the evolution of cover designs over the decades, and wonder what it was like to photograph such artists as Bob Dylan and Mick Jagger. I had a taste of that at the music festival, but it’s not the same as working with someone in a studio, having your concept come to life in unexpected ways.

My grandparents have a collection of old country albums and a record player, but it’s been years since they’ve used it, the dust hiding its original sheen.

Cash has been quiet up front aside from when customers have come through, and by the sound of their familiarity, most are regulars. There are long stretches of silence. I’m used to the chaos and constant interaction of working in a bar, so being back here by myself is lonely.

“So you used to play bass?” I ask, loud enough so Cash can hear me.

“What?” He pops his head around the corner.

“You used to play bass?” I ask again.

“Yes,” he mutters.

“What kind of bass?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going.

“I thought you said you weren’t musically inclined,” he responds.

“I’m not.”

It’s a warm summer day, and I push the stray pieces of hair from my neck. “Do you mind if I prop open the back door?” I ask.

Cash walks down the hallway towards the back door and shows me how to prop it open by pushing what looks like a piece of parking block in place to keep it from closing. “It can get pretty stuffy back here.”

He looks around at the boxes I have piled up appreciatively and then heads into his office, shuffling papers around.

“What did you mean when you said you should be?” he asks, absently.

“Huh?”

“Earlier, when I asked if you played, you said you weren’t musically inclined but you should be?” He makes a face, clearly showing his confusion.

“I’m pretty sure my father was a musician,” I explain, while stacking up a few more albums and shoving one of the boxes to the side with my foot.

“You don’t know?”

“I never knew him,” I say, shaking my head. “For all I know, you could be my dad,” I tease, tossing another album on the unsellable pile.

I’m met with silence, and for a minute I think he might have left or passed out, so I peek around the corner of his office door and look at him.

I am met with stormy grey eyes. “I am not your father,” he says definitively.

It was a joke, but he’s cute when he looks uncomfortable, especially when he rubs the back of his neck.

“How do you know?” I tease.

“This is not even remotely funny.” He crosses his arms over his chest, showing off the corded muscles in his forearms and the ink that travels under his sleeves. He tosses his head to remove a few unruly blonde strands off his forehead.

I lean against the doorjamb suggestively. “You were in a rock band. I’m sure sketchier things have happened,” I muse.

“I didn’t go around knocking up random women,” he says, clearly irritated.

I shrug defiantly, as if I don’t believe him. Just looking at him, if he was even a fraction as good looking when he was younger as he is now, no one would have stood a chance.

“If I were you, I’d be worried about getting fired on the first day.” He slides sideways past me through the doorway, our bodies almost touching, and heads back down the hall to the front of the store.

From behind him I say, “Not when my dad owns the place.”

He stops and spins around.

“You’re how old?” He assesses me from where I stand, his eyes roaming over my body and up to my face, and I swear my n*****s harden. “Early twenties?” he ventures a guess.

“Almost twenty-four.” I square my shoulders as if that would make me appear older. For some reason twenty-four seems twice as old as twenty-three, even if that’s not logical.

“Twenty-three.” He levels me with that same steely stare that runs bone deep, making me shiver. “Then, not possible.”

Now I’m intrigued.

“How so?”

“Well, for one, I was going to college in Arizona around that time, and when I came out to L.A. I was too busy trying to survive on coffee and French fries,” he explains.

“French fries?” I ask, wondering what is so special about fries.

“They were cheap, and you could share,” he clarifies, and then disappears around the corner, leaving me wanting more information.

“And?” I prompt him, c*****g an eyebrow.

“What do you mean, ‘and’?” I hear him grumble. “It’s not like I had access to a regular shower, so having relations wasn’t exactly on the menu.”

I imagine him using air quotes around the word ‘relations’.

“Relations?” I giggle uncontrollably while ripping open another box. “I’m not five! You can say the word sex.”

“No.”

“Why not?” I huff.

“Because you’re my employee, and I don’t even know why we’re talking about this,” he says exasperatedly.

“You were trying to explain how it’s not possible that you’re my dad.”

“Stop saying that!” he gripes as he pops his head around the corner, meeting my gaze.

“Does it make you that uncomfortable?” I laugh.

“Obviously.” He draws out the word and I can’t help but notice how his eyes drop to my lips, and I subconsciously lick them.

“Why?”

“Can you just finish going through the albums?” He motions for me to get back to work and to make him happy, I start on a new pile.

While I continue to work, I can still hear him moving around up front, the banging and shuffling of merchandise making it clear he’s irritated, which I feel bad about. I didn’t think it would upset him that much. Maybe he won’t ask me to come back after this, but I hope that’s not the case. I kinda like it here. There is a familiarity, like being home, where things are old but sturdy. Whereas everything else in L.A. glitters, providing an illusion of what’s inside, this place feels real.

I busy myself by methodically shuffling through the boxes and hold up a Carly Simon album. My fingers glide over the smooth surface of the artwork, admiring Carly’s high cheekbones and soulful eyes.

Something about Carly Simon makes me think of my mom, and I feel the need to explain myself to Cash.

“I don’t know much about my dad except that he came to the house once looking for my mom, but after she died, he never came back looking for me.” I say, casually flipping another album over.

It’s quiet for a few minutes before he speaks, and it’s as if he’s talking to himself and not me. “Sometimes people use sarcasm to hide deeper issues.” He leans around the wall so I can see his face.

“Are you saying I have daddy issues?” I ask, haughtily.

“Were you ever a stripper?”

I huff, “No,” and shake my head.

“Then I’ll venture to guess that your grandparents did a good enough job raising you to make up for not having a dad.” His head disappears.

I narrow my eyes, even though he can’t see me.

“That’s a bit sexist,” I challenge.

“Oh, yeah?” he replies.

“Saying that all strippers have daddy issues,” I grumble while effectively mocking him, only because I know he can’t see me.

“Sue me.”

There’s a long period of silence, but I don’t feel like an asshole anymore. I sit and stew, but the heat in my cheeks dissipates just as quickly as it rose. I hope I don’t get fired before I’ve even officially started.

I appear at the front and hop up on the counter, letting my feet dangle. Cash looks over at me incredulously, but he doesn’t tell me to get down or go back to work.

“I’m just taking a break,” I explain, and study him as he goes back to flipping through his phone.

Blonde hair falls onto his forehead and my eyes travel down his strong nose to his lips. Stubble peppers his jawline, the kind that you want to rub your cheek against, like a cat wanting to be petted. I think I visibly salivate as my eyes travel down his arms, biceps covered in ink, and I watch as the muscles flex as he scrolls through his phone. He wears a graphic t-shirt, a punk band I recognize but don’t know well, and jeans that fit tight, cut open at the knees. That’s not even the best part about him. He must sense that I’m staring at him because he looks over at me with those stormy grey eyes, and all the blood rushes out of my limbs, leaving me feeling as though I could fall off the counter.

“What are you doing?” I recover by leaning over to get a better look.

“Looking at guitars for a client.”

“Oh,” I say casually.

He notices me still watching him and moves the phone from my view like I’m invading his privacy. When he walks away, I look after him sadly, but take the time to survey the store. Posters cover the front window, blocking out the light. In the middle of the store are two columns, each decorated with stickers of bands and other random things. The records are sorted alphabetically and placed in stained wooden bins that people have written on over the years. There are all kinds of names and drawings on every surface of the wood. Along one of the walls are bins that hold CDs, and there’s even a rack for cassettes. If I thought people didn’t by records anymore, I’d be shocked if anyone bought cassettes.

Behind the register is a set of iron stairs and I wonder where they lead, but what is most interesting is the beautiful mural painted on the wall in front of me. The multidimensional blues and whites remind me of being inside a wave. It’s fitting for the area, seeing as how it’s only a few blocks from the ocean.

A few moments later, Cash returns and hands me a bottle of water, which I take gladly.

“It’s too quiet in here.” I look around and spot an old record player. “We should put on one of the records,” I suggest, jumping down from the counter and racing to the back, spotting just the one I want.

When I get back up front, Cash is waiting for me, c*****g his head to the side. “How about this Guns N’ Roses album?” I hold it up between us.

With a disgusted look on his face, he says, “Never will a Guns N’ Roses song be played in my presence.” He bends his head back over his phone.

I pucker my lips. “That’s odd, but I’ll take the bait. Did you get into a tiff with Axl Rose back in the day?” I joke sarcastically.

“We had a moment.” He doesn’t look up from his phone.

“M’kay, I’m just gonna put a pin in that.” I tuck the album under my arm.

Cash turns his head towards me, his hair falling onto his forehead again.

“Next time I’ll train you on the register,” he offers.

I can’t help the smile that spreads on my face. “Does this mean I get to come back?” I ask giddily, figuring today was my test and I failed miserably. Not only do I need this job, but I’m beginning to like the company.

“Yeah, if you park the attitude,” he says, but I have a feeling he doesn’t mean it.

“Yes da…” he gives me a warning look, “boss,” I correct with a smile.

“And wear more sensible shoes next time.” He points to my ankle boots which I have to admit are not the most comfortable, even if they are fashionable.

I click my boots together. “Yes, boss.” I have a feeling he doesn’t like being called ‘boss’ either, but it’s better than ‘dad’.

“Follow me,” he walks down the hallway and I dutifully trail after him.

Kneeling over the damaged boxes, he starts sifting through one and pulls a couple of records out.

“This one is a must listen to on a record player. Do you have one?” he asks me, holding a Credence Clearwater Revival album.

My mouth finally catches up to my brain. “Yeah, my grandparents do.” I move over to where he stands and look at the pile he’s creating.

“This one,” he holds up the Led Zeppelin IV album, and I narrow my eyes, “is better on vinyl.” He slaps it onto the pile.

I start picking through the rest of the albums he’s stacked up for me, Eagles, Steely Dan, Steve Miller Band, Tom Petty are all ones I know and love.

“Grand Funk Railroad?” Holding it up in front of me I scrunch my nose. “I have never heard of this band.”

He snatches it from me. “Underrated, but they will blow your mind.” He taps my head with the album and then hands it back to me. I could listen to him talk about music all day. It’s like someone flipped a switch and he came to life, so different from the grumpy boss I have worked with up until now. It makes me wonder what’s under all those layers of his.

“Now we’re getting into the good stuff,” he says, seemingly more to himself than to me as he pulls out a few more albums.

I lean in close as he holds them up. “The Kinks.” He tosses it on the top of the pile. “The Ramones, Dead Kennedys, INXS…” He inspects one of the albums and tosses it back in the other pile. “Eh, I was never a fan of Buzzcocks, but The Cure…” he pauses, inspecting the album, “is life.”

“Did you know any of them?” I ask, excitedly. “Like personally?” It sounds like he has some really great band stories.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he says with a secretive smile, and my eyes suddenly focus on his lips.

I look away to the pile of records in front of me. “You’re giving all of these to me?” I ask, confused.

“You said you liked Classic Rock, but consider the rest as part of your training.” He winks at me causing heat to rise into my face. I watch as he walks down the hall, admiring the view as he leaves me alone again.