by Troy Hunter
Selene is already back at the fitting room and relief envelops me when I see her. I can depend on Selene to work as hard as I do, and she’s efficient too. She’s leaning over a clipboard and twisting a strand of her long, red hair. When she looks up and notices me, she offers me a bright smile. “Hey, Felix. Looks like it’s just us closing,” she says.
“Yeah?”
That’s daunting, but it’s still better than having to close half the store myself. Misery loves company, after all.
Selene glances around, looking for customers; she has a reputation in the department for foul language, but she always checks to see if there are customers around before swearing. “Haley is closing,” she says. “We’ll probably be here all fucking night.”
Probably. Of all the managers, Haley is notorious for having everyone stay late. “I’m opening in the morning,” I say.
Selene wrinkles her nose. “Whose cornflakes did you piss in?” she asks.
I shrug. “It is what it is,” I say.
“Fair,” she replies. “So, let’s split up the work.”
We both look at the rack of rejected items from the fitting room. It’s overflowing. I doubt we’ll even be able to maneuver it through the clothing department without it getting caught on a clothing rack or something. That’s the best-case scenario. The worst-case is that it’s so full it topples over when we try to move it. These racks don’t exactly have stellar construction.
Selene sighs. “I’m covering the fitting room for Tiffany’s break,” she says. “We probably need to get that first. Do you want to start on it? I should be able to help in about ten minutes.”
“That works,” I say. “I’ll go ahead and take women’s clothing if you want. I know you got stuck with it last time.”
It’s spring break, and because of that, the swimwear is a nightmare. I’d glimpsed it when I walked in and, from just a cursory glance, noticed no less than twenty swimsuits scattered on the floor.
“I’ll hit men’s, kid’s, jewelry, and accessories, then.”
It sounds like Selene has more work, but that’s not entirely the case. Those departments are typically less trashed than women’s and together encompass about the same amount of floor space.
“If I get done early, I’ll come help you out,” Selene says. “Although that depends on how often the front desk calls for cashiers.”
“Has that been a thing today?”
Selene sighs. “From what I’ve heard. Right now, electronics is up there.”
I nod and grab the overfilled clothing rack. “Well,” I say, “At least the time will pass quickly, right?”
Selene nods and holds out her hand for a fist-bump. “Go team!” she exclaims.
Then I go to work. The good news is that, while there are some new clothes on the floor, nothing much has moved far from where it belongs. I know where everything goes, and when Tiffany put the clothes on the rack, she divided them by brand. The clothes are divided by brand on the sales floor, so it makes it easier to put them back out quickly. Everyone is supposed to keep the brands separate, but it’s hit or miss whether or not the fitting room attendant actually does it.
I grab handfuls of clothes and weave between racks, putting them back out and trying to fix any sizes that have been mixed up. The sales floor is almost soothing in its familiarity. Even if I know I’m in for an abnormally long night and that I won’t be nearly as optimistic once the store closes, it’s during moments like these that I don’t really mind working retail. I have a task, and I can complete it. There aren’t any shoppers in the women’s section at the moment, so I can silently fix and put everything back in place. It’s like a dance and a bit like a puzzle, like replaying a video game I’ve already beaten.
There’s a sort of artistry to the clothing department. It’s like an abstract painting with all its different colors and fabrics. In high school, I frequently did costume design for the drama club’s productions, and I’m reminded of that now. I’d liked costume design because of the joy of creating things. Because of all the different elements that went into it, all the different colors and textures. That’s part of the reason I was drawn to designing jewelry.
True to her word, Selene joins me after a few minutes. This is a throwaway job for her too. She’s trying to keep herself afloat while she works on her bachelor’s in education; she badly wants to teach because she loves children so much.
“So when is your spring break?” I ask, making small talk.
“Next week,” she replies. “We’re out a week. Then, we’re in for a week. And then it’s finals.”
“That sounds like a weird way to do it,” I say.
“Yeah, it is. I was hoping to go somewhere for it, but I doubt I will. I need the money, you know?”
“That reminds me. I need to request some time off.”
“Oh? Doing anything fun?” Selene asks.
“Not really. Nate wants me to go scope out film locations with him,” I say.
Selene nods. Having worked with me for two years, she knows all about Nate and his shenanigans. “Doing something with your best friend beats working, though,” Selene says.
“Yeah, for sure. Even if I don’t really know much about film. He supports my business endeavors, though, so I want to be supportive of his films.”
“How’s the jewelry business going?”
I take a couple seconds to answer. I’m having a hard time finding where the blouse I’m holding is meant to go.
“To your left,” Selene says. “There are only four or five of that design and size left.”
Ah, there it is.
“It’s going okay,” I reply. “I started an Etsy page for my business. And Facebook, Instagram, all the social media. I’ve made a couple sales, but it’s hard to get the word out. And I mean, it’s hard to persuade people to spend eighteen dollars on my earrings when they can get them at Wal-Mart or Target for a few bucks. Or Claire’s, where they sell packs of twenty pairs of earrings for the same amount.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah. I mean, I’m using real gemstones and real metals for my stuff, but that’s not worth the price for some people. I’m poor too, so I get it.”
“They’d be supporting a local business though.”
“Yeah, but it’s easy to say that until impacts your wallet,” I point out. “It’ll work out, though. I just need to build up a good inventory and get some sales. People are a little wary of buying when only three people have left feedback on your stuff.”
“That’s true. It just sucks for you, though. After you’ve put so much effort into it, it sucks to not have, you know, instant money.”
“Well, I didn’t expect to be the next Charles Lewis Tiffany overnight,” I joke.
Selene winks. “Okay, but when you do become the next Charles Lewis Tiffany, promise you’ll remember all the little people in your life.”
“Of course, Diana,” I joke. “Itis Diana, right?”
Selene rolls her eyes and returns to the rack for another armful of clothes. I know from experience that aside from coordinating break and lunch coverage, we probably won’t talk much more tonight. Selene doesn’t work well when she’s with another person. She’s too chatty, a problem I share, but she recognizes the issue and tries to work past it as often as possible.
For the next few hours, I diligently put away clothes, put sizes in the correct order, and fold shirts on all the tables customers can see from the aisle. I’ll fold all the shirts, of course, but there’s no point hitting them all now. They’ll only get messed up again.
I see Selene return from her lunch, which means it’s my turn.
“Have a good one,” she says. “Please, come back.”
“No promises,” I joke.
I announce over the radio that I’m going to lunch and immediately turn off the radio. Haley has a tendency to ask eighty-billion questions before she lets anyone go to lunch, but I can’t answer what I can’t hear. I’d like to take credit for thinking o
f that approach, but I really can’t. That was Nate’s idea. While I’m certainly not ever going to tell any member of management to suck my cock, some of Nate’s ideas—like immediately turning off my radio—are pretty sound.
I hurry up the stairs to the employee lounge and grab my phone from my locker. Nate has bombarded me with five texts, all in shouty caps. They’re all reminders to take time off, except for the last one wishing me a good shift.
I sigh and smile wryly. Still, I go to the computer and pick the days I want to take. In two weeks’ time, an entire week off. Only three of those days will be paid. That means two paychecks from now, I’ll be down approximately fourteen hours’ pay. I’ll make sure I budget properly. After all, the other option is telling Nate ‘no.’ I know I lack the assertiveness to do that, though, and besides, it really might be fun to spend some time with him. I rarely get to have an adventure these days.
2
Felix
My entire packing for the trip involves seeing how much stuff I can cram into my backpack. I’ve had the same backpack since my sophomore year of high school. Half of the inner pockets and the lining are torn, and one strap is held together with duct tape.
Nate looks physically pained when he sees my Franken-backpack. “That’s an abomination,” Nate says. “I can’t believe you still own that…thing.”
Yes, but that abomination hasn’t given up the ghost yet. I’m going to use it until it literally falls apart.
“Waste not, want not,” I chirp.
Nate has four suitcases crammed into the back of his sleek, blue Porsche. “At least I didn’t pack as if I’m going to live in this house,” I say. “Four suitcases? For a week?”
“It takes a lot of work to look as good as I do,” he says.
I hop into his car with my phone and my used copy of The Jeweler’s Guide to Gemstones and Materials.
Nate takes the driver’s seat. “Ready to go, Kitten?”
This trip is only going to take a little over two hours, but I’ve never liked long car rides. After thirty minutes, I get antsy. Over an hour and I get sleepy. Still, I’m not going to ruin Nate’s fun by reminding him how much I loathe car journeys. “Totally,” I say. “Let’s go.”
Nate starts the car, and we’re off. Rock music blares from the speakers as I settle in to read about sodalite and lapis.
“So I visited the farmer’s market,” Nate says.
“Hold on. Why were you at the farmer’s market?”
Nate doesn’t shop for produce himself; his cook does that.
“They’re across the street from the pearl store,” Nate says.
I didn’t even realize this city had a pearl store. It’s not like we’re a particularly upscale place to live or anything.
“The pearl store? Why were you in there?”
“Buying pearls, obviously.”
Nate is the furthest thing possible from the sort of person who’d wear pearls. It isn’t Eleanor’s birthday, and he isn’t—or wasn’t—dating a woman.
“Why?”
“Because I thought you might want them, and you’d better accept them,” Nate growls. “They’re a present.”
I don’t wear pearls either. While I love making and designing jewelry, I only wear minimalist stuff myself. Not a pearl or gemstone in sight. This means he’s bought pearls for my business even though I keep begging him not to do that sort of thing. He’s already bought a ton of stuff for me—business cards created by a professional graphic designer, an impressively large assortment of faceted gemstones, pounds of sterling silver wiring, and a Dremel tool. I need him to stop. I can’t pay back his generosity, and even if I could, this is something I’m determined to accomplish on my own.
I want to work to buy my supplies and build my business. I don’t want to ride the coattails of my wealthy friend. Where’s the value in that? And what would people think?
“What kind of pearls?” I ask.
“Strung, cultured pearls,” Nate says. “The pearl store also sells wholesale.”
“Nate!”
“It’s my contribution to your business.”
I sigh. “I told you—”
“I know what you told me,” Nate says. “It’d be too much. Does it make it better if I tell you they were on sale?”
“You have to stop buying stuff for me! It’s…it’s mooching.”
“No, it’s a lucky break,” Nate argues.
Ugh, this again. I sigh.
“I’ll take them,” I say, “But I’m serious. Don’t buy anything else for my business. I don’t care if the Hope Diamond comes up for sale.”
“I won’t.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I thought you’d appreciate them,” Nate says smugly.
Yes, he’s won, but that doesn’t mean he needs to rub it in. I swear, if he wasn’t my best friend, I’d murder him in his sleep.
Okay, so I wouldn’t really do that, but that’s the general feeling.
God, I hope he didn’t spend too much money. There’s no way to tell with Nate. He treats ten dollars and ten thousand dollars as if they’re both the exact same amount, and when it comes to gifts, he seems to believe that no amount is too great. It might be justifiable if it was only around birthdays and Christmas, but Nate seems to believe that any day is a good day for an incredibly expensive present. He could’ve bought me two strands of pearls or pounds of them.
“But I promise. I won’t buy you anything else.” Nate pauses. “If I do, you might try to poison me again.”
“I didn’t poison you! You just reacted very badly to something I cooked,” I say.
To be fair, it was my first—and last—time cooking salmon. There’s a reason my diet consists mostly of coffee, ramen noodles, and scrambled eggs. It’s partly because I don’t have a lot of money or time to devote to meal preparation, but it’s also because I’m a notoriously terrible cook and I have no desire to get better.
“Sure. That’s what happened,” Nate answers. “You totally weren’t trying to murder me and inherit my wealth.”
“Why would I inherit your wealth? You don’t even have a will.”
“I’m sure you would’ve found a way,” Nate replies.
I roll my eyes. “At least, I didn’t give you salmonella. Like someone.”
“Ah, Karen,” Nate says. “She’s still the best lay I’ve ever had. At least she didn’t hurt me during oral sex.”
I groan. He would bring that up. When I was sixteen and he was seventeen, we tried the dating thing for a bit. We decided there really wasn’t much chemistry between us after one particularly awkward incident where I—completely by accident—bit Nate’s cock.
And he’s never going to let me live it down, the asshole.
“God, did you invite me on this trip just so you can humiliate me over my mistakes? It was my first time blowing someone,” I say.
“It was my first time having my cock bitten.”
“You survived,” I retort.
“Oh, yes, but not psychologically,” Nate replies, with a malicious smile.
I hadn’t even bitten him that hard.
I open my book and make a point of looking like I’m going to read it.
“Karen had strange taste in lipstick. Do you remember?” Nate asks. “Hers was bright blue. Kind of quirky, I guess.”
I snort in an attempt to conceal my laughter. “So when she sucked your cock, you literally had blue balls.”
“You,” Nate growls.
“Me,” I say gleefully. “That was good. Admit it.”
“It was not. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I like sex.”
“It’s been a while since you’ve done that. Three months or so, isn’t it?”
“Four,” I answer. “It was the last time I went into heat.”
“Then, you’re due again soon, aren’t you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’m just hoping it doesn’t happen
while we’re away.”
“That’s better than being at work with it, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” I say, “But who wants to spend their week off being all sex-craved and clingy? I hate what I’m like when I’m in heat.”
“You’re no different from any other omega in heat,” Nate says.
“I know that, but I like being…I mean, I take pride in being somewhat independent.”
“Don’t I know it.”
I flip a page of my book very loudly. “It’s just a little uncomfortable to turn into that. Darn hormones.”
“They get the best of us all,” Nate replies.
That’s certainly true, but I wish the conversation hadn’t turned to the subject of me going into heat. When I’d considered going on this trip, I’d honestly forgotten I was getting close to going into heat again. But yeah, thinking about it, it’s about time.
Jackson, Alabama, is a small place. Its tree-laden hills seem like an entirely different world compared to the utter flatness of Florida. Right now, everything is bright green; it’s mostly yellow in Florida where the sun is too hot and has burned everything to within an inch of its life. With summer on the way, there certainly won’t be relief from that anytime soon.
Nate’s plantation house is in the middle of nowhere, down a twisting, bumpy dirt road. Trees line both sides of the road, and although I’m by no means a film connoisseur, I can see why this might be interesting to Nate. The long road and trees probably do look appropriately creepy at night. It’s the perfect setting for a serial killer to emerge from.
The trees eventually clear and make way for the plantation house. It’s large, but I’d expected larger, and painted white save for its green shutters. The glass in the windows looks old. Columns line the front of the house and the porch is surrounded by sprawling rose bushes. Overall, it looks predictably like the sort of house that would feature in Gone with the Wind.
Nate pulls up in front of it, parking on the grass beside a silver Chevy Cavalier. A sign indicates this is the Magnolia Bed and Breakfast. “Where did you end up learning about this place anyway?” I ask.
