Bound to Burn

6. Coyote Ugly

6

COYOTE UGLY

CASH

She’s Got the Look by Candlelight Red

I hit the light switch and the fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker, trying to decide whether they want to stay on or not. My shoes squeak against the linoleum floor, echoing loudly in the quiet space as I walk over to unlock the door. The gate grinds as I lift it up, sounding like a jail cell. Looking out in the parking lot, I spot Sasha’s jeep. It’s a tan piece of s**t that’s in need of a wash. Through the back window I can see the pink fluffy car seat covers which makes me shake my head, but when I peer a little closer, I notice she’s not in the driver’s seat.

Wondering where she is, I open the door and walk out into the parking lot, looking around. Two dumpsters squat next to each other against the wall of the apartment building behind me, graffiti all over it mirroring the building. A few pieces of garbage skip across the lot, but there’s no Sasha.

I walk out to the street and look down the block towards Angel’s thrift store. It’s only when I turn the other way that I see her, walking towards me with a surfboard tucked under her arm. Her wet suit is rolled down around her waist, the sleeves tied at the front, revealing a bright pink bikini top.

She stops in front of me, propping the board beside her and my mind goes blank. My thoughts are stuck in quicksand, and all I can focus on are the thin straps of her swimsuit, carelessly tied at the back of her neck. Water drips from her blonde hair and falls like rain down the slope of her collarbone to the valley between her breasts.

I swallow.

Hard.

“Hey, boss,” she says, out of breath and smiling at me as if this is a normal way to start your first official day on the job.

“What are you doing?” My voice finally begins to work but comes out sounding like a pubescent boy, and I have to clear my throat.

“Surfing,” she answers casually, as if it should be obvious from her attire and the fact that she is carrying a large surfboard. “You said to come in a little bit after you opened.” She chews on her lip, like she’s not sure how to take my questions.

“I know, but,” I pause trying to wrap my head around it, “you went surfing?” I lift an eyebrow. I shouldn’t be surprised; she looks like the typical California girl with her blonde hair and golden tan.

She scoops the board up and I follow her like a puppy dog to her Jeep while she opens the door and then steps up to place the board back on the rack.

“You don’t surf?” she asks casually as she finishes securing the surfboard and peers down at me. It’s those large golden-brown eyes behind long dark lashes that unsettle me. She’s so young… and I shouldn’t be staring

“No.” I squint up at her.

“That’s a shame. Your shop is like two blocks from the beach.” She yanks on the strap to secure the board and then jumps down effortlessly.

“No time. I run this place by myself.” I gesture behind me.

“That’s too bad.” She pauses. “I could teach you a few things.” She raises an eyebrow and uses that voice of hers where it’s hard to determine if she’s still talking about surfing.

I clear my throat gain. “You know the saying; you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

She places a hand on her hip. “Just because it’s a saying doesn’t mean it’s true.” Her mouth tilts into a smile. “And you are far from being an old dog.” She winks at me and reaches inside her Jeep to grab her duffle bag from the passenger seat. “Do you mind if I change in the bathroom?”

After slamming the Jeep’s door, we walk across the lot to the record store. I open the door for her and she stops just before entering, turning to look at me.

“Were you worried about me?” She tilts her head, the water glistening like diamonds on her golden skin.

I knit my brows together.

“You were looking down the block as if you were worried about me,” she says innocently.

“It’s not the best neighborhood.” I open the door wider, indicating for her to go inside. “Bathroom’s next to my office,” I say, as if she doesn’t already know.

I’m busying myself by refolding some of the graphic t-shirts on a shelf when Sasha emerges from the bathroom. Her hair is mostly dry now, but she’s tied it on the top of her head in a knot. The wet suit is gone, replaced with jean shorts and an off the shoulder white blouse, still showing the thin straps of her pink bikini top tied around her neck. A thin gold necklace glistens against her collarbone.

My eyes linger too long to be casual, and she notices. Her finger reaches up to pull at the string. “Forgot to pack…” she pauses, her cheeks flushing pink, “well, anyway.” She lets out a deep breath, letting the strap fall back against her skin.

“You did tell me to wear appropriate footwear.” She taps the toe of her pink glittered Converse on the tile, proudly. “So at least I got that right.”

I have to force back a smile because as absurd as they are, they fit her perfectly.

Pink.

I’ve never liked the color pink more than I do right now.

“Do you always surf before work?” I tap on the screen of the register to wake it up.

“No,” she laughs, and the sound fills the space like music. “I was going to school in Austin and working in a bar. Not much surfing to be had there.”

I busy myself by opening the window shades on the side of the store facing the street. The rest of the city has woken up, cars pass by and people walk along the sidewalk. Hoping the register has finished waking up, I walk back over to the counter.

“Austin, huh?” I motion for her to stand beside me and go into the systems menu. “That’s where you met Erin.” I heard about Erin’s road trip from Jack, but not many of the details. I know that she met Sasha there and they ended up driving back to L.A. together.

“One of the best things to ever happen to me,” she says, smiling brightly.

“Erin is a good person.” I create a unique password for Sasha to use.

“She didn’t even know me, but she helped me out when I really needed someone,” Sasha confesses.

I can see a twinge of sadness in her eyes. I’m not in a position to ask questions because I’m not willing to answer the same, so I keep my head down.

“Do you think things happen for a reason?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for my answer before she continues. “Like all of the shitty things happen because it leads you to the really good things.” She looks at me with those soulful eyes, and I can see freckles that line her nose and spread out to her cheeks, made more prominent by the sun.

“Yeah,” I admit, more than she will ever know. I think about that often. “But it doesn’t make the shitty things less shitty.”

“Make sure to keep this in a safe place,” I touch the screen where I’ve input her password.

She taps it’s into her phone and tilts it so I can see that she entered it in one of those secure apps.

“I can never remember any of my passwords, so this is a lifesaver.” She shoves her phone in the back pocket of her shorts and then hops up on the counter to peer over me as I show her what to do after logging in.

“This isn’t Coyote Ugly.”

She tilts her head and I realize that she might be a little too young to know that movie.

“A bar,” I clarify.

She laughs. “I know what it is. I’m just surprised that you’ve watched that movie.”

I stammer irritably. “I didn’t watch it, I just know what it’s about.” I shake my head and then motion for her to get down.

As much as I like seeing her pink Converse dangle from my counter, I can’t give her the impression that it’s okay to be up there, especially if a customer comes in.

“Yes, boss.” She gently slides off the counter and then leans over, planting her elbows on the wooden edge. The air shifts and the scent of peppermint fills the space between us, and I realize that this is not the first time I’ve smelled peppermints when she’s around.

“Coyote Ugly is a little before your time,” I reply, giving her the side eye.

“My grandma used to make me watch all her favorite eighties movies, and when we exhausted those, we started dabbling all the way into the two thousands,” she laughs.

“Your grandma sounds odd.”

“She is, but you’d love her.”

Sasha leans in while I train her on finding the commands she needs to ring up a sale, check inventory, and complete refunds. My record store might be ancient but the system I use is new, thanks to Wade. It was actually pretty easy to manage once I got over the learning curve. Unlike Jack, I embrace technology.

“Not so different from the system we used at the bar.” Sasha watches as I go through the menu on the side, showing her how to select different products.

I tilt the screen towards her and watch as she explores some of the settings I showed her. She wasn’t lying when she said she knew her way around the system, although people her age who have grown up with technology find it easier to pick up on. It makes me feel better about having to leave her alone in the store while I’m out, which is the main reason I needed help.

“I think you got the hang of it,” I say.

“Manic,” she continues, “the owner at the bar I worked at in Austin, used to have me help him with inventory,” she explains. “The system is similar in functionality, just for a different type of business.”

“Manic?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. Really cool guy, although he has an obsession with Dr. Who.” Sasha laughs. “Which I guess is cool too, but I’ve never watched it.” She smiles up at me.

“He sounds interesting.”

“You have no idea.”

She looks around the store as if she’s taking it all in. “What’s up there?”

I look behind me to see she’s pointing at the metal stairs.

“That’s my loft.”

“You live here?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Technically, yes.”

“Like Quasimodo in the bell tower?” she teases.

“Not like Quasimodo.” I glare at her.

“You’re right, you’re much hotter,” she smirks.

I clear my throat. Suddenly it feels warm in here.

I start going through the delivery schedule in case one comes in while I’m gone when my phone rings. I hold my finger up and press it to my ear.

I peer around the corner and watch Sasha walk the aisles, her fingers brushing over the edges of the albums as if she’s looking for the perfect one to inspect. She stops in front of one of the displays, flipping through a stack until she pulls out a Fleetwood Mac album. I watch as she turns it over in her hand to inspect the back, running her finger down the list of songs.

“So, what do you think?” The man on the other end demands my attention and I have no idea what he just said.

“Sorry, what?” I shake my head because my new employee is distracting.

Fuck.

I scratch my head and turn away.

“The auction?” He sounds annoyed, but I don’t care.

It’s not like I have to deal with rich assholes who wouldn’t know the difference between a ’59 Les Paul and a ’60 Strat.

Finding rare guitars has been something of a treasure hunt for me, and occasionally there are rich people willing to pay a lot of money to acquire them - like the guy on the phone. He doesn’t even know how to play, but he wants to display it in his mansion.

I’ve been to auctions, private collections, going out of business sales, and even a few garage sales where I’ve found some treasures. Sometimes people don’t know what they have.

“Are you able to check it out?”

“When is it?” I ask, running a hand through my hair.

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

I glance at Sasha who is now standing in front of the guitar display. I haven’t had a chance to train her properly but I’ll only be gone a few hours, so what damage could she do? “I think I can make that work.”

I hang up and walk over to her. “Do you think you’ll be able to handle the store tomorrow afternoon by yourself?” I ask her.

She turns to me and shrugs. “I’m a big girl.”

“I have no doubt about that.” I rub the back of my neck as I make my way to the register. “We’ll get you used to the register today and you’ll be fine.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” she asks as she follows me back to the counter.

“Maybe both.”

The store is quiet, but the space is filled with her. She turns to me and notices me watching her. “I listened to the Led Zeppelin album this morning,” she says. “You were right.”

“Right about what?” I ask.

“It does sound better on vinyl.” Her fingers lightly trace the edge of the counter. “It got me thinking.”

“Yeah?” My voice is low and deep. I grip the underside of the counter.

“That it’s not the age of something that matters, it’s the quality.” Her eyes make me want to take a dip into something I shouldn’t.

I clear my throat and move over to a CD display, making sure they’re still in order. She joins me, taking the CD from my hand and rearranging them.

“I still think Led Zeppelin III is the better album,” she says cutting the tension, and I can’t help but laugh out loud, unable to contain my smile.

“Is that a smile?” She points at my face accusatorially. “And I was beginning to think you hated me.” She places both hands on her hips.

I look down at her. “Who says I don’t?”