The Indie – Summer
THE INDIE
SUMMER
Ilay in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
I had one hand behind my head, the other beneath my panties, replaying every second I'd spent with that damn billionaire cosplayer.
Ever since I’d come home, I’d been wishing I’d borrowed five minutes of Jenny’s shamelessness and told him exactly who I was.
I’m Summer Connors. I own Slow Burn.
Maybe he would’ve said, “Let’s go back to my place so I can make you scream my name,” and fucked me like one of the filthy fictional billionaires he was pretending to be…
Maybe he would’ve saved me from sitting through a panel about saving struggling indie bookstores, listening to experts suggest every damn thing I’d already tried.
Host more events.
Build a stronger community.
Cut unnecessary expenses.
Gee, how insightful…
BAH-RINGGG! BAH-RINGGG!
My four o’clock alarm shattered whatever was left of my fantasy.
Reality was here, and it was far too soon.
By five, I was dressed for my latest attempt at saving Slow Burn.
With any luck, I’d have my new double life in place by the end of the week.
Slow Burn by day. Someone else’s employee by night.
Maybe then no one would ever have to know my bookstore was becoming exactly what its name implied.
A dying ember.
I stepped off the subway in Manhattan an hour later, smoothing my interview dress and hoping I looked like someone who was serious about getting hired.
When I made it two blocks down, my phone buzzed in my purse.
Jenny
Hey! I came to your store super early this morning. Where the heck are you?
Just running some errands. I’ll be back.
You’ve been “running some errands” during the twilight hours a lot lately…
Is everything alright?
Yes, Jenny. Everything is fine.
You promise?
No… But it will be. I promise THAT.
I’ll be here waiting for you to explain what the hell THAT means…
I sighed and closed my inbox, pulling up the job ad I'd saved weeks ago.
The pay was ridiculous compared to the last five night-shift jobs I'd applied for. If I could land this one and hold onto it for six months, I'd make enough to keep Slow Burn alive.
Unfortunately, I was probably one of a hundred people who'd done that math.
Established Book Warehouse Searching for Packers & Loaders
$45/hour plus benefits
Night Shift Only
I stared up at the massive steel building, and my confidence slipped a notch.
The last five places had lost interest the second they learned I owned a business of my own. Apparently, I desperately need a second job to keep said business alive wasn't the selling point I'd thought it would be.
Straightening my back, I walked into the building with my printed resume in hand and my pride firmly tucked away.
“Welcome to Sinclair Paperback Printing!” A brunette smiled at me from the receptionist desk.
“Wait a minute.” I paused. “You mean Hudson Paperback Printing, right?”
“If you’d come by last week, yeah.” She waved a hand. “Adrian Sinclair just bought us in a private sale, so…”
Oh, fuck this.
For three full seconds, I considered turning around and walking straight back to the subway.
Then I remembered the forty-five dollars an hour.
“How may I help you today, Miss?” The woman tilted her head to the side.
“I have a job interview at eight,” I relented. “It’s supposed to be with a Mr. Tatum.”
“Okay… Well, why are you here two whole hours early?”
To prevent myself from being late. “I’m just a naturally early person.”
“I’ll see if I can get him for you.” She picked up her phone. “Mr. Tatum? There’s someone here super early for her interview. Are you available? Awesome!”
She hung up and slid out of her chair.
“Great news! You're hired.” She reached for a bright blue lanyard. “Here you go, Miss, uh—what’s your name?”
I stared at her.
“Summer Connors.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Connors.” She extended her hand. “I’m Veronica Jenkins. I’ll give you a quick tour and show you to the basement. When exactly can you start?”
“Tonight if I forget all my business values…” I muttered. “I’m pretty flexible.”
“Tonight would be great, actually!” She motioned for me to follow her to the elevator. “Fill out your paperwork by four and I'll see if I can sneak you onto this week's payroll.”
I stared at her. Either they were really shorthanded or I’d severely underestimated my warehouse appeal.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I haven’t even done the interview yet…”
“Mr. Tatum said you don’t need to.” She shrugged. “He said your application spoke for itself.”
“There were only like six questions on it…”
“And you answered them all perfectly!”
“Um, okay.” That didn’t make any sense, but I bit my tongue before I could talk myself out of the position.
We rode the elevator to the bottom level, and the scent of freshly printed paperbacks smacked me in the face the moment the doors opened.
“Okay, so…” She led me down the hall and into a colossal room with exposed white pipes, towering shelves, and stacks of boxes that seemed to stretch for miles. “We ship books to all the bookstores and coffee shops within a two-hundred-mile radius.”
She stopped in front of a stack of boxes and stabbed the top one with a box cutter. Then she pulled out the book—The Firm by John Grisham.
“So, like, this entire stack obviously belongs to this Grisham dude.”
This “Grisham” dude?
“He writes way too many legal stories, but people seem to like him for some reason.”
“He’s like one of the top bestselling authors—ever.”
“I thought that was the King dude? Stefon, right?”
“Stephen…”
“Oooh, you’re a book lover, huh?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“I use them to prop up things around my house all the time.” She winked at me. “Anyway, everything down here is in alphabetical order, so you’ll get an order sheet, grab the books, and carry them over to the flashing blue robot station over there.”
I followed her finger toward the blinking lights several massive rows away.
That was it?
Grab books. Walk them over. Repeat?
I was still convinced there had to be more to this.
“Any questions?” she asked.
“Yeah… Um, this sounds a bit too easy. Am I missing something?”
“Not really.” She shook her head. “Most people quit because they get bored or fall asleep.”
“Fall asleep?”
“Yeah. Apparently walking back and forth carrying books for eight hours gets monotonous.”
“But you're definitely paying forty-five dollars an hour?”
“Yep.”
“Plus benefits?”
“Yep!”
I narrowed my eyes. “What's the catch?”
“Hmmm.” She tapped her chin. “That's probably a Mr. Tatum question. Hold that thought.”
She rushed out of the room, leaving me alone.
Curious, I walked over to an opened box and pulled out a book. A Baby-Sitters Club collector’s edition.
My heart swelled at the sight of it, memories of summer nights with Jenny rushing back to me. We used to read these books beneath our pillow forts and dream about starting a babysitting club of our own.
As I was flipping through the pages, Veronica returned with a suited man at her side.
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Connors.” He extended his hand. “I’m Mr. Tatum.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, sir.”
“Veronica here said you’re worried about falling asleep on the job?”
What? “No, I wasn’t saying that at all,” I said. “I was just trying to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.”
“You’re not. So you can definitely start tonight?” He arched his brow.
“Yes…” I was more confused than ever.
“Perfect!” He clapped. “See you at eleven o’clock on the dot. Looking forward to having you on the night shift, Miss Connors.”
“Me too!” Veronica high-fived herself before handing me a folder. “Fill everything in there out and scan it back to me by four, okay?”
“Okay, um, wait,” I said. “What are the chances of Adrian Sinclair ever stopping by here?”
“Zero.” They laughed in unison.
“He just bought us out to be greedy.” She shrugged. “He just wants to own everything that has anything to do with books, you know?”
Unfortunately. I nodded.
They both disappeared before I could ask another question, and it took me fifteen minutes to realize they weren’t coming back.
I took the emergency stairwell out to the street and hoped like hell I'd finally found my answer.
Six months.
If I could survive six months of sleepless nights, I'd make enough to keep Slow Burn afloat, and no one would ever have to know just how far I'd fallen.
Especially not Mr. A.S.S…