Page 4 of With Stars in Her Eyes
Oh…
Maybe my subconscious was fueling my orneriness, since on this very Tuesday in March, I wassupposedto be halfway between Huntsville and the music festival in New Orleans I had been anticipating for a decade. I would have been spendingtonight looking absolutely adorable in the outfit I’d spent weeks searching for at thrift stores after splurging on the ticket. And then tonight I would finally, finally get to see Kestrel—mysterious cowriter of all my favorite Violet Trikes songs—perform.
Buying the ticket had been a dumbass decision given how broke I was before I got the job here. When news broke that Kestrel had disappeared from performing after some kind of drug-fueled breakdown at a concert in LA, it had seemed like an evendumberdumbass decision. Selling my ticket had covered some of my moving-related expenses, but based on my face today, I was still salty about the whole darn thing.
A louder moan from the man in the back jolted me from ornery to all-out cantankerous.
I pulled my Bluetooth speaker out of my grandfather’s old leather camera bag. I jammed my finger into the button, then paused.Normally, the Violet Trikes’ first album,Golden Hour, was my salve to a fragile emotional state, but it would probably only increase my grump level today. Instead, I selected my grandfather’s favorite classical station and cranked the volume. My typical sunniness might be a stretch, but I could aim for pleasant or tranquil or at least a little less stabby,damn it. To further my efforts away from murderousness, I set down the pocketknife I was still somehow clutching in my white-knuckled hand.
After a semi-effective calming breath, I finally opened the box of after-piercing cleaning solution and tattoo ointments, checking the expiration dates and labels. After I had filled the shelves with bottles and hooked the new shipment of hypoallergenic jewelry into the display case, the shop door opened behind me.
The creator of the TNF play himself, Marshall Greene, sauntered up to lean on the desk.
“Hey, how’s your Tuesday goin— Whatisthat? Is someone being tortured?” Marshall’s face oscillated between winces and chuckles at the various sounds the man in the back was making. He was dressed as fashionably as always, beard neatly clippedand clothes appropriate for the off-season professional football player and part-time aspiring restaurateur he was.
“It would be going better if men could more accurately assess their own pain tolerance.” I flinched as the sounds of agony hit a new volume.
“First tattoo for the guy?”
“How’d you know?”
“Hopefully something small.”
“Hebookedher for a full black-out sleeve.”
Marshall snorted.
“They talked him into something more feasible.” I dug my fingers into all the tense places on my scalp.
“Lemme guess, barbed wire around his bicep?”
“Infinity sign with his lovely lady friend of two weeks’ name.”
He smirked. “Should I just wait around and give him Rachel’s business card after he pays?”
“As much as your sister probably appreciates your support of her laser services, I think my boss will kill you if you start telling her clients they’re going to regret her art in the near future. I’ve already had to give her enough bad news this week about the mess the piercing guy before me left with all the expired supplies.”
“I’ll zip it then. So, I’m about to go over the books at the pub, but let me know if you want to meet for dinner later, or if you won’t have…” His blue eyes narrowed as he scrutinized me. “You seem a little… hmm… did you change your makeup? New lip stuff? Something’s different.”
“No.”
He lifted his hands defensively. “Whoa. Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry for snapping. I’m just grouchy and I’m grouchy about being grouchy.” The wall clock caught my eye. “Oh, shoot, I needed to—”
Another actual, full-onscreamcame from the back area of the shop.
My nerves frayed like I was a supervillain who ends up shooting lightning bolts from every orifice while shrieking a death song at her enemies.
Remembering myself, I pursed my lips into what was hopefully a blandly sympathetic expression. “Well, bless his precious little heart. But screaming? Really?” I said before I could stop myself.
Marshall looked like he was trying not to burst out laughing. “C’mon. We all scream sometimes.”
“I sure don’t.”
“You absolutely do.” Marshall leaned on the counter. “Roller coasters?”
“No.”
