Bound to Burn

7. Cariño

7

CARIÑO

SASHA

Shakin’ by Eddie Money

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay while I’m gone?” Cash asks for the millionth time today.

I roll my eyes. “Yes,” I say, and plant my palms firmly on the counter. “You’ve been watching me all morning ring up customers.”

“And you rang up the wrong Prince album,” He points out the one mistake I made which wasn’t even my fault - the wrong barcode was on the tag.

“Just have a little faith that I can watch over your precious store while you’re gone for two hours.”

“I told you I’d be gone for three.”

I place my hands on my hips and raise my eyebrows. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” I shake my head. “You’ll be back in two hours telling me,” I pause so I can get into character, “the auction ended early, and traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

“Did you rehearse that at home?” he asks.

“I like to improv,” I dead-pan.

“Is that really what I sound like?”

“Pretty much.” I busy myself by refolding t-shirts on the shelves and checking to make sure the sizes are in order.

Cash stands beside me, his hand rubbing the back of his neck which is what he does when he’s uncomfortable.

“I’m used to handling the store by myself ever since Daphne left, and I get a little…”

“Neurotic?”

“I was gonna say anxious,” he glares at me.

“Same thing.”

“Who is Daphne?” I ask, because I heard him mention her before.

“She used to help me out in the store, but she moved back to London,” he explains, and I wonder what they meant to each other.

“How long ago did she leave?”

“It’s been quite a while,” he admits with a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“You haven’t had any help since?”

He shakes his head no. I can’t imagine doing all of this by myself. Grabbing a comic from the rack, I take it over to the counter and start to flip through it.

Cash narrows his eyes at me. “What? I thought it was one of the perks.”

He rolls his eyes.

“I’m leaving,” he announces.

“Later, boss.” I wave without looking up from the comic.

I hear the chime as the door opens, but it doesn’t close right away which means he’s probably standing there staring at me.

I look up from the magazine. “You don’t mind if a few of my friends stop by while you’re out? That column there would make a good stripper pole.”

“See? This is exactly why I don’t like leaving the store,” he says angrily, about to step back inside.

“Relax, I was kidding.” I wave him off while laughing.

He sighs and runs his hand over his face in frustration.

“Sort of.”

“What?”

“Your store is in good hands.” I motion for him to leave.

He closes the door behind him, and I watch as he walks over to his bike which is parked in the lot. I stare as he lifts his leg over the seat and kick-starts the bike to life. The parking lot rumbles with the sound, and I can’t peel my eyes away until he is out of view.

Taking a deep breath, I flip through the comic but there’s nothing interesting in here. I let it fall to the counter and sigh, looking around the store.

Cash is mostly soft spoken - even when I annoy him and he gets a little ill-tempered. This time he was the one annoying me, like I can’t handle the store without him. I never knew how much space he took up in the room until he was gone. It’s as if the record store is an extension of him, breathing and moving in time to the beat of his heart, and right now, there’s no heartbeat.

For the first hour a handful of customers come in and everything goes smoothly. I’m pretty proud of myself, but I never had any doubt that I would be able to handle the store by myself, despite what Cash thought.

It looks like it’s been a long time since anyone dusted the shelves or wiped down the counter. I’m sure cleaning isn’t a priority for him, and it’s the least I can do while there’s downtime. I remember seeing some cleaning supplies in the storeroom, so I head back there and grab everything I need. Connecting my phone to the Bluetooth speaker, I set my playlist to shuffle as I start removing shirts from the shelves so I can clean them.

It takes me the better part of an hour. I wipe my forehead and look around the store with a frown. It doesn’t look much different; probably because all the worst areas are under the counters. It was like a dust bunny colony. There’s still so much more to clean as I look around the store. The posters covering the windows block out light, and I have a thought to pull them all down, but that might have to wait for another time.

I grab my camera from under the counter and pull it out of its case. Lifting the strap over my neck, I turn it on, flipping through settings on the screen, testing the light as I zoom in on the row of record bins. Ever since I first came in the store, I’ve been itching to take some photos. I love the vintage feel, and the writing on the bins has always intrigued me. I could see it in my mind, the angle and the lighting to take the perfect picture.

I adjust the ISO to the low light of the store and the flickering fluorescent bulbs above and crouch down to snap a few pictures. Looking at it through the screen, I flip through a few I just took, and I like the angle and the contrast. My fingers trace over all the writing - names, dates, a few drawings - all in black sharpie. It reminds me of the graffiti around town, but the one on the side of this building is more like art instead of the random symbols I’m used to seeing.

I wonder when all this started, who the first person was to write something and why. Some of the dates are as far back as ten years ago, no longer fresh and visible. I had to struggle to make out the numbers because people had written over it. All of these people had come into this store at some point, and I wonder who they were. Skimming through the first aisle, I smile at a few obscene drawings. I take a few more pictures when the bell above the door chimes, grabbing my attention.

It’s a young guy with dark hair that’s slicked back, with a few stubborn strands that won’t stay off his forehead, and gorgeous light eyes that offset his darker skin tone. The chain hanging against his hip makes noise as he walks the aisle. His sleeves are rolled up high on his biceps, revealing colorful tattoos. A beautiful design of angel wings spans out at the base of his neck. He notices me staring at him and smiles in the way boys do. He scans the store as if he’s looking for someone.

“Can I help you?” I ask as I walk over to the counter and set my camera down.

“You work here?” he asks, astonished, a slight tilt gracing his full lips. He looks to be my age, maybe younger, but carries himself like he’s older, lived harder.

“Yes.”

“Cash finally hired someone, eh?” He smiles appreciatively, nodding his head.

“I’m Sasha.”

He places his hands on the counter and looks around the store.

“Cash isn’t here if that’s who you’re looking for,” I say before he can introduce himself, if he was going to.

“He left you alone in the store, cariño?” His light eyes settle on me, assessing.

“Should I be worried?” I ask.

“He’s not in the hospital or anything is he?” he jokes, but my focus is on the scar that mares his right eyebrow as he raises it.

“No,” I laugh. “He had to step away for a couple hours to go to an auction,” I explain.

“Who are you?” That’s probably something I should have asked before.

“Gabriel,” he introduces himself. “Mi tío owns the thrift store on the corner,” he says by way of explanation. I’ve heard all about Angel from Cash.

“Oh. Well, nice to meet you.”

“You a photographer?” He juts his chin to my camera lying on the counter.

“You caught me,” I laugh, embarrassed. “I’m sure it looked odd that I was taking pictures of the,” I’m not sure how to describe it, “graffiti,” I venture to call it, “on the record bins,” I say.

“That’s just people writing nonsense and s**t, not graffiti,” Gabriel jokes. He hooks a thumb towards the wall of the store and says, “Now, that’s graffiti.” I venture to guess he’s talking about the mural on the wall of the record store. In fact, there are quite a few on the buildings in the neighborhood that I noticed on my way in. They all had a similar style.

I c**k an eyebrow. “My guess is that you are the artist.”

Gabriel crooks his mouth into a sly smile and his eyes gleam. “What makes you think that?” he asks, tipping his chin at me.

I point to the spray paint stains under his fingernails.

“You got me.” He shoves his hands in his pockets bashfully.

“You’re talented,” I try to reassure him. I don’t know what kind of trouble you can get into by spray painting the side of a building, but I’m guessing he might be a little worried about that.

“They’re beautiful,” I say.

“You think so?” he asks, unsure.

“Yes,” I giggle. “The one on this building is especially beautiful.” It’s an outstretched wing with each feather a different color that blends together like a mosaic. Some of the others I’ve seen are animals or people, but the style is so similar that I know most of them have to be his.

“I got some pictures.” He pulls out his phone proudly, tapping it on and then scrolling until he gets to the ones he wants to show me.

I lean over the counter as he tilts the phone in my direction. He smells like freshly cut grass. I flip through the photos in awe, and wonder how long it took him to do these.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask, handing him the phone back.

“Self-taught, cariño.” It’s the use of that word again which I’m pretty sure means ‘sweetheart’.

I took Spanish in high school and know enough to be dangerous. Calling me sweetheart has so many different connotations, but Gabriel looks like a player. I know the type. His exterior screams danger with his sharp jaw and the tattoos snaking up his neck, but his interior seems sweet, like the filling of a donut.

“That’s extraordinary.” I smile at him. “I’d love to take photos of them.” I’m already picturing it in my mind.

“You wanna take photos?” he asks, confused.

“Yes!” I laugh. “Is that so odd?”

“Most people don’t appreciate them.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” I tell him. “Where are these?”

“Not the kind of neighborhood a girl like you should go alone.”

“Well then, you’ll have to take me for a tour,” I suggest.

The bell above the door chimes and in walks Cash. His hair is a little windblown and he has a guitar case strapped to his back. He pulls it off and looks between Gabriel and me curiously.

I straighten up and wave at him, feeling like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t - even though I haven’t. “You’re back.” I have a guilty tone, and I don’t know where it came from, so I clear my throat and pat down my shirt that still has a bit of dust from my earlier cleaning spree.

“When I showed you where the panic button was, this is who you should have used it on,” he says teasingly, looking from me to Gabriel.

“That’s cold, man,” Gabriel laughs.

Cash leans over me to set the guitar case behind the counter. He smells like gasoline, and I can’t help but inhale. It’s an odd smell to like, but it reminds me of being in the shed watching my grandpa fix his old tractor.

“Everything go okay while I was gone?” he asks me.

“Yeah, it was pretty quiet,” I say, and then add, “aside from the stripper party.”

Gabriel looks between us, concerned.

“She’s kidding,” he tells Gabriel. “You’re kidding, right?” He looks at me, a little panicked.