“There are other, better ways to do that.”
“Name one.” She tilted her chin, hoping to convey with a look that she loved him but they’d reached a dead end.
Mateo tossed the flyer into the nearest can and propp
ed the passenger door open as though that was the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Not even close.
She’d already memorized the website and phone number.
She inched closer. She hated when they argued, and besides, there was really no point. She’d already made her decision. The less he knew about it going forward, the better.
Knowing exactly how to distract him, she ran her hands up the length of his thigh. Refusing to stop until his lids dropped, his breath deepened, and he’d forgotten she was ever interested in promoting Ira Redman’s clubs.
TWO
WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS
“C’mon, bro—you gotta weigh in. We won’t leave until you do.”
Tommy glanced up from the copy of Rolling Stone he’d been reading and shot a bored glance at the two garage-band wannabes standing before him. Four and a half hours into his eight-hour shift and he’d yet to sell so much as a single guitar pick. Unfortunately, these two wouldn’t change that.
“Electric or acoustic?” they asked, voices overlapping.
Tommy lingered on a pic of Taylor Swift’s mile-long legs before flipping the page and devoting equal time to Beyoncé. “There’s no right or wrong,” he finally said.
“That’s what you always say.” The one in the beanie eyed him suspiciously.
“And yet, you keep asking.” Tommy frowned, wondering how long they’d persist before they moved on.
“Dude—you are like seriously the worst salesperson ever.” This came from the one wearing the Green Day Dookie T-shirt, who might’ve been named Ethan, but Tommy couldn’t be sure.
Tommy pushed the magazine aside. “How would you know? You’ve never once tried to buy anything.”
The two friends stood side by side, both of them rolling their eyes.
“Is commission the only thing you care about?”
“Are you really that big of a capitalist?”
Tommy shrugged. “When the rent’s due, everyone’s a capitalist.”
“You gotta have a preference,” Beanie Boy said, unwilling to let it go.
Tommy glanced between them, wondering how much longer he could put them off. They dropped in at least once a week, and though Tommy always acted like their incessant questions and attention-seeking antics annoyed him, most days they provided the only entertainment in an otherwise boring job.
But he was serious about the rent. Which meant he had no patience for bored little punks wasting his time, only to leave without buying so much as a single sheet of music.
The gig was commission based, and if he wasn’t actively selling, Tommy figured his time was better spent either thumbing through unsold copies of Rolling Stone and dreaming of the day he’d grace the cover, or scouring the web for gigs—minimum effort for minimum wage, seemed fair to him.
“Electric,” he finally said, surprised by the stunned silence that followed.
“Yes!” Dookie Boy pumped his fist as though Tommy’s opinion mattered.
It was unnerving the way they looked up to him. Especially when he wasn’t exactly living a life worth admiring.