Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  Gee, I wonder what that’s about?

  I wonder how many desperate girls in my situation are willing to suck up something like that? It makes me sad. I would never trade sex for free rent. Not in a million years. How desperate do you have to be to do that?

  I hope I never have to find out.

  Needing a break from my housing search, I walk over to the L.A. Gunslingers flier taped to the front door and take a closer look. I really wanted Skin Trade to play at Gunslingers this year because it’s not just prize money, it’s also great exposure.

  I guess Skin Trade doesn’t need any exposure now. Scott took care of that with the record contract he signed.

  Fucking Scott.

  But I need all the exposure I can get because I’m a nobody without Skin Trade. If for some reason Scott, Rex, and Bobby play Gunslingers without me, I will literally walk on stage and stab them while they play. That will get me all kinds of exposure.

  Just not the kind I need.

  Back to square one.

  Around one o’clock, while Johnny and Karen are out for a walk during their lunch break, the jingle bells ring as the front door opens.

  A new customer is silhouetted by the harsh Los Angeles sunlight. I’m happy for the distraction. Maybe he’ll buy something, unlike all the Looky-Loo’s we’ve had today.

  The tall slender figure walks inside like he’s stepping from the pages of an expensive fashion magazine. He’s tan, clean cut with thick swept back blond hair, and handsome in a way that can only be called dashing and debonair.

  His off white double breasted suit is impeccably cut. His high white collared shirt is pin-striped blue and white and goes perfectly with his patterned emerald tie and breast pocket handkerchief. The vibrant brown buttons on his jacket match his shimmering brown leather loafers. He’s the full color modernized version of an old time black and white movie star.

  While fiddling with one of his fancy gold cufflinks, he casually glances around at all the guitars.

  Yeah, he’s too sophisticated to be called a guy. He’s a man. Not like the men I grew up around. They all rode Harleys, got in bar fights, and thought the height of fashion was a tattered leather jacket with a motorcycle club patch on the back. This man is elegant and self assured. Confidence gleams from his eyes like he’s considering buying everything in the store.

  In short, he looks too rich and handsome for his own good.

  He’s the blond, upscale, classy version of Kellan, but with less muscles.

  I’ve been running into a lot of hot guys lately. Maybe Johnny was right about doors closing and opening.

  I ask from behind the counter, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” he smiles a $400,000 smile. “I need to buy a guitar.” He hasn’t looked at me yet, he’s busy analyzing the stock on the walls like he knows what he’s looking for. “There it is!” he grins. “A gold top Les Paul. Is that a ’57 or a ’58? I can’t tell from the pickups.” His eyes are riveted on the guitar like a hunter who has spotted his prey.

  He sure knows his guitars, which surprises me. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who knows the first thing about guitars. Business and money, yes. Music? Not even. He looks like he wouldn’t know a quarter note from a bank note.

  I say casually, “It’s a ’58.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  “Yup.”

  His eyes are still glued to the guitar, “How much?”

  “I’ll have to check, but I think it’s $30,000.” I pull out the three ring binder beneath the cash register that has all the prices in it, written in pencil or ink by either Johnny or Karen. They avoid using computers whenever possible. I flip through the binder until I find the price. I grin, “$29,995. I just saved you five bucks.”

  “Very generous of you,” he chuckles, still not looking at me. His teeth flash brightly and he’s got an amazing profile. He jokes, “I don’t think I could’ve afforded thirty thousand.” Finally, he turns to look at me. Everything on his face changes. "Hello,” he says softly, his eyes gleaming.

  I’m taken off guard. Seeing him front on I realize he’s more incredibly handsome than my earlier quick looks had promised. Flawless comes to mind. Oddly, I don’t like feeling attracted to him. Not one bit.

  He asks, “Do you work here?” He says it like it’s an impossibility.

  I smirk, “I’m behind the counter, aren’t I?”

  His smile softens, “Of course.” He seems slightly embarrassed. “That was rude of me.”

  “I would have to agree,” I say cockily, trying to hide my nervousness. Why is he making me nervous? Guys never make me nervous. Oh yeah. This isn’t a guy. This is a dashing man who obviously has money. And he’s at least thirty. I don’t know how to act around men like him. I feel like I’m going to use the wrong fork at the dinner table or not curtsey or whatever the fuck rich girls do.

  “It’s just that—” he stops himself. “I don’t want this to sound presumptuous, but shouldn’t you be on a catwalk in Paris? Or perhaps Milan?”

  “Where’s Milan?” I sound stupid, but all I ever did in Geography class was listen to remembered songs in my head. I’ve been doing that since I was little, whenever I get bored.

  “Italy,” he says with no judgement.

  I half expected him to give me shit for not knowing.

  He asks, “Have you never been?”

  I chortle like a dummy, “I’ve never even been to San Francisco.” Why am I spouting everything that comes to mind all of a sudden? I never show my hand so quickly. I make them work for it. Not that I’m on the market twelve hours after Scott dumped me. But a girl can window shop.

  He arches an eyebrow, “Would you like to go?”

  “To San Francisco?” I frown.

  “No, to Milan.”

  Is he serious?

  “I know this fabulous restaurant in the heart of Milan called Cracco. Carlo, the owner, serves the finest Italian Nouveau cuisine you could ever hope to find. You will think you’ve died and gone to heaven. And their sommelier is one of the best in the world.” His accent changes when he says the Italian words and names. I realize that there is a flow to his speech, a distinct sense of melody and rhythm. His voice is resonant and I imagine his words appearing in the air as notes on sheet music. I wonder if he sings? He must, the way he talks.

  I ask, “What’s a sommel yay?”

  He smiles indulgently, “Sommelier is French for wine steward.”

  “What’s that?” Wow, I sound dumber by the sentence. But something about this guy pulls it out of me and I can’t stop myself.

  “The task of the sommelier is to procure, properly store, and serve wine. He assists the chef in making decisions about which wines to serve with which dishes.”

  “Isn’t it just like, red with steaks and white with fish, or something like that?” I’m not totally ignorant.

  He smiles, “Something like that. Perhaps I can take you to Milan tomorrow and give you a thorough demonstration of all the possibilities?”

  Tomorrow? Show off. Yeah, he’s not just talking about wine and food. I’m sure he’d like to demonstrate my pants off and explore my possibilities. I need to steer the conversation back to business. “No, thanks. Do you want to see the ’58?”

  “I would.”

  I have to get the ladder from the back room to bring down the guitar. I predict Mr. Goldenblond Milan will stare at my ass while I’m on the ladder. I walk into the back and lug the ladder out front. I open it into an A and climb up to grab the Les Paul. To my surprise, Goldenblond is not standing in a position that allows him a view of my butt. He might have a view up my t-shirt, I can’t say for sure, but I’m wearing a bra.

  When I glance down, his eyes are locked on the Les Paul.

  I climb down the ladder carefully, holding the guitar in one hand. I’ve had practice, so I make it look easy. My first day on the job, I almost dropped a ’62 Telecaster, but I’ve improved since then.

  I hand Goldenblond the guitar.
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  He takes it carefully in both hands like he’s inspecting it but doesn’t know what to do with it beyond look.

  I ask, “Do you play?” I half expect him to shred on it like Kellan did last night. But that’s unlikely.

  “Guitar?” he says thoughtfully. “Not really. I can pick a few notes, but I prefer to leave the playing to the experts.”

  “So why are you buying it?” I’ve learned to talk like the sale is a done deal. Karen taught me that.

  “It’s a gift. For a friend. A very special friend.”

  “A girl?” I ask. Maybe he’s married and it’s for his mistress.

  He shakes his head and smiles, “No.”

  Aaaahhhh. That explains everything. He’s gay. The guitar is for his secret mastress, or whatever you call a man mistress. But I notice he isn’t wearing a wedding ring. And he was hitting on me super hard. Maybe he’s bi? Yeah, he’s one of those rich as shit thrill seeker types who needs everything in life to be dangerous and adventurous every minute of the day.

  He examines the guitar some more. “Should I assume everything works?”

  “What, the guitar?” I ask, confused and slightly offended. We don’t sell guitars that don’t work. Johnny checks everything before he buys anything for the store, and if something doesn’t work, he fixes things himself before the guitar goes on the wall.

  Goldenblond smiles with tons of indulgent innuendo, “Yes…the guitar.” He stares at me like I’m lunch. His eyes caress my neck. How is he doing that? I can literally feel my neck getting hotter.

  “Yeah, it works,” I say sarcastically. Unlike your moves, buddy. I break his eye contact and my neck cools instantly. I’m not falling for his Slick Rickery.

  “Can you show me?” Goldenblond asks.

  “You mean the authentication papers?” Collectors always ask for them before anything else. The store keeps them all in a filing cabinet behind the counter.

  “No…” he purrs, “…the instrument. I would like to hear it played.”

  I can tell he’s lumping me into the same category as the guitar from the way he says “instrument” and “played.”

  Yes, he’s undeniably charming. But no, he’s not going to play me.

  No way.

  I tell myself it’s just Goldenblond’s handsome looks, which I refuse to fall for. It’s obvious he likes trophies from the way he dresses and from his interest in expensive guitars. My price is more than he can afford. I like a man with a wallet full of sincerity, which this guy has none of. Scott acted super charming in the beginning. Oh, how that changed.

  Back to business.

  My job is to sell guitars, not a piece of my ass. I’m going to play Goldenblond’s game because I’m not going to fall for it. I know better. If a little flirtation is good for business, I’ll turn on the charm.

  It’s just a game, right?

  Besides, I’d love to tell Karen & Johnny I sold the gold top Gibson for a bucket o’ cash while they were at lunch. Maybe the shop can stay open an extra month.

  I say, “I thought you said you didn’t play?” I say the word “play” like I’m saying blowjob. “How are you going to know if the guitar is any good or not?” When I say “guitar” I stare at the Gibson, which he’s holding in front of his crotch. I giggle. I’ve done this before. Girls, don’t try this at home. Unless you’ve dated enough hot guys who are pricks to know better. It usually takes only one before you figure it out.

  Fucking Scott.

  Goldenblond smirks, “I know what I like.” His eyes beam into mine, priceless green jewels that match his tie and handkerchief.

  This guy is as subtle as an earthquake. No way he’s gonna shake me up. I’m wise to his game.

  He holds the guitar out to me, hand around the neck of the guitar, expecting me to take it from him. “Indulge me,” he says. I notice his cologne now that his hand is literally four inches from my face.

  I have to admit, I like it. It smells classy, like limousines and lear jets to me. Not that I would know. But it’s not oil changes and muscle cars, that’s for sure. Variety is the spice of life, right?

  I arch an eyebrow, briefly glance at the guitar like there’s no way I’m touching it. I spin my back to him, leaving him holding nothing but his guitar in his hands.

  I sashay over to the counter then bend over, pretending to search for an instrument cable behind it.

  Now I know he’s checking out my ass. I can feel it, but I’m wearing tight jeans, so it’s only PG-13. I roll my eyes out of his line of sight while my ass is in the air, waiting for him to take the bait. I’m gonna hook this fish. It’s just business. I’m a saleswoman.

  Once I know he’s squirming on the line, and in his pants, I say, “Found it!” like I didn’t know where the instrument cable was all along.

  When I turn around, I giggle once and make eye contact while strutting toward him. I brush my shoulder against his when I plug the cord into an old Fender Tone Master.

  Once the vacuum tube amp has warmed up, I sit down on top of another one of the store’s amps and rest the guitar on my knee. I turn up the volume to a modest level, and strum a few gentle chords on the Les Paul. I let the last chord ring out and flip the pickup selector switch back and forth so he can see that both pickups work properly, then twist the volume and tone knobs on and off to show they work too.

  “See?” I smirk. “Everything works.”

  “I said I would like to hear the instrument played.”

  “Would you now?” I flirt.

  “I suspect you can do a better job than that.”

  I scrutinize his face, “What kind of job would you like?”

  His luscious mouth widens into a smile and he chuckles, “Whatever kind you prefer.”

  He really is dashingly handsome. My face is heating up against my will. I ease my lips into a controlled smile. “If you insist,” I tease.

  He has this look on his face like he’s sizing my head for a plaque to fit on his wall between the heads of the other women he’s mounted, both in bed and on his trophy wall.

  I’m willing to bet Goldenblond is one of those guys.

  Time to give him a show and bag the sale. He’s not the only hunter in this lodge.

  No one else is in the store, so I turn the amp up to a decent volume. I caress the neck of the Les Paul and coax notes from it like I’m dipping Goldenblond’s honey wand in the honey pot and I’m drizzling golden goodness all over it. Too bad I only use my honey on unsuspecting fly brained fools like Goldenblond.

  I almost break into laughter. I never act like this with customers. I have too much self respect. But he’s totally asking for it.

  I continue to play a seductive melody on the Les Paul. Before I realize it, I’m caught up in the sensuous solo that I’m spinning from the strings of the guitar.

  I can’t fake it when I play. If I’m playing something sensuous, I have to feel the sensuality, or else it sounds fake. In good music, your truth always comes out. So what if Goldenblond is totally hot and I’m a little bit turned on right now and it’s totally obvious to him.

  When I finish my improvised guitar solo, I’m burning up beneath my sleeveless Whitesnake t-shirt.

  He grins at me, his face relaxed into a sultry smile. “Mmmm, that was fantastic.”

  I can’t decide if he’s talking about my playing, the guitar, or me. From the look in his eyes, probably all three.

  “I’ll take it,” he grins, staring me down.

  Wow, sales for $30,000 guitars usually take a bit more work than this. I’m not complaining. “I’ll go get the case from the back.”

  “Is it the original case? I know that’s important.”

  I nod, “Yeah. Be right back.” I take the guitar with me since I’m the only one in the store. I pause half way to the back room when I realize the ladder is still out there. He could easily climb up and snatch any one of the guitars off the wall and run out the front door while I’m in the back. Just because he’s wearing a suit doesn’
t mean squat. After my Fender was stolen from my car in a rich neighborhood this morning, I’m gun shy.

  I say, “You know what? I have to wait for the owner to get back from lunch. I’m thinking they moved the case for this one.” It sounds like a lame excuse, but I can’t think of a better one.

  I’m torn because I don’t want to lose this sale. It means a lot of money for the shop. For Johnny and Karen’s retirement. If I make this guy wait, he might change his mind and walk out of here.

  “I’m in somewhat of a hurry,” Goldenblond says.

  Shit.

  He asks, “Can I have it delivered?”

  “We don’t usually do that,” I stammer. We’ve never done that.

  “How about I throw in an extra thousand and pay right now?”

  I can’t say no to that. “Okay.” I glance around for a place to put the guitar. The plush purple guitar block is empty. Johnny finished restringing the hollow body ES-335 before he and Karen left for lunch, so I set the Gold Top Les Paul on the block.

  I pretend to smooth my shirt down but really I’m wiping the sweat off them because I’m going to sell a $30,000 guitar! Johnny usually handles the really big sales.

  I ask, “How did you want to pay?”

  “Cash.”

  I’m suddenly nervous. Who carries that much cash? I bet it’s counterfeit. Too bad we don’t have one of those magic pens you see at the post office to check if the money is fake. I guess I can hold the bills up to the light and check for that tiny strip inside the paper that says which bill it is. But even if he pays with hundred dollar bills, that’s 300 bills I have to scrutinize in the light! That’ll take an hour or more! I never imagined cash could be such a pain in the ass.

  Goldenblond says, “I can see you’re nervous about the cash. How about I pay by cashier’s check. I can run to the bank and get one right now.”

  The last thing I want is for him to walk out that door without paying. He might never come back. “Ahhh…”

  “Credit card then?” he asks. “You take them, don’t you?”