Page 27 of King of Pain
But as much as I want to believe him, the shadow of the priest’s presence lingers, and I know this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
An hour later, after we’ve locked the doors for closing duties, I’m still stuck in my own head, the heavy vibe I’m radiating casting a shadow over the shop. Chance, probably sick of my shit, grabs a stack of new inventory and heads to the pop section. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he methodically shelves each album in the stack.
When he finishes, he stops in the middle of the aisle, his gaze fixed on me. I can feel his eyes on me. I always do. I glance up, and it’s immediately clear he’s up to no good. His eyes are practically sparkling with mischief.
Before I can say anything, he bolts across the shop at full speed, darting into the vinyl singles section like a man on a mission. He rifles through the 45s frantically, finds the one he’s looking for, and yanks it out. Holding it down by his knees so I can’t see, he shouts dramatically,
“Hey, Ant!”
I glance up, already wary. “Yes, Chance?”
“What do you do when your date cancels?”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“C’mon, it’s a riddle, what do you do when your date cancels?” he repeats.
“I don’t know Chance, what?”
He grins, then lifts the 45 he had plucked from the shelf. A copy of “Beat It” byMichael Jacksonis now planted in front of his face.
It takes me a second, then I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
He darts across the store again, down another aisle and calls out again.
“Hey, Ant!”
“What now?” I ask, trying to sound annoyed.
“What do you call it when you sit on your hand until it’s numb and then jerk off with it?”
I sigh, bracing myself. “What?” and look over at him.
He’s holding up Billy Joel’sThe Strangeralbum in front of his face.
I can’t hold it—a small laugh escapes before I manage to stifle it.
Chance seems encouraged by my reaction and darts back to the singles section.
“Hey, Ant! What do you call a new age hippie lizard?”
I glance over, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
He holds up“Karma Chameleon” by Culture Club, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face.
“Booo!” I shout, but the laugh I’ve been fighting comes out full-throated.
Chance shuffles over one aisle in the singles section and flips through the 45s until he finds what he’s looking for, carefully hiding the cover as he slips it out of the display.
“Hey, Ant!”
“Yeah, Chance?” I sigh.
“What did the voice in my head say the first time I laid eyes on you?”
I freeze in the middle of restocking the keychains by the front. I look up, and in front of his face, Chance is holding “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera. Then he lowers it and fucking winks at me.
“Are you done yet?” I ask, giving him a pointed look, but inside I’m trying to hold it together.
