Rigby

Chapter 1

There's a nervous excitement when a hurricane is about to blow through town. The energy builds up as people try to dispel it with preparations; gas for the generator, non-perishable food, extra water, and boarding up the windows. That's the thing about a storm; you can plan for it. But not all storms blow in from Mother Nature, and I hadn't prepared for this storm. If I had known he was coming, I would've at least dressed better. I slumped back against the wall of the employee hallway to gather myself as I tugged on my beat-up Bob Dylan t-shirt and jeans. There was nothing I could do, so I sucked in a heavy breath and walked out to the aisles of the record store.

His eyes landed on me from the front of the store, and, in the rarest of occurrences, a glimmer of a smile tipped the corners of his crimson lips. Immediately "oh shit," audibly fell from my lips, causing him to dip his face to hide his laugh.

I wasn't this uncool, and I never fawned over anyone. Just a few months earlier, I had been in this exact spot lamenting that I had to deal with one of the biggest movie stars in the world as he entertained the idea that he could be a musician. Now, a boy was making me puddle.

Those few months felt like a lifetime ago. The stubborn summer heat of early September lingered. The sticky humidity persisted even in Red Wall Records' dank basement. The sweat coated me as I stocked copy after copy of the new Jackson Small album. My typically low-key boss, Ruthie, had worked herself into quite a tizzy about Small. Jackson was the heartthrob of the moment in Hollywood. Even as I racked album after album with his annoyingly perfect face staring at me, I couldn't help but secretly admit his good looks to myself. By some stroke of good fortune or bad, depending on how you looked at it, Jackson Small had selected Red Wall Records as one of the three remote locations he'd visit as he kicked off a 2-month tour to support his new musical career. I hadn't bothered to listen to his album. The idea had crossed my mind, but then I saw the star's grainy black-and-white image on the cover, and I decided on Cake instead. Besides, I'd have to endure his trite emo crap that evening when he played in the store.

Four years earlier, when I started at Red Wall Records, the event would've been exciting. That day, however, it was just an annoyance. Luckily it was a Thursday, and the schools had newly reopened, which gave me the day to prepare for the on-slot of giggling girls dying to become Mrs. Small. I dreaded dealing with a group that thinks attractiveness and dance moves bear musical ability. But the mental image of Jimi Hendrix or Son House being instructed on the ins and outs of the bus stop by a choreographer made me laugh.

As the crowd trickled in for the show, my friends, Matt and Joey, sneaked in from the back hallway. Ruthie hated it when they entered the employee entrance, which didn't dissuade them from using it; it only discouraged them from getting caught. Once they were entirely on the floor, Matt lifted a hand in greeting before settling themselves in a back corner where Matt could easily view all the groupies.

"Come to check out the ladies?" I teased as I approached.

"I am." Matt glanced around as he spoke. "This one's still hung up on the mystery girl," he continued as he stuck a thumb towards Joey.

"This guy any good?" Joey asked as he picked up one of the CDs and gave it a look.

"Haven't listened to it yet. I figured he could wow me tonight." Sarcasm saturated my response.

"High hopes," Joey murmured.

"He's just another actor turned musician. How well does that ever turn out?"

"Maybe we'll be pleasantly surprised," Joey absently spoke, his mind pulled elsewhere as often occurred.

Twenty minutes before he was set to play, Jackson arrived, and Ruthie, annoyed at his late arrival, sent me off to deal with him in the back office.