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JETHRO
Joel elbows me in the ribs hard enough to bruise. “Hey, dude, you okay?”
I’m fucking paranoid again, thinking I saw someone watching me, stalking me. Not that I’d tell this to Joel. He’s got my back, but no one in their right mind would be friends with a wacko, and he’s all I got.
If he leaves…
He’s always been a solid presence, ever since I walked into that classroom when I was seventeen, and he nodded at me. Strong, confident, he makes me feel safe, and even now his hand grips my arm, grinding my bones together, grounding me.
How could I ever tell him I need more? I’d never tell him, not in a million years, and that’s the tr
uth.
Well, fuck me sideways.
Can’t believe what just went down—that J jacked off by my side, watching porn. That he allowed me to put my hand over his as he came.
A day later, and the memory still has me going hard in nanoseconds.
Not necessarily a good thing, especially when against all hope I landed the job at the bookstore, and today is my first day there.
I tug again on my long-sleeved T-shirt, pat my black pants, and think, fuck it. I don’t have any other clothes, and I can’t tame my hair, so I should stop worrying about it.
Can’t believe I got the job. Me, in a bookstore.
Shit.
I open the door, and a bunch of chimes sounds madly over my head, making me flinch. Rattled, I let the door close and take two steps inside.
Smell of something floral and Windex. A short, slim woman with wild red hair comes out of an office in the back and smiles at me.
“Jethro Connors?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Come on in, I’ll show you around, explain your duties until Candy comes in. She’ll fill you in about the details.”
“Candy.” I grin, can’t help it.
“You know her?”
“She’s the one who gave me your card.”
“I see.” A crease forms between the woman’s groomed brows, then she smiles again and says, “Come with me.”
I’m so stressed my stomach hurts as the woman shows me around the shop. She never asked if I finished school. She assumed it, probably. I mean, what person working in a bookshop doesn’t have a GED?
Me, apparently.
It’s not like I can’t read or anything. I can. Write, too, and I’m pretty good at math. And I love stories, provided they’re in a form other than written.
Still. I know drinks, fist fights and dark places so much better than books.
I wish Candy were here already. The memory of her smile that day at the concert is calming. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her again ever since, though it took a lot of agonizing to decide to apply for the job.
The woman—Donna Foster, manager of the shop—is friendly, and the job doesn’t seem too hard. Apparently I don’t need a PhD to do it, thank fuck. She says people may ask for recommendations, though, for books to buy.
“Do you read a lot? From your resume it wasn’t obvious, and when I asked you on the phone, your answer was vague.”
