Desire (South Bay Soundtracks Book 1)

by Amelia Stone

  And with that, she disappeared into the back room.

  “I really should go with her,” I said, taking a step toward the door she’d just gone through.

  “Don’t you dare,” my sister hissed, wrapping her arms around my forearm. “You stay right here and protect us.”

  I hesitated. My sister was obviously scared, and that had never been something I could ignore. But if I was here protecting her and her best friend, then the store manager would be forced to face a possible burglar by herself.

  “Come out with your hands up!” we heard Kristi call out, and next to me, Ellie started shaking.

  “It’s probably an animal,” she whispered, sounding like she was trying to convince herself. But her nails dug into my skin. “Got in through the air vent or something.”

  Krista let out a nervous chuckle. “I think I would pay good money to see her go ninja on Rocky the Raccoon.”

  They exchanged a look, then both of them dissolved into hysterical giggles.

  But I leaned forward, straining to hear whatever was going on back there.

  “Show yourself!” Kristi called, and another crash sounded. “I have pepper spray and I’m not afraid to use it!”

  There was a pause, then some grunting and muttering. I frowned. If it was a burglar, he or she was totally inept.

  “That’s close enough!” Kristi shouted. And in the next instant, I heard a faint hissing noise that I assumed was the pepper spray.

  Because the hissing was almost immediately drowned out by hoarse shouting that was laced with obscenities.

  “Motherfucking son of a fucking bitch!”

  “Back up, or I’ll spray again!” Kristi shouted, and I thought I heard her shuffling forward.

  “Goddamn it! Kristi Roberts, fall back!” the other voice cried.

  I inhaled sharply, my body tensing with shock and something else I couldn’t quite name. Because I recognized that voice. It was the voice that had made me toss and turn for hours the night before. I finally fell asleep around three a.m., only to have that husky voice – and its owner – haunt my damn dreams. As much as I’d tried not to think of her in the hours and minutes since I’d met her, I just couldn’t help myself. She was in my blood, inhabiting my mind, conscious or not.

  More shouting in the stock room, and my feet were moving before my brain could catch up.

  “Graham, wait a second!” Ellie called, her giggles gone now. “You don’t know who it is! It could be dangerous back there.”

  But I ignored her. Because I did know who it was. My body strained toward the sound of that voice like it was being pulled by invisible strings.

  Larkin was here.

  “Will I still be soiled

  When the dirt is off?”

  - Echo & the Bunnymen, “The Cutter”

  Fucking ow ow ow ow ow fuckity ow.

  If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to get attacked with pepper spray, don’t. Just zip that curiosity right back up in the bowels of your brain where it belongs. Absolutely nothing good will come from it, other than, perhaps, a mildly entertaining rant in which you expound on why you wish you’d died instead of getting sprayed by fucking pepper spray. If you get lucky, someone might film it, put it on the internet, and you’ll become a viral video star.

  The pepper spray bottle clattered to the ground. “Oh snap!” Kristi covered her face with her hands, then took them away slowly, looking horrified. “Boss?”

  “What the fuck, Kristi?” I whined, running in the direction of the bathroom – and banging into several boxes while I was at it.

  Because I was blind. Because she’d just sprayed me with fucking pepper spray.

  For the first time in sixteen months, twenty-four days, and – I attempted to check my watch – four hours? Ish?

  Anyway, for the first time in a long time, my eyes were streaming with tears not induced by my untamable emotions, but I almost wished they were. Anything – getting punched in the tit, PMDD, and yes, even my grief – was better than this. Because at least those things were familiar. I knew from experience how to handle them. (Yes, I am familiar with getting punched in the tit. I have an older brother, after all.) But this was wholly new, and really fucking painful.

  Jesus. No wonder I was crying.

  “I’m sorry,” Kristi cried as she hurried along behind me. After the fourth box came out of nowhere to assault me, she put her hands on my shoulders, steering me toward the small bathroom in the corner of the stock room that was only for employees.

  “You should be,” I muttered. “I think you’ve permanently blinded me. I should fire you for this.”

  “You can’t fire me!” she retorted. “I was just protecting the shop from a burglar.”

  “I’m not a fucking burglar,” I growled, reaching blindly for the faucet and rapping my knuckles on the sink instead. I whimpered in frustration and pain and, okay, a little self-pity.

  She snorted. “Well, maybe you should have announced yourself. Or, I don’t know, called first.”

  I grunted as she pulled my hands away and turned the faucet on, filling a bowl that she produced from I don’t even know where. It had Ewoks dancing around the side of it, distinguishable even in my present state of visual impairment by their little spears and fat asses.

  “It’s my shop,” I reminded her, my tone mutinous.

  She clucked her tongue. “You could argue it’s my shop. I’m here every day, running it. I make all the business decisions. You haven’t been here in over a year.”

  I frowned as she set the bowl on the sink basin. “And you definitely made it your own. The stock room is a mess,” I complained, because I was feeling petty.

  Because she’d just fucking pepper sprayed me.

  Though lucky for me, her aim was not so great today. She’d merely spritzed my eyes with the pepper oil. But that meant that the lower half of my face, my ears, my neck, and my chest had borne the brunt of the assault. The spray had seeped through my shirt, and my boobs were tingling uncomfortably.

  But even a mere crop dusting was enough to make my eyes burn with the heat of a thousand suns.

  “Dunk your face in that for as long as you can hold your breath,” she instructed. “And the stock room is not a mess. I have a system,” she sniffed. “Well, I had a system before you came in and bungled it all up.” She paused. “Burgled? Bungle-burgled. Burngled.” Then she giggled at her own wordplay.

  I almost asked if she’d been drinking, but this was Kristi. She just had a goofy sense of humor. But she also took exactly no shit from anyone, which is one of the many reasons she made the perfect manager for the shop.

  That, and she was capable of getting out of bed every morning and showing up to work like a functional member of society.

  I turned to face her, squinting to see her better, though she was still just a Kristi-shaped blur.

  “I’m sorry,” I grunted, right before I dunked my face in the water.

  Man, I was on a roll. This was twice in one day now I’d apologized to someone. Though I had to admit, it wouldn’t have been so easy if I could actually see her clearly. Or if I were even looking at her, for that matter.

  “What are you sorry for?” another voice asked.

  A ridiculously deep voice that was most definitely not Kristi. A voice I was suddenly, fervently hoping I hadn’t identified correctly.

  I pulled my face out of the water, gasping – though not because I’d held my breath too long. Then I closed my eyes, which hurt slightly less than they had a moment ago. So at least I had that going for me.

  “Please tell me I did not just get pepper sprayed in front of Taylor’s boyfriend,” I whispered, praying that only Kristi could hear me.

  “No, I was the only one back here when I sprayed you,” she assured me. “I told them I would take care of the intruder with my ninja moves.”

  And then she karate chopped me in my spicy tit.

  “Motherfucker!” I bellowed, crossing my arms over my chest. My eyes f
lew open, and I glared at her.

  “Sorry!” Kristi moaned. Her hands reached out, but then she pulled them back, like she wanted to rub the owie and make it all better, but realized that she’d basically just be groping me.

  I blinked a few times, my tears of pain flushing out the pepper spray, at least. When I could finally focus, I looked up – way up – at Graham ‘Why the Fuck is He Here Right Fucking Now?’ Morris.

  Of course. Of course the one person in the entire New York Metro area that I wouldn’t want to see me in a compromising position was standing in the stock room of my shop, watching me get punched in the tit.

  And I take back what I said earlier. There was something worse than both getting punched in the tit, and getting pepper sprayed: getting punched in the pepper-sprayed tit. In front of the man I’d been inappropriately lusting after since last night. The man I’d been secretly hoping might, one day, want to play with my tits.

  Now there was no hope of that happening, because if he ever even looked at my tits in the future, all he’d be able to think about was where they’d fall on the Scoville index.

  Kill. Me. Now.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his stupid movie-star face scrunching in concern. “Also, hi.”

  I grunted. “Hi.”

  “You’re Taylor’s boyfriend?” Kristi asked, looking at Graham with interest now, my battered, peppery self completely forgotten.

  Kristi and Taylor had bonded over nail art when I’d first introduced them almost two years ago, and now they hung out occasionally. Fuck if I knew what else they had in common. Maybe they traded tips on contouring, or how to be chipper.

  “Yes, he is,” I answered for him.

  “No, I’m not,” he replied at exactly the same time.

  “What?” we both said.

  He laughed, his stupidly gorgeous leaf-green eyes crinkling. “I’m not Taylor’s boyfriend.”

  I sucked in a breath, not sure what he meant by that, and not really having the guts to ask right at that moment. I wasn’t sure which answer I wanted to hear. If he said they were just casually dating, that was bad, because then he was a fuckboy. Taylor’s fuckboy, but a fuckboy nonetheless.

  If he said they weren’t dating at all, that was worse. Because then he was free and available, and there was, on paper, no reason why I could not lust for him.

  Which was horrible, of course.

  “Who is Taylor?” another voice asked, a feminine voice I could only describe as musical. The owner of said voice inserted herself between Graham’s body and his arm, which ended up draped over her shoulder.

  And she looked perfectly at home there.

  I narrowed my eyes, my gaze bouncing suspiciously from her to him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I barked, before I could stop myself.

  “Uh, a paying customer,” Kristi stage-whispered.

  The woman, who looked to be about my age, widened her eyes. But she didn’t look mad, or scared, or even offended by my sharp tone.

  No, she looked concerned.

  “Oh, honey, your shirt!”

  I looked down, pulling my arms from my chest to see what she was talking about.

  I inhaled sharply. “No,” I whispered in dismay.

  Because my shirt – Daniel’s shirt, his favorite Joy Division tee – was ruined. The well-worn screen-printing was peeling up, curling at the edges, and the entire front of the faded black cotton was stained with pepper oil. I had no idea how to get it out, or even if it would ever come out.

  And worst of all, a hole was opening along the seam at the neck, widening further and further with each spicy second.

  Daniel had bought this tee shirt at a flea market when he was thirteen. For ten years, he’d owned it with pride, taking care of it like it was his baby. It was one of his most prized possessions.

  And now I’d ruined it.

  “Oh, no,” Kristi murmured.

  I looked up, not even bothering to disguise how betrayed I felt.

  “Boss, I am so sorry,” she told me. “I had no idea it would do that.”

  I grunted, my eyes sliding away. I knew it wasn’t really her fault, and I didn’t want to yell at her. I didn’t want to cause a rift with the woman I trusted to keep this business afloat, because then she might quit. And then I’d lose more than just Daniel’s favorite tee shirt – I’d lose his legacy.

  Besides, I was tired of yelling. Tired of this bottomless anger for everyone and everything. Tired of the stupid fucking tears that were once again threatening, and not because the pepper spray still burned.

  I closed my eyes for a brief moment, trying to get my shit under control. But I couldn’t. There was no control to be had, for my shit or otherwise. I felt like I was spiraling out, spinning and spinning and spinning, getting farther and farther away from myself, until I could hardly even see the real Larkin anymore.

  If there even was a real Larkin anymore. Was it possible to lose one’s husband, to grieve like this, to be so wholly consumed by it, and come out the other side of it the same person you were?

  I wasn’t sure. But at this point, I would settle for just coming out the other side at all.

  “Boss?” the other girl asked. “You must be Krista’s cousin, then.”

  I opened my eyes, frowning at her. Who the hell was this girl who was so familiar with Graham, who knew my cousin, who had charged into the stock room of my shop like she owned the damn place?

  Whoever she was, she was really pretty. She was also tiny, several inches shorter than me, at least. She barely came to the top of Graham’s armpit. And she was looking at me with undisguised curiosity and a big, bright smile that made me want to hit something.

  Or maybe it was the way Graham’s arm was still draped over her that made me want to hit something.

  And speaking of Graham, he gave me a long look, like he was trying to figure something out. His gaze flicked from the tee shirt to my face, and he frowned.

  “Ellie, this is Larkin Michaels,” he said, gesturing to me. “Larkin, this is Ellie Morris.” The corners of his mouth lifted in amusement. “My sister.”

  His sister. I huffed. Of course, now that he’d said it, I could see the rather obvious resemblance. They both had the same coffee-colored hair, though hers skimmed her shoulders and was lighter at the ends in some trendy hair coloring technique that Taylor would undoubtedly be able to name. It looked pretty on her, though, framing her smile, which I now identified as nearly identical to Graham’s.

  And they both had the same leaf-green eyes, though hers didn’t cause a shiver to race up my spine the way his did.

  “Come here,” she said, walking forward and grabbing my hand. I mutely allowed myself to be pulled back into the bathroom, too shell-shocked by this whole freaking day to argue. “Graham, go grab one of those tee shirts I put on the counter.” She gave me an assessing look, her thoughtful gaze lingering on my eyes. They seemed to light up with something that looked almost like triumph, and I wondered what that was about. “The Ramones one, I think.”

  “Okay,” he said slowly, clearly as overwhelmed by his sister’s take-charge attitude as I was.

  Her brother now effectively dismissed, Ellie turned to Kristi. “Do you have a break room here?”

  “Over there.” Kristi pointed at the opposite corner of the stock room, which had a little row of cabinets, a sink, a refrigerator, and a table and chairs.

  That had been Daniel’s brainchild. Our employees would need somewhere to eat their lunches and keep their energy drinks, he reasoned. Because one day very soon, we’d have more employees than just ourselves and Kristi. Some day Soundtrax would be a franchise, he said, with stores all over the country and a thriving web business. We would be the monarchs of the nerd world, he said.

  God, I fucking missed him. Coming here today had been even harder than I’d thought it would be, but also not. I’d run like a demon was chasing me all through town, ignoring the stares from all the people who hadn’t seen me during daylight hou
rs in months. Once I’d run all the way down the boardwalk, I’d turned, heading back up Grand Avenue. I’d looped around the building to the alley behind Soundtrax, skidding to a stop in front of the huge delivery doors. Then I’d sunk to the ground, crossing my legs in front of me and staring at the building. After too many minutes of wrestling with my memories, of berating myself for not going in, but also for wanting to go in, I’d finally stood up and walked inside.

  Only to find it looked nothing like it had the day before Daniel died – the last day I’d been in the shop. Kristi had rearranged everything in the stock room to suit herself, virtually erasing my husband’s careful system. She’d also painted the bricks a bright white, making it look less like a Prohibition-era dungeon, and she’d added a row of ten or so lockers for the employees she must have hired.

  I looked around the room now, biting my lip. I still wasn’t sure if all the changes were good or bad. On the one hand, Daniel’s ghost seemed less intimidating when it wasn’t haunting every corner of the space.

  On the other hand, I wasn’t ready to let that ghost move on. Not just yet.

  “Excellent!” Ellie smiled at Kristi, bringing me back to the present. “Could you please bring me the dish soap and a clean kitchen towel?”

  Kristi nodded, turning and disappearing into the throngs of boxes, which she navigated expertly, of course. Ellie closed the bathroom door behind us.

  “Let’s get you out of this and cleaned up,” she said, tugging at the hem of my tee shirt like she meant to take it off.

  I crossed my arms over my stomach defensively. “I can do it,” I mumbled, looking over at the wall to avoid her questioning gaze.

  Because I wasn’t about to admit that I didn’t want anyone seeing what grief had done to my body. Even though this annoyingly helpful woman had never seen me before, I didn’t want her to judge me. My nerves were raw, and my usual fuck-off deflector shields were glitching.

  “I’m sure you can.” She gently grasped my wrists, trying to pull my arms away from my body. “But you don’t have to. Let me help.”