Tommy mumbled, hiding his hands under the counter so Ira wouldn’t see the way they shook in his presence, though the tremor in his voice surely gave him away. “What’s up?”
The question was simple enough, but Ira chose to turn it into a moment. An awkward moment. Or at least it was awkward for Tommy. Ira seemed content to just stand there, his gaze fixed like he was assessing Tommy’s right to exist.
Don’t flinch, don’t be the first to look away, don’t show weakness. Tommy was so focused on how not to react he nearly missed it when Ira pointed an entitled finger at the guitar just behind him.
Clearly Ira had decided to take a little time out from world conquering to indulge some latent rock star fantasy. Fine with Tommy, he needed the sell. But he’d be damned if Ira walked out with the beautiful twelve-string Tommy had mentally tagged as his own from the moment he’d strapped it across his chest and strummed the first chord.
He purposely reached for the guitar just above it, lifting it from its wall hooks, when Ira corrected him.
“No, the one right behind you. The metallic blue one.” He spoke as though it was an order. As though Tommy had no choice but to do Ira’s bidding, serve his every whim. It was unnerving. Degrading. And it made Tommy even more resentful of Ira than he already was.
“It’s not for sale.” Tommy tried to direct Ira to another, but he wasn’t having it.
His navy-blue eyes, the same shade as Tommy’s, narrowed in focus as his jaw hardened much like Tommy’s did when attempting a piece of music he’d been struggling to interpret. “Everything’s for sale.” Ira studied Tommy with an intensity that made Tommy squirm. “It’s just a matter of negotiating the price.”
“Maybe so, bro.” Bro? He called Ira Redman bro? Before he could linger on that for too long, Tommy was quick to add, “But that one’s mine, and it stays mine.”
Ira’s steely gaze fixed on Tommy’s. “That’s too bad. Still, mind if I have a look?”
Tommy hesitated, which seemed kind of dumb, since it wasn’t like Ira was gonna steal it. And yet it required every ounce of his will to hand the piece over and watch as Ira balanced it in his hands as though expecting the weight to reveal something important. When he strapped it over his chest and assumed some ridiculous, pseudo-guitar-god stance, laughing in this loud, inclusive way like they were both in on the joke, Tommy had to fight the urge to hurl right then and there.
The sight of Ira manhandling his dream had him sweating straight through his Jimmy Page T-shirt. And the way he dragged it out, pretending to do a thorough inspection when he clearly had no idea what to look for, made it clear Ira was putting on some kind of show.
But why?
Was that how bored rich people entertained themselves?
“It’s a beautiful piece.” He returned the instrument as Tommy, relieved to have it safely out of Ira’s possession, propped it back against the wall. “I can see why you’d want to own it. Though I’m not convinced you do.”
Tommy’s back stiffened.
“The way you handle it …” Ira placed both hands on the counter, his manicured fingers splayed, his gold watch gleaming like a cruel taunt, as if to say, This is the life you could’ve had—one of great privilege and wealth, where you’d get to harass wannabe rock gods and piss all over their dreams just for the fun of it. “You handle it with too much reverence for it to be yours. You’re not comfortable with it. It’s a part from you, rather than a part of you.”
Tommy pressed his lips together. Shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had no idea how to reply. Though he’d no doubt the whole thing was a test he had just failed.
“You handle that guitar like it’s a girl you can’t believe you get to fuck, rather than the girlfriend you’ve grown used to fucking.” Ira laughed, displaying a mouthful of capped teeth—shiny white soldiers standing in perfect formation. “So how ‘bout I double whatever it is you think you could pay for it?” His laughter died as quickly as it started.
Tommy shook his head and stared at his trashed motorcycle boots, which, in Ira’s presence, no longer seemed cool. The treads were shot. The shank was gashed. It was like his favorite boots had suddenly turned on him, reminding him of the enormous gap yawning between him and his dream. Still, it beat looking at Ira, who clearly considered Tommy a fool.
“Okay, triple then.”
Tommy refused to acknowledge the offer. Ira was insane. The whole scene was insane. He was rumored to be a relentless negotiator, but all this—over a guitar? From everything he’d read about him, the only music Ira cared about was the song that played during last call when he collected the money from his various clubs.
“You drive a tough bargain.” Ira laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. The tone was way off.
And it wasn’t like Tommy had to actually look at him to know that his eyes had gone squinty, his mouth wide, his chin lifted in that arrogant way that he had. He’d seen plenty of photos of Ira being the inauthentic, entitled bastard he was. He’d memorized them all.
“So what if I quadruple my offer, hand over my credit card, and you hand over the guitar? I’m assuming you work on commission? Hard to pass on an offer like that.”
Clearly Ira had pegged him for the rent-hungry wannabe he was, and yet Tommy still held his ground.
The guitar was his.
Or at least it would be just as soon as he collected a few more paychecks.
And while it was definitely a risky move to deny Ira Redman, Tommy watched as he finally gave up and exited the store as arrogantly as he’d entered.
Tommy clasped the guitar to his chest, hardly able to believe he’d almost lost it. If he could just make it through the next few months, he’d have enough saved to make it officially his. Sooner if he went on a hunger strike.
And that was how Ira found him—standing behind the smudgy glass counter, embracing his dream guitar like a lover.
“Farrington wants a word.” Ira pressed his phone on Tommy, who had no other choice but to take it.
Who knew Ira and Farrington were friends?
Or better yet, who didn’t know Ira had an in with the owner?
Fuckin’ Ira knew everyone.
The conversation might have been brief, but it was no less humiliating, with Farrington ordering Tommy to sell Ira the guitar at the original price. There might also have been a mention about Tommy losing his job, but Tommy was already returning the phone, reducing Farrington’s angry rant into a distant muffled squawk.
Fighting back tears too ridiculous to cry, Tommy forfeited the guitar. Hell, he hadn’t even cried the night he’d said good-bye to Amy, the girlfriend he’d been with for the last two years.
He could not, would not, cry for a guitar.
And he definitely wouldn’t cry over his father making him look like a fool, showing just how insignificant he was in the world.
Someday
