Chapter Eight
Kind of Blue
I perch on the arm of the couch and watch Preston organize the jazz section for the third time this afternoon. Miles Davis plays through the speakers. The music is so breathtaking, so humble. Bennie sits at the front counter, flipping through a magazine. It’s such a stark contrast to the way things used to be around here. The store itself seems like an overly organized shell of the party place I knew. There used to be such a vibrant energy—disco lights and beaded curtains, music so loud the front windows rattled. Bennie and I would dance in the aisles. We’d crank up some Jackson 5 and jump around until we were breathless. These days, she barely leaves her post near the register.
“What’s your process?” I say to Preston’s back.
His fingers stop flipping through the stacks, and he looks over his shoulder. His profile is all Ralph Lauren model, and his body is Levi’s Vintage. The jeans that sit on his hips hang there like they’ve never belonged anywhere else. His plain white T-shirt leaves nothing to the imagination.
“What do you mean ‘process’?”
“I mean,” I say, walking over and standing next to him. “How are you organizing them?”
“Alphabetically and then chronologically,” Preston answers. He returns his attention to the stacks, but doesn’t pick up from where he left off. Instead, he starts over at the front of the pile.
“I would have pegged you as more of a subgenre kind of guy. Bebop, Big Band, Gypsy, Latin, Mainstream, Swing, Traditional.”
Preston’s fingers freeze again. He rests his hand on top of the records, and he turns to face me now.
“Subgenres would be too complicated. Some musicians were crossover artists. While one album would fit into one subgenre, it may complicate things for general fans of that artist. Besides, some of the subgenres can be defined chronologically. Alphabetical is concrete, it’s not subjective.”
The deep timbre of his voice, talking all nerdy to me about music, has me flustered. His pretty face is expressionless, so I know he’s serious. His love of music and vinyl and threadbare shirts makes Preston the personification of every naughty fantasy I’ve ever had.
“I smell what you’re cooking, so why not just alphabetize them all together?”
I trail the tips of my fingers along the stack of records and rest my hand on top. Our fingertips are almost touching, but not quite. Preston stares at our hands, and I wonder what he sees. There’s a buzzing in my body, an electric charge that seems to reach out to him with static fingers.
“Well, uh,” he starts, meeting my eyes briefly before returning to our hands. “Jazz listeners tend to be extroverted, laid-back, creative people with loyalty to a certain time period. While their tastes may vary across genres, their favorites are almost always from the same era.”
“Are you using music psychology to organize these?” I ask.
I lean my hip against the shelf, and the angle of my body allows my bra strap to slip down my shoulder. Preston notices and immediately raises his hand to correct it. I can see the moment he realizes he’s about to touch a piece of my underwear. His fingers curl in, creating a fist that he drops to his side. That familiar frustrated frown reappears. He shifts from foot to foot, swaying a bit, in front of me. His eyes stay fixed to the satin strap that happens to match my hair. Preston finally runs both hands through his hair and laces them together behind his neck. His thick biceps bulge and flex like wings above his shoulders.
“Can you…?” he asks, nodding to my shoulder.
I nod and slip my finger under the strap, pulling it up and tucking it under my tank top.
“Better?” I ask.
“And worse.” He blows out a breath through perched lips before hitting me with a crooked smirk.
“Hmm, you give good flirt, Preston. But I’ve got to go get ready for work.”
…
Before heading to the Haystack, I borrow Bennie’s laptop and park myself at the kitchen table. When the search engine loads and the curser blinks at me, I type in OCD. The list of links is endless. I click on studies and published papers on the subject, but none of them unlock the mystery that is Preston.
It’s not until I search YouTube, and find a couple of short documentaries following the daily lives of folks who deal with OCD, that I pinpoint the common threads. Every instance of the disorder is different, but seems to always be heightened by fear, and the best way to alleviate that fear is to be in control. The person needs to command as much of their environment as possible to feel safe. I lock that away for later and get dressed.
When I get to work, the crowd is sparse. I’m thankful for it. Some whiny country song plays from the jukebox, and I’m suddenly rethinking my desire to be employed here. I’ll have to check later to see if there’s any Johnny Cash on there. Coach shows me the backroom inventory, the price list, and gives me a run-down of what to expect. It’s usually the same old people in night after night. While he seems to find comfort in that, I’m already worried I’ll get bored. He shows me how to work the beverage gun and keep tabs for the locals. After an hour, I’m comfortable enough to help my first customer.
I throw a napkin onto the bar and give the guy my best smile. “What can I get you?”
“Where’s Coach?”
I look down the bar, but remember he’s stepped out to use the restroom. “He’s busy at the moment. I’m happy to take care of you.”
“I bet you are,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. The suggestion makes me want to gag, but I swallow down the insulting words that rest on my tongue.
“Leon, you want me to tell your wife you’re hitting on Reverend Hart’s youngest daughter?”
I let out an exaggerated groan as Sawyer slaps the man on the back and takes a seat next to him.
“Reverend Hart? Well, no. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Leon says, backpedaling.
“That’s okay, old man. Buy me a beer and I’ll keep quiet,” Sawyer says as he shoots me a wink.
“Fine. Two Budweisers.”
I grab the bottles from the cooler and use the bottle opener to snap the caps off. I slide them onto the bar. Coach reappears and stops to help someone.
“That’ll be eight dollars,” I say.
Leon slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar top. “Keep the change. Don’t want no trouble with the Reverend.”
I ring it up and drop the change in the tip jar before turning to face them again. Leon has wandered off to a pool table, and Sawyer sips his beer. He’s so handsome, but there’s no mystery there. I know everything about him, and he knows too much about me. Logan Sawyer is exactly the kind of boy my parents want me to marry. He’s got roots in this town, goes to church, and just wants to settle down. What they want and what I want will never be the same.
“Thanks for that. But I could have handled it.”
He grins. “I know you could have, Wren. The girl I knew could handle just about anything. But I could have arrested him for you.”
“Happy to see you’re not abusing your power,” I tease.
He laughs. His white teeth are a sharp contrast to golden skin and brown hair. Still, his smile is charming with just a hint of mischief.
“Glad you got a job here. I kind of like the idea of you sticking around.”
I roll my eyes and ignore his flirting before sliding down to help the next customer. I throw a napkin on the bar and look up to find the redheaded diner waitress. She’s out of her polyester uniform and into a rocking purple top that makes her boobs look great.
“Angela Louise, right? Nice rack.”
She looks down at her cleavage and back to me before tugging at the neck of her shirt.
“Thanks. It’s just Angela. Millie thinks it gives us that small-town feeling including our middle names on our name tags. I think we sound like damn hillbillies.”
I chuckle and tap the bar. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll take a Stella.”
“I’m not sure we even have that.”
“You do. Coach stocks it just for me.”
I grin and dig through the cooler before finding her beer. I pop the top off and set it on the napkin. “You must be a loyal customer.”
“Well, there sure aren’t any other bars fighting for my patronage.” Angela takes a sip of her beer and swivels around to eye the other side of the bar. “Same people, different day. I bet you could take a photograph and in ten years, nothing will have changed.”
“I won’t be here,” I say proudly.
She faces me again and tips her beer in my direction. “Now, that, I believe.”
“I found you in our senior yearbook.”
Angela drops her face into her hand. “Oh, God. The frizzy hair, the braces, the band uniform—what a horror show.”
I chuckle and tap the bar to get her attention. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Wren, my best friend in high school was Mr. Simmons, the janitor.”
“The janitor?” I ask. “No way.”
“Way,” Angela confirms before taking a long sip of beer.
“Well, look at it this way. I’d say you’re most improved.”
She gives me a bright grin and nods her head. “Yeah. Most improved. I’ll take it.”
The rest of my evening is uneventful. Sawyer keeps his distance all night, but it doesn’t stop him from looking. Twice I catch him doing that “staring at me while talking to someone else” thing. The look reminds me of younger days and steamy windows in Sawyer’s truck.
“Looks like you’re back on Logan Sawyer’s radar,” Angela points out when I deliver her third beer.
“I won’t be reliving my youth.”
“On to bigger fish, right?” She pauses, takes a sip and looks back at me. “Preston?”
I don’t answer her.
“Well, that’s a shame,” she says. “Every girl in this town, from eight to eighty, wants to land Sawyer.”
“Even you?” I ask.
“Only since third grade.” She picks at the label on her beer bottle while avoiding my gaze. My eyes widen and shift between her blushing face and Sawyer’s confident one.
“What is it about him that makes every woman go crazy?” I ask.
Angela turns and watches him as Sawyer leans over a pool table to take his shot.
“He’s sexy in that effortless way,” she says. “He’s nice to everyone, charming, and always sincere. He’s loyal to his friends.” Angela pauses and looks at me. “I also think he’s a bit of a secret nerd, which is so hot. He likes to have fun, but he works hard, too. Did I mention that body, and how good it looks in uniform?”
I watch her face go from confident to embarrassed, like she’s revealed too much. I’m impressed with her assessment of Sawyer. She’s right about absolutely everything.
“Wow. All that, huh?” I ask, grinning.
“I’d only kick him out of the bed to do it on the floor.”
I laugh. “Been there. Done that. Stole the John Deere T-shirt.”
Angela chuckles and raises her beer bottle in salute. “Ha. I didn’t know you were so funny, Wren Hart. I guess time away from this place has done you some good.”
I couldn’t agree with her more. Before I realize it, it’s midnight and my shift is over. Coach kicks the last few stragglers out and shows me how to clean up, pull the register till, and lock it in the office. I leave with thirty-two dollars in tips, not bad for a slow night.
“Don’t worry, kid. We’re busier on Fridays and Saturdays.”
“No complaints from me,” I answer. “Tonight was great.”
“Good, good. Well, I think you did just fine. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Six o’clock.”
“See you then,” I say, tucking the cash into my jeans pocket.
I push through the front door and point myself toward Bennie’s. Preston is leaning against the building, scribbling in his notebook beneath the parking lot lights. I let out a little yelp and slap my hand to my chest.
“Preston, you scared me. What are you doing here?”
Coach pokes his head out the door. He looks between Preston and me.
“Everything all right, Wren?” He scrutinizes Preston and waits for an answer.
“Yeah, Coach. It’s fine. My friend just scared me, that’s all. Do you know Preston?”
“Seen you around town,” he says to Preston. He steps outside and extends one hand. “Nice to meet you. Call me Coach.”
Preston stares at Coach’s hand and tucks his notebook into his back pocket. My eyes dart from Coach’s expectant expression to Preston’s panicked one. His hand lingers in his back pocket long enough for me to step in and squash this awkward moment.
“Well, we’ve got to get going. It’s late,” I say. I step between the two men and summon Preston with a wave. “Come on. You’re walking me home.”
He nods and follows me out of the parking lot onto the road. We walk, side by side, a couple of feet between us. I sneak glances at him and wait for an explanation. He gives me nothing.
Walking Crowley’s streets after midnight feels different from any other city. The click of my shoes on the road is the only sound besides cricket songs. There is no danger here, no clutching my bag with a white-knuckled grip, no looking over my shoulder. Still, though it doesn’t compare to the big city streets I’ve walked in the last three years, it holds the same notion. I’m just a girl, heading home, fading in and out of the overhead streetlights.
“Okay, Preston-who-lurks-on-street-corners. I’ll ask again. What are you doing here? Do you normally hang outside of bars in Crowley around midnight?”
“No. Not usually.”
“Then what?”
Preston pushes his hands farther into his pockets. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
I tuck my chin to my chest to hide my smile and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me, Preston. Thanks. But I’ve been running around these streets after dark ever since I learned how to sneak out of my parents’ house at thirteen. I’ll be okay.”
“I’d rather make sure myself.”
I spin and walk backwards while we keep moving. “Is that a control thing?”
He shakes his head and looks off into the darkness ahead. “No. It’s a Wren thing.”
My feet stop moving. Preston stops, too, so that he doesn’t run into me. We’re standing under a street lamp, and the glow surrounds him, shadows paint his face. He looks like my own guardian angel.
“I want to kiss you right now, but we don’t have any liquor,” I say with a smile.
His chest rises and falls as he stares down into my eyes with a resolve I don’t recognize. I’m waiting for his denial, for his apology. What he gives me is much better.
Preston wraps his large hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him. His lips are on mine before I can even gasp in surprise. There’s no slow tenderness to this kiss, no buildup. It starts out rough and heated. I feel claimed and possessed by him. Preston’s tongue slides across my bottom lip before he gently bites down. I sigh into his mouth. My hands go to his chest, needing something solid to keep me grounded. The muscle there is tense and hard beneath my fingers, his breaths coming fast.
The feel of his stubble scraping against my chin is pleasured pain, and the way his fingers curl around the back of my neck gives me chills. I am acutely aware of every place our bodies connect and every reaction burning inside me. He smells woodsy and tastes like mint.
When his grip on me loosens, his kiss changes from penetrating to light pecks along my mouth. His body seems to relax and melt into mine, tension gone. Over and over his lips connect with mine and pull away. I don’t mind, but I wonder what his motivation is. He answers my unasked question without prompt.
“I’m sorry.” Kiss. Kiss. “I have to stop.” Kiss. Kiss. “On an even number.” Kiss. “But, I can’t stop.” Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.
He straightens and looks down on me as we try to catch our breaths. There is something new between us. I feel like Preston has finally waved his white flag and given in to what he wants, what we both want. I am speechless.
“Let’s get you home,” he says, moving past me.
I fall in step beside him, and for the first time, enjoy the silence and scenery of Crowley. Though this place feels different with Preston here, the gravity feels stronger, like it’s still trying to tie me down. Even with amazing kisses beneath streetlights, I can’t see that happening.
Back at the apartment, I slide open the bottom drawer of my dresser. Digging beneath the clothes and reaching all the way to the back, I pull out a large brown envelope. The name DYLAN scrawled onto the front in heavy permanent marker sends a wave of nausea through my body. I open it, add most of my cash tips from the night and seal it back up. I replace the envelope and throw unfolded clothes back on top.
As I climb into bed for the night, I mentally tally up all the cash—new and old—in that envelope. Three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two dollars. I won’t feel guilty for taking it. I did what I had to do to survive. And now, it’ll be vital to me getting out of Crowley. I don’t know when that will be, but I know it’s inevitable.