I laughed and opened the passenger door, sliding into the seat. The interior smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and whatever coffee she’d had earlier. There were sketchbooks stacked in the back, one corner poking out from under a canvas tote.
She got in, shut the door, and started the engine. The dashboard lit up in a soft glow that caught the edge of her profile.
I averted my eyes and swallowed as I fastened my seatbelt. And avoided looking right at her. “Do I get to know where you’re kidnapping me to?”
“No,” she said, then shifted into reverse and pulled out.
8
Sage
The bell above the door chimed as we stepped into Vinyl Reverie, and the familiar smell of paper sleeves and old wood wrapped around me in the best way. The store was narrow, shelves climbing almost to the ceiling, records stacked in tight rows that forced you to move carefully if you didn’t want to bump into someone.
“Sage Robinson.” Marco looked up from behind the counter with that lopsided smile of his. “I thought you skipped town.”
“You should be so lucky,” I replied, feeling Aiden pause close by my side. He hadn’t spoken yet, but his attention on Marco and me was palpable.
He laughed and leaned forward on his elbows. “Who’s your friend? I told you the in-house discount applies to my favorites only. No strangers.”
“Aiden.” He stretched out his hand, which Marco shook warmly. “And I’m happy to pay full price for whatever you’ve got going on in here.”
Marco snorted but quickly stifled his laughter again. “In that case, you sound like just the guy I should take behind the black veil in back.”
“Black veil?”
I gave Marco a dismissive wave, and hooked my arm through Aiden’s leading him gradually away from the conversation that would never end. Not the way I knew the manager.
“He’s messing with you.”
“No, I’m not,” Marco called out. “She can show you. She knows every corner of this store.”
We started in an aisle that boxed us from Marco’s view. I flipped through the first few rows of records, but Aiden didn’t immediately join in.
“Every corner, huh?”
“I had way too much time to kill when I was younger.”
Joni Mitchell, Joan Osborne, Kate Bush. Marco’s system wasn’t alphabetical, based on genre, or time-stamped. The system was that there was no system. He’d always said the best part of finding an album you love was having to search for it.
The space narrowed as the shelves tightened around Aiden and me, forcing us to walk side by side. I was aware of how close he was without having to look, and whenever he reached across to slide a record back into place, his arm passed in front of me with careful precision.
Without touching.
“So, do you always bring guys here?” He tried to sound casual as we reached the classic rock section.
“Only ones with really bad ink.” I made no sign I’d caught the way his expression changed. Instead, I was suddenly totally absorbed by a series of jazz instrumentals.
“Ha, ha,” he deadpanned, and that’s when I finally met his gaze.
“Oh, not you. Obviously.” But I made sure the laugh that followed was a little too forced. Too hollow.
Aiden fell for it like I knew he would, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. This time my laugh was real, getting louder the more insulted he looked.
“I don’t have bad ink.”
“You should see your face right now.”
His frown deepened. “Yeah? Well, you should see yours. It’s— It’s—”
