Bound to Burn

20. Was I Just Fired?

20

WAS I JUST FIRED?

SASHA

Paper in Fire by John Cougar Mellencamp

I slide into my Jeep and sit for a moment, staring at the record store from my rearview mirror, wondering, or maybe hoping, that Cash would run out the front door after me. Several minutes go by, and I realize he’s not coming. I lean back against my seat and take a deep breath. My body is still reeling from his hands on me. There is a deep ache in my belly that won’t dissipate.

I start the engine and pull out of my parking spot and take a left onto the street, watching Underground Records get smaller in my rearview mirror and trying to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over.

He was so close to giving in, and I don’t know what scared him. Maybe I was too forward, too bold, but I couldn’t help it. He is maddening. The way his eyes slide over my body, pierce into me, making me feel wanted and treasured, all at the same time. There is a fine line between lusted after and revered.

He told me to go home.

I start to wonder, was I just fired?

If I was, what was I fired for?

Was it the fact that I had the music on too loud? Or dancing while I cleaned? Or was it because I hopped up on the counter and moved his hand under my skirt?

I pushed him into doing something he wasn’t ready for, but I couldn’t help myself. I saw how he looked at me, how much he wanted me, and I ached for his hands on my body. Am I bad person because I wanted just a taste of what he is capable of giving me?

I’m pretty sure none of those reasons are grounds for firing me.

I’m angry at him for pushing me away.

I’m angry at myself for leaving.

So I make a U-turn and hope a police officer didn’t just see that, and then I deal with all the honking horns as I make my way back to the record store. I race into the parking lot, fuming like a spoiled child who didn’t get her dessert. Fumbling with the key to unlock the door, I yank it open and step inside.

It’s irrational, I know, but I’m still angry because I don’t know what I did that was so wrong. I sat on the counter facing him, and sure, I moved his hand to my thigh, but that was because I wanted him to know that I was giving him permission to touch me. What I didn’t do was force him to run his thumb over my panties.

Just when he was giving up control, he pulled back.

I was left wanting.

I had a small taste of what it would be like to be with a man like Cash, and I didn’t want to give it up. I don’t want this to be the end.

The storefront is empty, Cash isn’t behind the counter, and I can see down the hallway that he’s not in the back either. Footsteps on the stairs alert me to his presence. I watch as he descends the stairs from his loft. He has a weary look on his face, and I wonder if he has that expression because I’m standing in the middle of his store, staring at him with my fists clenched, or if it’s something else.

“Am I fired?” I blurt out.

The stunned look on his face turns to confusion.

He knits his brows together. “No. But I don’t think you should work here anymore.” He shakes his head wearily.

“Kinda sounds like you’re firing me,” I shoot back.

He rubs the back of his neck and pieces of blonde hair fall into his eyes as he lowers his head.

“I’m not, it’s just…” he pauses, struggling for words.

“It’s just, what?” I prompt him. “You owe me the truth. What is holding you back?”

“You’re young,” he finally says.

“I’m twenty-three, Cash. Sure, that might be young compared to you, but it doesn’t mean I’m stupid or naive.” I blink at him.

“You’re not stupid,” he confirms. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

He leans against the railing to the stairs and folds his arms over his chest.

“Then what does age have to do with anything? It shouldn’t matter.”

“It matters to me!” he says angrily.

“You’re using my age an excuse,” I fire back, and notice a slight tick in his jaw.

“It’s not an excuse.” He pushes off from the railing and walks down the few remaining steps into the small space of the store. On either side of me are record bins which he uses as a barrier between us.

“You work for me. Isn’t that enough for you?” Frustration laces his voice.

I purse my lips, staring at the little blonde hairs that line his jaw and find myself wanting to know what they feel like against my inner thighs. The attraction is palpable, but it’s not enough for him to take what he wants.

I want to know what he’s so afraid of.

“I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t Corporate America.” I motion to the small space of the record store, with its dingy floors, vintage records, and classic guitars lining the wall. “You’re not violating a s****l harassment policy.”

His eyes narrow at me as if I’ve hit a nerve because he’s running out of excuses.

“I shouldn’t have touched you,” he finally grits out.

I challenge him with my eyes and his stormy grey’s flare in response.

“Not here, and not in the way I just did.” I watch his lips as he continues, “With my fingers playing at the edge of your panties,” he says and I feel like a fly caught in a web, transfixed as he recounts exactly how he touched me, “making you so wet for me.”

I swallow hard. His demeanor changes; he straightens his body and schools his expression.

“This is my place of business, and whether it’s Corporate America or not, there’s a power dynamic I’m not comfortable with,” he admits.

The fact that he thinks he’s protecting my virtue is endearing and infuriating at the same time. I want to tell him that morality and sexuality are not interchangeable. I would curse him out for implying that, but when I look at him, all I see is a man who thinks he’s doing the right thing by me.

I step forward, the record bin still a barrier between us. I notice that I am standing in front of the H section. I finger the tops of the albums, Halestorm, Hall and Oats, Heaven’s A Lie. Cash stands on the other side, watching me.

I didn’t mean to push him too far, but I couldn’t help myself. How could anyone be around this man and not want him any way they can get him? “Why are you so afraid of what is happening between us?” I finally ask. He reminds me so much of someone who is afraid to trust.

He fights for the right words, and I feel as though he’s on the verge of telling me something significant when my phone rings and I drop the Heaven’s A Lie album back into its slot.