Chapter 8
8
Ryan
I woke up this morning with a hard-on and the remnants of a dream. The details were sparse, but the memory was more than enough to get me off before I had to get up for work.
In the dream, I was in the back room at the bookstore, only I was a werewolf, and I had Josie pressed against the shelves.
Her skirt was up around her waist—so unsophisticated—and her legs were wrapped around my hips. Dream Josie was warm and as tight as that perfect little bun on top of her head. I had an animalistic urge to devour her, to control her and make her mine. To show her who was the boss.
Then she reached up, removing the elastic around her bun so the dark waves of her hair cascaded down, releasing the scent of her floral shampoo. I loved seeing her unravel, shedding her prim and proper exterior. She was no better than me.
But then her eyes flew open, and whatever she saw in me made her shut down. Gone were the desperate pleas for me to go harder, faster, deeper—and in their place was the stuck-up ice queen I’ve come to know all too well. Dream Josie pushed me away, pulling up her panties and lowering her skirt, mumbling excuses about having to get back to her store. She had important, intelligent books to sell to important, intelligent people. She had to make money, so she could beat me and fire my staff and turn my bookstore into a cold, bleak literary hellscape.
That part didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a premonition.
“Hey, Romeo, I think that one’s got enough tape on it.”
I snap to attention and glance down at the blind date book I’m wrapping in brown paper. Cinderella’s right—there are six pieces of tape where I only need one.
“Mind’s somewhere else,” I mumble.
Cinderella smirks as if she knows what I was thinking.
Her hair is now a vibrant green, like the M I prefer stories that could really happen. Books where I can picture myself as the main character meeting the LOML, having that instant spark that makes people say, “When you know, you know.”
Although the last time I thought I “knew,” the other person did not. I have no intention of getting myself in that position again, but I still love seeing it play out in fiction.
“Your mind’s been somewhere else a lot lately,” Cinderella says.
“There’s a lot going on,” I tell her. “With the store.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She narrows her eyes as she tapes a sloppy corner on another book. If only she paid as much attention to her job as she does to my personal life. “Things got a little heated with you and that Tabula girl yesterday.”
“Yeah, well.”
“It’s not like you to let someone get under your skin like that.”
She’s not wrong. When I’m around Josie Klein, I can go from completely fine to pissed to turned on in the length of a heartbeat. But I can’t explain why, so I shrug and say, “It’s not every day someone comes into my store and disrespects my customers and staff.”
This seems to satisfy Cinderella, who moves on to wrap another blind date book.
“Speak of the devil,” she says a moment later, nodding toward the front of the store.
Confused, I follow her gaze. Josie is standing outside, checking out our new display windows. She looks past one of the mannequins reading in a suggestive pose and her eyes lock with mine. I give her a wide, unabashed grin and wave because I know it will piss her off.
Her eyes grow as wide as they did in my dream, and she disappears again, back to the safety of her boring store and its vanilla window display.
“You want to bone her,” Cinderella says in a know-it-all voice.
“Do not,” I say, although it’s hard to sound convincing when the memory of my dream is so fresh.
Cinderella shakes her head. “I wanted you to read enemies-to-lovers books, not find yourself in the middle of one. That’s what this reeks of. The two of you, pitted against each other, only then—”
“—only then the assistant manager gets back to work,” I say, handing her another book to wrap.
“I saw what I saw yesterday. And that’s how the story goes—one day you’re ripping each other’s heads off; the next, you’re ripping off each other’s clothes.”
“The blind date books have been a big hit,” I say, desperate to change the subject.
And it’s true. The success of this program has shattered everything I thought I knew about what makes people buy a book. Apparently, they don’t need to see the cover, back cover copy, or blurbs.
The coolest part is the books we’ve been selling. We’ve included a few bestsellers, but it’s mostly been old stock, backlist titles that didn’t get as much attention as they should have.
I was talking about this just last night with BookshopGirl. We kept chatting until almost one a.m. after our Never Have I Ever game. I was tipsy by the end and making even more spelling errors than usual. Luckily, BSG has never once made me feel dumb about them (unlike Josie Klein, the High Priestess of Intellectual Snobbery). Anyway, she and I both agree it’s impossible to really know what will sell and what will collect dust on our shelves.
Personally, I think the whole thing is random. Publishing companies throw books at the wall like spaghetti to see what sticks. BSG seems to have more faith in the system, believing that publishers look to tastemakers and other literary elite to help predict what readers will like.
If that’s the case, I don’t fit the mold of that literary elite. Which tracks.
The bell on the front door chimes, and I look up to see Eliza, wearing a hoodie from her soccer team. School’s officially out for the summer, but she still has practice most mornings.
“Perfect timing,” I say, tossing her the roll of Scotch tape. She catches it with one hand, grinning.
“Ooh, blind dates!” She joins Cinderella, and I head back to shelve the shipment that came in this afternoon. I could delegate this task, but I enjoy deciding where the books go. At the moment, I have a whole shelf featuring the “only one bed” trope, and another section featuring love interests named Josh. My system isn’t neat or logical—Josie seemed revolted by it—but our customers love to browse and explore, discovering books they might have otherwise walked by.
I’m debating where to shelve a new M4M young adult title that’s gained popularity thanks to social media, when the front door chimes again.
“Excuse me, is RJ working today?”
The familiar voice stops me in my tracks.
“I’m sorry,” Cinderella says. “We don’t have an RJ here.”
“Oh.” There’s disappointment in her voice. The voice that belongs to a woman I haven’t seen in more than a decade.
I could easily stay back here and let another decade pass, but I know that’s not what Jack would have wanted. I look down at the novel in my hands, wishing my best friend could have lived to see the day when he could walk into a bookstore and buy a book like this. A love story he could imagine himself in.
“Mrs. Palmer,” I say, stepping into view.
“RJ.” Her eyes shimmer, and I know she’s not seeing me. She’s seeing the shadow of her son. RJ and JR—best friends since first grade. Our birthdays were a day apart, and we celebrated every milestone together—until senior year of high school.
After everything happened, the Palmers sold their house and moved away. Somewhere they wouldn’t have to see me getting older while my best friend, their son, stayed forever seventeen.
“I think you can call me Brenda now,” Mrs. Palmer says, walking toward me. “I heard you were still working here.”
“I’m running the place now,” I say, and the pride in her smile makes me stand even taller.
“That’s really something. How are your parents doing?”
It’s the kind of small talk reserved for familiar strangers, even though I used to think of Mrs. Palmer—Brenda—as a second mom.
“They’re great,” I say, happy to report the truth. “They’re throwing a big party for their fiftieth anniversary in a few weeks—I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
“We’ll be back home by then. In Florida.”
So that’s where they went.
“How about you?” Brenda / Mrs. Palmer asks. “Anyone special in your life?”
Cinderella chuckles, and I shoot a glare in her direction. At least Eliza is pretending not to eavesdrop, wrapping a blind date book with excellent precision.
“Not at the moment. I’m too busy helping other people find their love stories.” I hold up the book, expecting her to blanch at the cover image of two young men wrapped in an embrace, but she doesn’t.
“Is that a good one?” she asks.
“It’s excellent,” I say, holding it out for her to take.
She accepts it, turning it over. I wait for her cheeks to burn bright as she reads the back copy about the lovers, two young men from families who didn’t accept them for who they are, who ran away and found family in each other. To her credit, she doesn’t.
“This does look good,” she says. “I think I’ll get it.”
“It’s on the house,” I say, ignoring the way Cinderella’s jaw drops. Last week, after another “barter” incident, I laid down the law: no more trades or freebies. I’ll run my credit card for this later; the thought of Mrs. Palmer reading that book is worth far more than $17.99 plus tax.
“Thank you.” Her eyes well with tears, and I know she’s trying to find the right words to make a graceful exit.
“It was good to see you, Mrs. Palmer. Brenda.” I give her a hug, aware of how strange it is to be looking down at this woman I used to look up to. “Please don’t be a stranger.”
She gives my arm a loving tap before turning to go, and I wonder what she’ll find if she comes back in another decade. If I’ll still be here, managing whatever this store becomes. Or if she’ll find Josie behind the counter, the LGBTQ romance section confined to a tiny back corner.
If there is one at all.
How can anyone stand this place?
The memory of what Josie said turns my sorrow into a rallying cry, a reminder that it’s not just myself and my staff I’m fighting for. It’s for the girls and guys and gays and theys who deserve the support and solidarity my best friend never got.
I couldn’t save him, but I can save this place for them.