Chapter Eight Adam #3
The ring slips over her knuckle.
I drop my gaze, nearly fumbling the slippery metal. I catch it and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. “Got it.”
Eleanor sucks in a breath and I step back. She wipes her hand against her thigh, getting rid of the sunscreen—the last bit of evidence that she ever wore a ring on that finger.
The nearest pawnshop happens to be one specializing in jewelry.
I’m wholly unsurprised when they offer us half of what my credit card record shows we paid last night.
Eleanor all but elbows me out of the way to haggle with the guy, which seems like a waste of breath to me—the shop has case after case of rings on display. I doubt he’s going to budge on price.
I leave Eleanor to it and wander down the counter a ways, taking in all the random stuff they have for sale.
There are a few nice guitars hanging up behind the counter—a Gibson and a couple of Fender Stratocasters.
I linger in front of one of the Strats, a three-color Sunburst with a maple fingerboard.
My dad played one just like it early on in his career, before he upgraded to the Les Paul that became his signature instrument.
Sometimes I wonder what happened to that first guitar, the one he made it big playing on.
When a bunch of his memorabilia went up for auction, I kept an eye out for that particular guitar.
I figured it wasn’t worth nearly as much as his others, and if I lived off Top Ramen for a while and maybe sold a couple of my more valuable records, I might be able to afford to buy it.
But it wasn’t included in his estate. Most likely, he gifted it to someone along the way.
That or he played it into the ground. Still, I see one that looks so similar, even though this Strat is in too good of condition to possibly be his, and I’m always tempted.
What I told Eleanor back at the club was the truth—I never wanted to follow in his footsteps, exactly. I don’t want to be my dad, or really anything like him.
My mother wasn’t one to offer up stories about the version of him she knew, before he hit it big—not the kind of stories I wanted to hear, anyway.
They were mostly together before the digital age, and while I’m sure photos of them do exist—or did, once—Mom didn’t keep any evidence of him around the house.
Which meant the only way I could try to know him was the same way as the rest of the English-speaking world: through his music.
So no, I didn’t want to follow his path. But there’s no denying he was a big part of why I got into music.
I turn my wrist, just to feel the metal watchband shift against my skin, and drag myself away from the display.
When I finish a loop around the cramped store, Eleanor has reached an agreement with the owner. Fifty whole dollars above his original offer. She looks extremely satisfied at having worn him down, even if it still leaves us about a thousand dollars below what we need to pay off the bar tab.
“How do you propose we pay for the rest?” I ask once we’ve collected our money.
“What about your company card?”
“I don’t think—”
“You were the one who said you’re only in Vegas for business. And we both know Exeter has deep pockets. Just expense it.”
“No way. Cab fare and coffee is one thing. But an expense that big, dated today, is going to raise red flags.” The kinds of red flags the label is actively looking for, these days.
Over the past year they’ve proven they have no problem firing anyone who garners a bad reputation.
Look at Griffin Hastings—he was executive level, had been with the label for the better part of two decades, and primarily because of his relationship with Eleanor (and a couple of other workplace indiscretions that cropped up in the aftermath) he was ousted.
They’ve been cleaning house, getting rid of anyone who demonstrates any moral ambiguity, as they should.
I don’t want to work with fuckers like Griffin.
I certainly don’t want to be someone HR has to keep an eye on.
“The dead last thing I want is for anyone to find out about this and think you and I are involved.”
I’m made aware of how dickish that sounded when I catch Eleanor flinch. A tiny crease between her eyebrows, a downward pull of her mouth. She blinks and that quietly stunned expression is wiped clean away.
“Shit, I didn’t mean—”
“No, I get it.” Eleanor shrugs. She is radiating indifference, to the point where I start to wonder if I imagined the wounded look she wore a moment ago. “I don’t want anyone thinking we’re together either.”
I wince hearing it repeated back to me. I open my mouth to explain that it wasn’t about her, or her reputation, but before I can parse the right words, Eleanor is spinning on her heel and walking away.
“Let’s just get this picture taken offline, yeah? We’ll figure out the rest later.”
My throat tightens around everything I can’t figure out how to say. In the end, the only thing I can do is trail after her.