hømetøwn

• : / twenty four / : •

The smell of paint was everywhere.

I coughed into my sleeve, resting for a moment. A paintbrush hung between my fingertips, drenched in dripping white. The back room I had to paint was huge. Despite the fact that basically the entire store looked like an old lady's storage attic, this back room was jam-packed with even more dusty boxes. I assumed they too were full of records, but I hadn't checked. I guess there was a chance that they were full of other things, but finding out was going to have to wait. My throat itched. Sweat ran down my back, collecting in dark hot pools at the base of my spine. Disgusting.

It also didn't help that I was freaking terrible at painting.

I was blessed with many talents, most of which were entirely useless. Unscrewing stubborn jars? Easy. Immediately memorizing every song on an album? No problem. Eating thirty bags of chips in a row without stopping? I'm your woman. But painting was not one of those talents. I couldn't paint for crap. All the brush strokes came out shaky and faded, their uncertain shapes wiggling at me, mocking me.

Mr. Chester noticed.

"Well, well, well," he said, and I jumped. I hadn't realized that he was standing in the doorframe.

I scratched my elbow. "Well," I said.

"Well." His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized my messy work. "Let me just say this. You're one lucky mongoose that the American Idol painting competition fell through. You wouldn't have even made it through auditions."

I swallowed, trying to keep a straight face. But all I could think about was the fact that he used the words lucky mongoose. A smile twitched at the edge of my mouth.

"Sorry, sir. I'll try to make it more even."

"You're free to go now," said Mr. Chester. He sighed, leaning onto his cane. His breaths came harsh and fast. "Ah, sorry...sorry, I, uh..." He wheezed. "I've got myself some old man lungs. No, don't worry, I'm fine. You're free to go. I expect you, uh, I expect you back here tomorrow mornin' at around eight."

I started forward, concerned at his explosive breaths. But he shooed me away, grinding his cane into the ground and hobbling off into the main part of the store again. I followed him out of the back room. The store was still totally deserted.

"Was it a good business day?" I asked.

As I did so, I took out my phone and texted Brendon that I was done. Unease drifted through me. My phone screen was filled with a ton of missed calls from an unknown number.

"Yes, of course," said Mr. Chester. "It was fantastic. We almost sold one earlier today, but that damned ginger was just too cheap to commit. He said he'll be back tomorrow though."

I dropped my phone with a clatter.

"Oh shoot, you better pick that up," he said. He shuffled around the room, picking things up and dusting boxes. Then he stopped and turned back to me. A strange look crossed his face. "Actually, I'd forgotten to tell you, but the young man said he knew you. I believe that's why he came. Wanted to stop by and say hello."

I blinked fast, heat surging through me. "What?"

"The young man came by lookin' for you. A different one than the guy with the big forehead, who you came in with."

"His forehead isn't that big," I said. "The guy who came by -- did you say he was a ginger?"

"Yes ma'am, he sure was," said Mr. Chester. He shifted uncomfortably. His eyes flashed to the front desk, then back to me. "Er...actually, he wanted me to give you something. But I thought I -- I thought I ought not to do that in the store, and while you were working and all. It was...it was odd. It was pretty odd. You're not going to be bringing trouble to my store now, are you?"