by Beck, Jamie
We’ll see about that.
“Fine.” I had to be careful not to give anything away. “Please call me if you learn anything.”
“Erin, trust me. I know what those records mean to you. I’ll do everything I can, okay?”
He meant that, but I couldn’t sit around waiting, especially when I wasn’t bound by his rules.
“Thanks.” I closed my eyes. Rodri had been a good friend for half my life. Tons of people assumed we’d slept together, but we never had. Ours was not that kind of love. Too bad, really. My parents would’ve been happy if I had ended up with a nice, stable cop from a decent family. Instead, I’d chosen Max, who’d turned out to be worse than a simple loser. A heartless, cruel thief. As bad as Lyle, if I were being honest. Boy, that didn’t make me happy. I’d never before considered myself a dupe.
“Wanna grab a beer or something this week?” Rodri sounded distracted, like someone else was waiting for him to finish the call.
“I won’t be good company until I find Max. But call me later. Bye!” I hung up and hopped on my bike, heading for Nuts & Bolts to find Max’s BFF, Joe, a mechanic and fellow stoner. The low-lying body shop had been in his family for two generations. Dingy white paint flaked off the brick exterior like old bark. Not that I cared about its state of disrepair. Joe was Max’s friend, so his family business meant less than nothing to me. Heck, I hadn’t even owned a car since the rusted-out Volkswagen I’d bought at twenty-one finally gave up the ghost two years ago.
In my haste to get to Joe, I didn’t bother locking my bike. Instead I leaned it against the wall and strode right into the garage, coughing from the stench of oil and engines. “Joe Marinelli, get your butt over here!”
Joe popped his head out from under the hood of a nice-looking Cadillac. “Erin?”
He’d pulled his dark hair into a short ponytail, but one section had fallen forward. The baggy work attire didn’t hide an otherwise smokin’ body. Six feet three. Clooney eyes and a sweet smile. Yeah, Joe was a hottie, but not any more motivated than Max. If it weren’t for his dad keeping him employed, he’d probably be sponging off folks like Max did.
I marched over to him, my hands on my hips. “Where’s your lying thief of a friend?”
Joe sucked at poker, as proven by the numerous times I’d beaten him. He had many tells, like, right now, the way he scratched his ear and avoided my gaze. “Dunno.”
“Bull.” I extended my arm, palm up. “Hand me your phone, please.”
“What?” He half laughed, waving me off like I was a powerless little flea. “Why?”
“The phone, Joe.” When he continued to play dumb—or be dumb, I couldn’t be sure—I barked, “I’ve already gone to the cops. Make no mistake, I’ll do anything to get my dad’s albums back, and I don’t care who gets hurt in the process. If you don’t cooperate, Rodri will be here in five minutes to write you up for obstruction.”
Thank God for my gift of projecting toughness. It came in handy more often than I could say. Actually, maybe I owed my mom for that, because she’d honed it with her chronic stream of criticism.
“Aw shit, Erin.” He scowled with a sigh and then put his phone in my hand.
“Unlock it.”
He took it back, pressed his thumb to the button, and then handed it to me like a petulant child.
“Thank you so much.” I turned my back on him and dialed Max. Unlike with my recent calls, he answered Joe’s on the second ring.
“Hey, Joe, ’sup?” Max’s happy, dippy voice hit my eardrums like a knife scraping china. Not for the first time, I ached for how someone I’d loved had done the worst possible thing he could think of to hurt me. No wonder my sister was so flabbergasted by Lyle. I should be more patient with her.
“It’s not Joe, but don’t you dare hang up unless you want the cops on your tail.” In my mind, I resembled a fire-breathing dragon.
“Erin?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” I closed my eyes, gathering strength. “You know why I’m calling. I want my albums back yesterday, Max.”
A pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I stomped my foot, yelling, “Do not get cute with me. We both know you took them, and if you don’t bring them back today, prepare for an unholy war.”
He huffed, acting blasé. “You’d have to find me first.”
Time to roll the dice on my hunch. “You’re at your mom’s, dumb-ass.”
“How’d you . . .” He stopped himself, but now I had confirmation. “I didn’t steal anything. You owed me something after the way you kicked me out.”
I owed him?
“Don’t be a dick. I never even asked you to repay the charges you ran up on my card last month, though I probably should. You know what those albums mean to me. Just bring them back and I’ll tell Rodri to call off the extradition paperwork.” Max needn’t know that paperwork hadn’t gone into effect.
“You went to Rodri?” he yelped. Good. While it would’ve been nice to have heard a bit of guilt with that fear, I wasn’t holding my breath.
“Yes, and he’ll be at your mom’s door tonight unless you return my property. Thousands of dollars of stolen property, Max. Felony-level crime. You want that on your record?”
I smiled when he cursed, but then a long pause made me wary.
He heaved a sigh. “I don’t have them.”
Desperation—not at all my choice emotion—pushed past all bravado. Tears were clogging my throat. “Please. Let’s not end our whole relationship on this crappy note. I don’t want that, do you? All I want are my records.”
“Sorry, Erin. I sold them and then used the money to come here. Lost some at the casino . . .”
My heart stopped. I hadn’t considered this complication. Jesus, I had no time to waste. “Sold them to whom?”
“Some dude Clyde knew who collects classic records.”
Clyde—Max’s buddy who played jazz guitar at local clubs like the Lamplight. “What ‘dude’?”
“I don’t remember. Eli something. He’s there in town.”
If I could’ve reached through the phone to strangle Max, I would’ve. “Eli who? Where in town? Apartment, house, condo? East side or west?”
“Hang on, let me see if I can find the email,” he said, pausing. “But you swear you’ll call off Rodri?”
If Max needed to think he had some bargaining power, I’d oblige long enough to get what I needed. “I don’t care if I never see you again. I told you, all I want is my property.”
A few seconds later, he said, “Eli Woodruff, 152 Willow Lane. Okay? We square?”
“Square?” I shook my head, although only Joe could see me. “You’re unbelievable. You’d better take my next call. If I can’t find this Eli person, this isn’t the last you’ll be hearing from me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Put Joe on the phone, okay?”
The fact that I’d been hoodwinked by a guy who’d been using me for only a roof and a warm bed really chapped my butt. “First let me thank you for ensuring that I never have a single moment of regret for dumping you.”
I handed Joe the phone before Max could say something else to enrage me. On my way out of the garage, I overheard Joe apologizing to his friend, which made me want to run back and toss a wrench at his stupid head.
I hopped on my bike, planning to make an unexpected house call on this Eli person, then thought better of that. Who knew what kind of creep he’d be? If memory served, Clyde had some strange friends. I pedaled back to the station, where Rodri was getting off for a late lunch break. “I know where my records are. Max sold them to a guy here in town. I was going to go get them on my own but thought it’d be better to get you involved. Can we go now?”
He scowled. “You can’t come.”
“Please, Rodri! I need to see them and make sure they’re all there. I swear, I’ll come but keep quiet.” When I remembered I hadn’t yet shared Eli’s name and address yet, I added, “If you don’t let me come, then I’ll go on my own
without involving you.”
“Erin, the guy could be dangerous.” The concern coloring his expression made my stomach hurt. But I never gave up any advantage that came my way—not when they were as elusive as shooting stars.
“I know, so don’t make me go alone. I promise I’ll stay in the car until you make sure it’s safe. Please bend the rules this one time.”
“Aw, shit.” Rodri glanced around as if checking to make sure no one overheard us. “You know I can’t ever say no to those big brown eyes. Get in the squad car and swear you won’t do anything without my say-so.”
“I swear.” I hoped I’d keep that promise, too, and truly I did. I locked my bike up at the rack before climbing into his front seat.
“I know I’ll regret this.” He slid behind the wheel. “Address?”
After giving him the information, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you. I owe you huge. Now let’s hope this guy is at home. He has to give my stuff back, right? Stolen goods and all.”
Rodri nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get your stuff back. How’d you get this info so fast?”
“Gimme a little credit. It’s not too hard to trick Max.” I rolled down the window, feeling like I could breathe for the first time since discovering the albums were gone. Losing them was like losing my dad all over again.
“Songs are miniature stories,” he’d told me once, when he’d sweetened an afternoon of garden chores by propping a speaker in an open window so he and I could listen to U2.
I’d always hated to read, habitually losing focus partway through any story, so I’d chewed that over while cutting back and digging out the old shrubs before planting new ones. Finally I’d proclaimed that songs changed the world more than books did because people remembered all the words to songs but not to books.
I still remember the way he smiled at me, shaking his head without argument. I miss how he accepted my way of seeing things without forcing me to see them his way. I also remembered him saying U2 would probably outlast many other bands, and he was right. Sadly, they also outlasted my dad.
Rodri pulled down Willow Lane to a sweet little Craftsman-style house, dark green with maroon accents and a covered front porch. The surrounding thatch of trees gave it an enchanted look. Not the kind of home a thief or dangerous person—or friend of Clyde’s—would live in. In fact, it looked more like something Amanda might like, with its neat yard and shrubs.
When I went to open the door, Rodri grabbed my arm. “You stay put.”
“Fine.” I slumped back, sulking.
After Rodri got out of the car, I rested both arms out my window, straining to watch the action. Shouldn’t be too hard when the driveway was barely a stone’s throw from the front door. Within a minute, a man answered and stepped onto the porch.
A striking man who looked like he could be Jared Leto’s brother. He had a hint of facial hair, but more like he’d forgotten to shave for two days than any real attempt at a beard or ’stache. An oval face—hollowed cheeks, fine nose. His hair begged to have fingers running through it . . . thick and glossy and a touch wavy.
Even from a distance, I liked his vibe. Loose-fitted jeans and a well-worn T-shirt covered his lean, fit frame. His bare feet appealed to my casual nature. He wore a thick leather bracelet on one arm and a silver one on the other. From what I could tell, he had no tats.
He stood there peering at me over Rodri’s shoulder. When our eyes met, the air all around me heated. From where I sat, his eyes looked pale, but I couldn’t tell if they were green or blue. Either way, the round shape fit the keen yet somber expression. He oozed an old-soul quality that would never be complicit in the purchase of stolen goods.
A serious hottie, but given Max’s and Lyle’s recent behavior, lust was trouble I didn’t need to borrow.
Rodri waved me up to the porch, reminding me why we had come. The albums. God, nothing would be right in my world until those were back in my possession.
Eli’s eyes dipped ever so briefly to my bare midriff before he jerked them back up. If he thought my knee-length Easter egg–print yoga pants, jog bra, and Birkenstocks odd or ugly, he didn’t show it. The stiff soles of my old sandals clomped on the wood steps.
“Erin, this is Eli. He wants to confirm which albums are yours, in case some of the ones he bought weren’t stolen. I don’t have the report with me . . .”
“Oh,” I said, then risked an up-close look at Eli. He didn’t look pissed or defiant, which was a good sign. “Hi, Eli. Nice to meet you. I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I have to get my dad’s records back.”
“So I’ve heard.” His voice was even prettier than that face. Clear and rich, masculine without being too deep or raspy. “Hope you understand why I’d like a little proof that they’re all yours.”
“What if I rattle them off right now?”
Both men stared at me with some surprise. Eli crossed his arms, distracting me by calling my attention to the muscle movement beneath his T-shirt. “Go ahead, then.”
“Sure.” I looked down, giving my head a tiny shake to concentrate, then wondered if Eli could pick up a pencil with his long, thin toes. Focus! “There were three crates. How about I do them in order of value, starting with the most valuable? David Bowie’s 1974 Diamond Dogs—the original cover that got pulled. Then there’s Nirvana’s rerelease of Bleach from 1992. The Beatles’ The Collection from 1982. Probably next is U2’s Joshua Tree Collection, the ’87 box set. Led Zeppelin’s BBC Sessions from 1997. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, with the gatefold sleeve. Springsteen’s first pressing of The Rising—”
Eli held up his hand. “Okay, okay. It’s your collection.” He looked almost like he was stifling a smile, although he had nothing to smile about. The poor guy was out several grand. I shouldn’t feel guilty about that, but I did.
He turned to Rodri. “I had no idea the guy didn’t own the albums, Officer. He seemed more desperate than devious.”
A fair observation of Max.
“I believe you.” Rodri waved away Eli’s concern about being arrested. “Unfortunately, you do have to give them back. But you can file charges against the guy who sold them to you, and you can file a lawsuit to get your money back.”
“That’d probably cost me as much in lawyers’ fees as I’m out.” Eli shrugged.
I narrowed my eyes. He seemed way too relaxed about letting thousands of dollars disappear. “What did Max charge you, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“Fifteen hundred dollars.” Eli stared at me as if waiting for a reaction, and he got one, no doubt.
I raised my arms with a glare intended for Max, who wasn’t even there. “That idiot. Seriously . . .”
Rodri looked at me. “Are they worth that much more?”
Eli and I simultaneously said yes and then stopped and looked at each other.
“I could probably get close to five grand for the collection of those ones I named,” I said, suddenly aware that Eli’s gaze was traveling from my boots up my legs. “The rest aren’t expensive, but they’re old favorites . . . reminders—”
“You might get seven for the whole collection,” Eli interrupted.
“So then, one could say—in a way—you knew you’d gotten a steal, huh?” That came out flirtier than intended or appropriate, and Eli’s slow smile stirred a slight flutter.
With a half shrug, he said, “Let me grab them for you.”
“Need a hand?” Rodri asked.
“Sure.” Eli held open the screen door.
“I’ll help, too.” I stepped inside without an invitation, eager to see my babies. Eli didn’t object.
His place smelled homey—like coffee and fresh bread—maybe with a hint of pine. Hardwood floors and oak wainscot added an extra cozy warmth. Mo would love to curl up on that comfy-looking garnet-colored sofa and stare out the window, though the rest of the furnishings were unremarkable. Eli kept his home neat, but not in the sterile way I could feel in my sister’s clean house. But what struck me most wer
e the guitars. At least six that I could see: four acoustic, two electric.
Lots of people thought they had stuff to say, but artists—creative people—actually dug into the big questions about life and love. Maybe I hoped hanging out with them would reveal answers I still hadn’t found. I wondered what Eli could teach me, then reminded myself of my quest to figure out my own life.
Eli couldn’t teach me squat about myself, so I’d simply be grateful that the decent man with a beautiful face was handing me back my property without a fight.
“Over here.” Eli motioned for us to follow him to the dining room, where the albums remained neatly placed on the floor as if awaiting a permanent home. I teared up with relief.
We each hefted a crate and marched them out to the squad car and carefully set them in the trunk.
Rodri shook Eli’s hand first. “Thanks for cooperating. You should file some kind of report or claim, even if only in small-claims court.”
I didn’t disagree, but I also didn’t want Eli to waste his time or more money. “I hate to say it, but Max is broke, so even if Eli got a judgment, I doubt he’d see any money. Max gambled and lost the money he got from the sale.” I grimaced. “Sorry.”
Eli nodded, looking at me with that half smile, like nothing about this was worth getting too upset about. “It’s fine. It’s half my fault. Like you said, I should’ve asked more questions when he charged me so little.”
I stuck my hand out, admiring him for being a stand-up guy during a week when it’d be easy to give up on men. “Thank you for making this easy on me. I’m beyond relieved to get them back but feel terrible leaving you with nothing. I don’t have money, but I make bath products—all organic—and I teach yoga. If you want free soaps or yoga instruction, I’m your girl. Call me anytime. My name is Erin Turner.”
When I caught Rodri’s eyes rolling upward, heat rose in my cheeks. I hadn’t meant to be so eager.
Eli grabbed my outstretched hand with both of his. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Everything about his manner put me at ease. In a way, his calm acceptance reminded me of my father.
