5
ELEANOR
I should have known he’d be late. Hell, I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes already. I’m this close to accepting he’s blown me off completely.
I thrum my fingers against the steering wheel and stare at the little record shop. It’s a dingy, old place. Lots of character. All the signage is clearly made by hand and hasn’t been updated in god knows how long. It could all use a fresh coat of paint.
When I parked in front of the store, I was suddenly very grateful that Luke offered his help. This is the type of place you have to know what you’re doing to enter without looking like a rube.
Now, though, I’ve been here so long I’m convinced the owner is going to call the cops on me for loitering.
I look at my phone one more time to check the clock. Twenty- one minutes late. And not even a damn text message to apologize or to let me know he’s backing out.
I should have known he’d be like this. He snowed me at the concert last night and really made me feel like the only woman in the world. Of course, that was after he had a flirty back-and-forth with the bartender. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the way she was leaning over the bar told me everything I needed to know.
He’s used to the attention of women. And now I’ve played right into his hand, let him know I wouldn’t mind spending more time with him.
I’ve been played for a fool.
Part of me wants to U-turn out of the parking lot and head back home. But the drive out here was long, especially in Austin traffic. Traffic in every city blows, but at least in Chicago I understood the driving culture. Here, I feel like I’m getting honked at for every little thing. Just existing on the freeway seems to be an affront to other drivers.
I’ve come this far. Curmudgeon be damned, I’m not leaving empty-handed.
I get out of the car and head into the shop. I notice the scent of the store first: aging paper and comforting must. The shop is almost completely silent except for the crackling of vinyl playing through the speakers. There are other people here but they’re all quiet. The bright orange and yellow walls—which should be warm and welcoming—seem more cautionary, warning me that I don’t belong.
Luke was right about this place. It’s a collector’s haven. Which means everyone here is dower and serious as they sort through the records, looking for their find of the day.
I pull my purse over my shoulder, the weight of my camera reminding me of my plight. At the end of the long room of records is the checkout counter. It’s a foot off the ground which makes the man behind the counter look more like a judge than a cashier, the keeper of all the collectible records lining the walls behind him.
This must be Kenny Zapeta. He’s an older guy with errant hairs poking out of his ears and a grouper-like frown on his lips.
Yeah, Luke wasn’t lying. He’s intimidating, to say the least.
I approach the counter, ignoring the stares of the patrons as I go. They can smell I’m an outsider. Sharks ready to go in for the kill.
When I arrive in front of the counter, Kenny doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s reading.
“Excuse me?” I say, much softer than I mean to.
Kenny doesn’t move. He must not have heard me.
“Excuse me?” I say again. “Mr. Zapeta?”
“Huh?!” He rips the paper down from in front of his face and leans over the counter to lord over me. “What do you want?”
I should have picked out a few records as a cover. Then as he was checking me out, I could have subtly asked my questions. “Um . . . I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“What do you want, Miss?” he asks again. More insistent. More annoyed.
I reach into my bag, my hand gripping onto the picture. “You used to own The Lone Star. Correct?”
“Who wants to know?”
I want to know! Obviously, I want to know or else I wouldn’t be asking. I decide to plod ahead though I feel my cheeks burning with the heat of a billion suns. “I’m interested because—”
Before I can place the picture on the counter, Kenny swings a hand in my direction. “Bah. If you’re not going to buy anything, leave me alone.”
I wish I wasn’t so sensitive, but the way he’s treating me makes me want to cry. This situation is already embarrassing enough without getting tears involved. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to bother you, but—”
“Look, kid,” he begins with an annoyed sneer.
Thankfully, he doesn’t get a chance to finish that sentence because a familiar voice cries out from the front door. “Kenny!”
I turn on my heels to see Luke waltzing into the record shop, and holy cow he looks just as put together as he did the other night but in a completely different way. Instead of slick music promoter, today he’s giving hipster cowboy. White t-shirt overlaid with an open navy button down, blue jeans, whiskey-colored cowboy boots—and to top off the whole look—a fucking hat . Broad-brimmed and black.
I didn’t know I had a cowboy fantasy until this very moment.
“Wyatt,” Kenny barks. There’s still an edge in his voice but it’s a helluva lot more affectionate than the way he spoke to me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Luke removes his hat as he walks down the long record shop, revealing his golden hair. His boots clack against the floor with every step. I lean against the counter in an effort not to topple over. He smiles. “I see you’ve already met my friend, Eleanor!” he says with a gesture in my direction. His blue eyes flick to me for a second, long enough for me to read the apology in his eyes.
“I, uh . . . this is your friend?” Kenny asks.
Luke puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me back toward the counter so we both face the overlord of the record shop. I can’t ignore the feeling that zips down my spine at his touch. “Yeah, you haven’t met Eleanor yet? She’s a big deal.”
I scoff. “Luke . . .”
“What? You are!” he says with a glimmering smile.
Don’t know where he got that idea. Further proof I need to keep my wits about me around Luke Wyatt. He’s too charming for his own good.
“Where you from?” Kenny asks me.
“Chicago,” I answer, though my voice gives out on the second syllable.
Kenny nods curtly. “Yeah, thought so.”
“Hope you weren’t giving her too much of a hard time, Kenny.”
Kenny grunts. “I give everyone a hard time.”
Luke laughs and I force myself to laugh too. He goes on, “We wanted to come ask you a couple questions about the good ol’ days.”
Kenny cracks a smile. I didn’t know the man was capable of smiling. “Oh yeah? What do you want to know?”
Luke glances in my direction. “Well, Eleanor is new in town. She’s working at the Reeder Music Library.”
Kenny appraises me for a moment, and the tension in his forehead softens. “Is that right?”
Though the man still scares the bejeezus out of me, I manage to smile back. “That’s right.”
“What kind of work?” Kenny asks.
I blink at him, letting the silence linger long enough that Luke has to jab me in the side with his elbow. “I’m a photo archivist!” I blurt.
“Oh. That’s nifty,” Kenny says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“That’s what I said,” Luke says. “Anyway, she and I crossed paths, and she had some questions about a piece in the collection that I can’t answer, and you know if I can’t answer it that means it’s a real mystery.”
Kenny nods once. “True.”
“Why don’t you show him the photo, Nor?” Luke asks.
Nor . . . ? He’s calling me by a nickname now? People usually opt for El or Ellie. Nor is a new one. And to be honest, I kind of like it.
I realize I haven’t let go of the picture in my bag this whole time. I slide it out of its compartment and place it on the high countertop before Kenny. He whips a pair of glasses out from the front pocket of his shirt and slides them on, magnifying his otherwise beady eyes.
I glance at Luke. He ticks his chin toward me. Go on .
I clear my throat. “We don’t have any information other than the location and the date. I’m assuming from the photo she’s a musician, but there aren’t any matching images in the museum’s database and . . .”
“Mmm,” Kenny cuts me off with a low grunt. “Can’t help you.”
I’m not the only one who is stunned. Luke also seems to be taken aback, brow furrowing and lips dropping down. “What? You can’t help? Kenny, The Lone Star was yours!”
“Not then it wasn’t,” Kenny says without explanation, removing his glasses. He points the folded spectacles at the photo. “That year it wasn’t mine.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke says, a smile remaining on his face despite an edge of annoyance in his voice.
Kenny clears his throat. “Someone else was looking after it. I had to take a break to, uh, deal with the bottle, if you know what I mean.”
I raise my eyebrows. Well, that was an unexpected admission from a crotchety old guy.
“Been sober for almost three decades now if you can believe it,” he says with a soft smile.
“That’s amazing,” I say without considering whether I should speak or not. “Congratulations.”
The older man gives me a soft nod. “Thank you.”
I might not have any new information on the photo, but I’ve endeared myself to the record shop overlord and I’ll call that a win.
“So, someone was babysitting it for you, Ken?” Luke asks.
“Yup.”
Both Luke and I stare at Kenny, waiting for more of an explanation. When we don’t get it, Luke presses, “ Who?”
“Bobby.”
Seems to me Kenny is trying to ignore the question, but Luke immediately blurts, “Sutton?”
“Yup.”
Jeez, this guy really does know everything about everything around here. Music-wise, that is.
“I had no idea he was running The Lone Star,” Luke says.
Kenny lets out a loud guffaw. “Yeah, and we’d like to keep it that way. Bobby might be a master of the sax, but he can’t run a business for shit. Anyway, he had it that year.”
“Well, thanks Kenny, you’ve been a great help.” Luke swipes the photo off the counter and hands it over to me.
With utmost care, I put it right back where it’s been living in my bag so there’s no possible way for it to crease.
“You’re a liar, kid,” Kenny says. “Now buy something or get out.”
This time, when he says it, there’s a joking lilt to his voice. I can’t help but smile.
“On it, boss,” Luke says and puts his hat back on. I have to suppress a swoon. “Ready, Nor?”
I give him a small nod. “Thanks again,” I say to Kenny before stepping off.
“Yeah, yeah. Any time,” he mutters. And I think he means it, which is sweet and unexpected.
I follow Luke through the main lane of the record shop; when we’re only a few feet from the door, Kenny calls out, “And Wyatt?”
Luke turns his head and lifts his chin toward Kenny in question.
“Make sure you be a gentleman to your friend , huh?” Kenny says—a knowing look in his eye.
My cheeks heat up.
“Have I ever been anything but?” Luke replies with an easy smile.
I duck out of the store before anyone can see me blush.