Page 6 of Resonance
I let out a reverent sigh as I flicked the light on and inhaled the scent of music history while Terryl barged in like a horny bull and went straight for the display racks where the albums were encased in protective plastic sleeves and ordered alphabetically.
I wanted to reach out and smack his wrist when he started riffling through them like he was flipping impatiently through a magazine in a grocery checkout line. As it was, I came to stand next to him with my fists at my side.
“What about some rare Dolly Parton or somethin’?”
“We have her—”
“Oh no, wait, what about Kenny Rogers. Oh! Or Kenny Chesney. Is there any Kenny Chesney?”
I quietly sent up a prayer to the universal guardians to please give me patience and kindness to deal with this man who knew not what the fuck he was doing. I was cheerful, right? Like, that was my whole thing: cheerful, peppy, “spirited,” and I was pretty sure it was why Dan had hired me. I wasn’t gonna let this tool get my goat.
“So, I think if you’re looking to impress, a good option would be…” I paused to see if I was going to actually get through a sentence, and when his little snake eyes remained fixed on me and his mouth stayed closed, I continued. “Bill Monroe. He’s not especially rare, but we have his—”
“Who the fuck is Bill Monroe?”
Goddammit.
I lifted a finger and reached around him, navigating down to theM’s to pull out Monroe’s quintessentialKnee Deep in Bluegrass. “He’s the Father of Bluegrass.”
“Oh, yeah, I knew that,” Terryl backpedaled. “I thought you said someone else.” He studied the record I extended toward him with a narrow-eyed look. “How much is it?”
I angled my head to glimpse the back of the sleeve and double-checked if memory served, which it did. “Three hundred dollars. You can find plenty of his records on eBay, but this one’s signed.”
“Hmm.” He grunted and scratched his chin. “What else you got?”
“Does it have to be a record, or would you be interested in memorabilia, too? Posters? Signed sheet music?” I tried to ignore how the idea of selling him original lyrics by someone like George Harker branded my soul and left the stench of singe behind.
“Wait. I’ve got it.” Terryl snapped his fingers with a flourish. “Jessup Polk. Do you have any of his?”
I sighed, unsure how Terryl even knew of Jessup if he didn’t know Bill Monroe. “Yeah, but I don’t know that he’s what you’d be—”
“I’ve been hearing people talk about him, lately.”
Polk wasn’t new. Not by a long shot. No one even knew if he was producing stuff anymore. But that was part of his mystique. Physical copies of his albums were rare, always released in small batches, and therefore extremely coveted by collectors. And by some voodoo, Dan had acquired three of his records that were in this room. That I’d be damned if I was going to sell to Terryl so he could impress some ritzy fuckers at a fundraiser. But if Dan found out I lied, I’d be up shit creek with the paddle in my ass, because lately he’d been more proactive about trying to sell off some of the stuff in here. So begrudgingly, I said, “We’ve got a few, but I’d really suggest the Monroe.”
Please go for Monroe.Inner cheerleader had returned. I didn’t hate him as much as I had back at the Sparrow.
Terryl fixed me with a gimlet-eyed stare, and I withered a little inside, knowing what was coming next. “I’ll take ’em all.”
“They’re two hundred each.”
He shrugged. “No problem.”
Of course not.I pressed my lips together, then popped them out, decision made. “No.”
“No?” His eyes went wide with incredulity.
I wasn’t sure where to go next; I’d kinda just lobbed the refusal out there to see what would happen.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder, squeezing a little too emphatically, and Dan emitted a chuckle that sounded forced. “He’s fuckin’ with you. They’re yours if you want ’em.”
“Yeah, I’ll take them.” Terryl stared hard at me for another long moment. I gave him a tight smile for his trouble. The tightness was to keep any other words—likedipshit—from leaking out the corners. I was a customer service fail today.
Dan gave my shoulder another bone-grinding squeeze, as if he knew. It was too bad these were the circumstances, because otherwise I would’ve enjoyed the contact. I’d had a quiet secret crush on him since he’d hired me back in Gatlinburg. The kind I kept rooted purely in fantasy because a guy like Dan and a guy like me? No fucking way. But it was fun to entertain sometimes, between me and my hand and some envisioned scenario where Dan called me into his office, leaning deep back in his chair the way he had a habit of doing, and then told me to drop my pants in that sexy Southern rasp that was half-drawl, half–Delta mud, and all man.
Terryl’s attention snapped over to Dan as he spoke again. “You want to take ’em with you today, or I can run them over to Natasha directly Monday. She’s chairing the thing, right?” Ru must have filled Dan in on the purpose of Terryl’s visit before he came back here.
Terryl scratched his jaw, then nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good. Run ’em over to her. You’ll personally do it, though?” His gaze flickered back to me, and I thought maybe he wasn’t so dumb after all to get specific. ’Cause I might have somehow managed to “lose” them in the process if I’d been tasked with it. Except nah, I wouldn’t have, because Dan might’ve fired me, and I didn’t have the money to cover the loss. I didn’t have even close to a grand in my bank account. Being broke sucked, and I’d been broke for a long time.