“I do. It’s just…I can't. Payday isn’t for two more days.”
Damien studies me before he clicks his tongue. “Fix my schedule. Keep it up to date. It’s always subject to change throughout the day, and be back in my office at 3:00.”
“What’s at 3:00, sir?” I dare to ask.
“The end of your shift,” he says before looking at his laptop and my stomach hits the floor. My shifts are typically longer than that.
I mutter out a shakyyes sirand make my way out the door. Who would have thought a pair of pants would equal early termination and a broken contract? The rest of my workday goes by uneventfully and slowly. Unfortunately, I’m impeccably good at my job, and I stay one step ahead of him at all times. Usually that would make my life easier, but right now all it’s doing is giving me more time to think.
By three in the afternoon I am sulking as I walk into his office. Damien gives me the silent treatment while he clicks away on his computer. No,have a seat orI’ll be right with youjust silence. After at least a solid four minutes of silence, I take in a breath.
“Should I gather my things, sir?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers, closing his lap top. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Listen, Mr. Graves. If it’s about the pants, I know you said they’re not acceptable, but I really don’t have anything else. I am planning on going shopping this weekend, though, I prom–”
“No need,” he says as he rounds the desk and stands in front of me.
“No need?” I ask shakily.
“No. We’re going shopping right now.”
He walks out the door and waits for me, eyebrows raised.
“Shopping?” I ask. “Again?”
“That was for evening attire, but obviously you need daytime outfits as well. So, let’s go.” Damien waits for me to walk with him, and we head out of the building wordlessly. Once we are in the parking lot, he takes me to a red muscle car. I stop as he opens the door, looking at the white leather inside, a gorgeous contrast to the cherry exterior.
“You drive a Mustang?” I ask.
“Only when I want to go fast,” he says. I can’t tell whether or not he’s joking, but I don’t ask questions, I simply get inside.
As we pull out of the lot, he reaches for the volume knob on the restored stereo system and 80’s music pours out of the speakers. “38 Special,” I say softly with a smile.
Damien’s eyes shoot over to me momentarily. “What?”
“The song. Hold On Loosely. It’s 38 Special,” I tell him.
“You like classic rock?” he asks. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I hit a soft spot. Who would have thought there was one hiding under all those scales?
“I like all kinds of music,” I answer.
“Yeah? What’s your favorite?” he asks.
“You mean when I’m not listening to baby shark on repeat?” I joke, and he gives me an odd look. I giggle before answering the question seriously. “I love Bob Dylan,” I tell him.
“No shit?” he asks with a smile. Not a smirk; not a quarter of a grin. An actual smile.
“No shit,” I repeat his words back to him because it somehow feels safe to do so.
“Bobby’s always been good. Just a little misunderstood,” he says. “What else do you like?”
“Let’s see. Pearl Jam,”
“Eddie Vedder, yes. Go on.” he nods.
“The White Stripes, Billy Idol, Van Halen.”
