Page 8 of Catching Flynn

“Flynn.” Garrett’s grin arrived before the rest of him, all easy confidence and teeth that probably had their own Instagram account. He fell into step beside Flynn without being invited, which was very on brand. “You look incredible. What’s your secret?”

His flattery was shameless.

“Mild existential dread and forgetting to eat dinner.” Flynn started toward the stairwell. “Works wonders for the complexion.”

Garrett laughed, the sound bouncing off the narrow walls. He had one of those laughs that made people want to say funnier things just to hear it again, which Flynn found deeply annoying because it worked on him every time.

“Where’re you headed?” He matched Flynn’s pace the entire way down. Was he flexing? The guy lived in a gym, body so buff that Flynn wondered—Nope. Too early for indecent thoughts.

“Work.” Flynn gripped the railing on the turn. “The place I go every morning. On account of needing money to survive.” His predictable day was starting.

Colton’s observation had rattled Flynn more than he liked. Because it was true. Flynn was only twenty-six, his life so boring he’d become someone’s deranged obsession. Maybe he would look into a pottery class. Maybe Flynn would be even more adventurous and learn to crochet.

Some of his fondest memories centered around his nana sitting in her threadbare recliner, regaling Flynn with stories of her childhood. He was pretty sure she exaggerated most of them but didn’t care. Matida had been the safe harbor he’d needed in his otherwise chaotic life.

Deadbeat dad. Alcoholic mother. A cousin who’d split town after a really bad fight with his dad. Josh had been hotheaded, but underneath the anger, had been the most caring man Flynn had ever met. His cousin just hadn’t had many opportunities to show who he truly was.

Except for Flynn. Josh had never turned his rage on Flynn. He’d beaten up Flynn’s bullies, threatening worse if they so much as looked in Flynn’s direction.

He never understood what could’ve been worse than getting your butt kicked. He never asked because he never wanted to envision his cousin in a bad light.

Garrett’s shoulder bumped lightly against Flynn’s at the bottom landing, the contact brief and most likely accidental. Flynn was just grateful the contact pulled his mind away from memories best left buried.

“Hey, actually—” Garrett caught the door before it swung shut behind Flynn. “You still have that drill? The one you mentioned borrowing from your boss?”

Flynn stopped midstride and turned. The morning sun hit Garrett’s face at an angle that made his green eyes sparkle.

“So annoying,” Flynn muttered.

“What?” Garrett’s smile widened. Flynn was no longer moved by it.

“Nothing. I’m late.” He pointed down the street then started walking. “Malcolm has the drill, not me. And I cannot be your hardware liaison today.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe ask me when I’m not actively fleeing.”

Garrett’s laugh followed him half a block. Flynn hadn’t been joking.

The walk to Dusty Spine took nine minutes on a good day, eleven when Flynn’s brain was running thirty-seven browser tabs, two frozen windows, while mysterious music played somewhere.

Today it took twelve minutes. He passed the bakery without stopping, which felt like a personal failure, and arrived at the bookstore two minutes late.

The familiar smell of old paper hit him the moment he pushed through the door, and some of that morning's tension loosened a little. Flynn flipped on the remaining lights, straightened the display near the entrance that had somehow listed overnight, and clocked in.

By nine-fifteen, the morning had settled into its usual rhythm. A retired teacher spent forty minutes in the poetry section before buying nothing. Then she tried to “educate” him with a cultured tone, unaware Flynn knew the works she was misquoting with a hacksaw. He’d only read the CliffsNotes, but it worked.

A college student asked for a recommendation and then argued with every suggestion.

“I refuse to be a frat prank before I’ve guzzled a jug of coffee. Piss off.” Flynn walked away, but not before seeing the bastard’s smirk. If assholes didn’t stop trying his patience this morning, Flynn was going to need bail money.

He sold three paperbacks, one hardcover, and a bookmark to a woman who said she didn’t like reading but loved how a full bookshelf made her look smart. Flynn just smiled, telling himself to forget about Colton’s stupid revelation.

Somewhere around ten, he was restocking the fiction shelf near the front when the door opened.

“Let me know if you need help;” Flynn called out. He was holding a paperback in each hand, trying to remember which one he’d recommended versus which one he’d shelved there by accident a week ago. “Just pick one already,” he muttered.

Closing his eyes, Flynn shuffled the books in his hands, then shoved the one in his right hand toward the shelf, missing the empty space by a mile. “You always did suck at pinning tails on jackasses.”