But you do?
‘I gotta go, Ma. Enjoy the movie.’
I hang up, sick of this never-ending merry-go-round with her where nothing is ever good enough and nothing is ever right.
I want to slump over the records and cry, but instead I refocus and flick through them, searching for solace between the cardboard sleeves.
After findingTeaser and the Firecat, I flip through a few more crates. There are three discs in my hand when I glance at Monique. She’s leaning over the cinema counter, giving the guy a good look at her cleavage.
Behind me, Mr Nessic appears from the record storeroom. I make my way over to his register.
‘Hey, Mr Nessic.’ I smile, placing my items on the counter.
‘Good to see you, Gia.’ He twirls his peppered moustache before punching in the item codes manually. His belly touches the till as he works. ‘You keeping out of trouble?’
‘Always, sir.’
He looks over his shoulder at Monique and the man before leaning in. ‘You tell that friend of yours, my nephew isn’t good enough for her.’
I laugh. ‘I didn’t know that was your nephew.’
‘By marriage,’ he grumbles. ‘He got in some trouble back home, so my wife’s sister shipped him out to me. All he gives a damn about is cars. He wouldn’t know how to treat a lady.’
I laugh again, but Mr Nessic couldn’t be further from the truth. If you care about a car, it means you take time to understand something that doesn’t speak. You fix what’s broken. And you get so in tune with being able to feel when things are right, you know immediately when they’re wrong.
‘So we’ll see your nephew at The Tropics then?’ I tease.
‘If you do see him there, you’d better beat him.’ Mr Nessic cuts me a look.
Mr Nessic gives me the total. I’m about to count out the bills when I hear loud barking outside and my head snaps up.
Chuckie?
I hastily throw a fifty down, telling Mr Nessic to keep the change. Tucking the records under my arm, I push the door open to see Chuckie pulling hard against his leash, frothy spit gathering in his jowls. His teeth flash and vicious snarls sound in the air, directed at the man in front of him with bleached-blond hair. When the figure turns, my gaze meets green eyes.
Landon. The guy from the race.
Ignoring him, I brush past to Chuckie’s side, smoothing his fur to calm him.
‘Don’t act like you don’t know me, skirt,’ Landon says, rocking on his heels.
I frown and cock my head to the side, taking in his preppy salmon pink t-shirt and white shorts. My eyes alight on his boat shoes and I fight back a scowl. Whoever invented boat shoes needs to be brought to justice – it’s seriously a crime they exist – and then I notice he’s even wearing matching salmon ankle socks.God.
I lift my eyes to his face and raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to explain himself. He shuffles on his feet, and I enjoy how easy it is to make him fidget.
‘Landon,’ he says.
I stare blankly, pouting my bottom lip a little for extra effect.
‘From The Tropics?’ He sounds exasperated.
‘Oh.’ I click my fingers. ‘Right.’
I untie Chuckie and keep a strong grip on his lead. He’s really unsettled and continues to pull against me and snarl.
‘That mutt really doesn’t like me.’ Landon narrows his eyes at Chuckie.
I sigh through the struggle. ‘You know what they say about dogs.’
