Chaos and Control(23)

“I smell what you’re cooking, so why not just alphabetize them all together?”

I trail the tips of my fingers along the stack of records and rest my hand on top. Our fingertips are almost touching, but not quite. Preston stares at our hands, and I wonder what he sees. There’s a buzzing in my body, an electric charge that seems to reach out to him with static fingers.

“Well, uh,” he starts, meeting my eyes briefly before returning to our hands. “Jazz listeners tend to be extroverted, laid-back, creative people with loyalty to a certain time period. While their tastes may vary across genres, their favorites are almost always from the same era.”

“Are you using music psychology to organize these?” I ask.

I lean my hip against the shelf, and the angle of my body allows my bra strap to slip down my shoulder. Preston notices and immediately raises his hand to correct it. I can see the moment he realizes he’s about to touch a piece of my underwear. His fingers curl in, creating a fist that he drops to his side. That familiar frustrated frown reappears. He shifts from foot to foot, swaying a bit, in front of me. His eyes stay fixed to the satin strap that happens to match my hair. Preston finally runs both hands through his hair and laces them together behind his neck. His thick biceps bulge and flex like wings above his shoulders.

“Can you…?” he asks, nodding to my shoulder.

I nod and slip my finger under the strap, pulling it up and tucking it under my tank top.

“Better?” I ask.

“And worse.” He blows out a breath through perched lips before hitting me with a crooked smirk.

“Hmm, you give good flirt, Preston. But I’ve got to go get ready for work.”

…

Before heading to the Haystack, I borrow Bennie’s laptop and park myself at the kitchen table. When the search engine loads and the curser blinks at me, I type in OCD. The list of links is endless. I click on studies and published papers on the subject, but none of them unlock the mystery that is Preston.

It’s not until I search YouTube, and find a couple of short documentaries following the daily lives of folks who deal with OCD, that I pinpoint the common threads. Every instance of the disorder is different, but seems to always be heightened by fear, and the best way to alleviate that fear is to be in control. The person needs to command as much of their environment as possible to feel safe. I lock that away for later and get dressed.

When I get to work, the crowd is sparse. I’m thankful for it. Some whiny country song plays from the jukebox, and I’m suddenly rethinking my desire to be employed here. I’ll have to check later to see if there’s any Johnny Cash on there. Coach shows me the backroom inventory, the price list, and gives me a run-down of what to expect. It’s usually the same old people in night after night. While he seems to find comfort in that, I’m already worried I’ll get bored. He shows me how to work the beverage gun and keep tabs for the locals. After an hour, I’m comfortable enough to help my first customer.

I throw a napkin onto the bar and give the guy my best smile. “What can I get you?”

“Where’s Coach?”

I look down the bar, but remember he’s stepped out to use the restroom. “He’s busy at the moment. I’m happy to take care of you.”

“I bet you are,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. The suggestion makes me want to gag, but I swallow down the insulting words that rest on my tongue.

“Leon, you want me to tell your wife you’re hitting on Reverend Hart’s youngest daughter?”

I let out an exaggerated groan as Sawyer slaps the man on the back and takes a seat next to him.

“Reverend Hart? Well, no. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” Leon says, backpedaling.

“That’s okay, old man. Buy me a beer and I’ll keep quiet,” Sawyer says as he shoots me a wink.

“Fine. Two Budweisers.”

I grab the bottles from the cooler and use the bottle opener to snap the caps off. I slide them onto the bar. Coach reappears and stops to help someone.

“That’ll be eight dollars,” I say.

Leon slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar top. “Keep the change. Don’t want no trouble with the Reverend.”

I ring it up and drop the change in the tip jar before turning to face them again. Leon has wandered off to a pool table, and Sawyer sips his beer. He’s so handsome, but there’s no mystery there. I know everything about him, and he knows too much about me. Logan Sawyer is exactly the kind of boy my parents want me to marry. He’s got roots in this town, goes to church, and just wants to settle down. What they want and what I want will never be the same.

“Thanks for that. But I could have handled it.”

He grins. “I know you could have, Wren. The girl I knew could handle just about anything. But I could have arrested him for you.”

“Happy to see you’re not abusing your power,” I tease.

He laughs. His white teeth are a sharp contrast to golden skin and brown hair. Still, his smile is charming with just a hint of mischief.

“Glad you got a job here. I kind of like the idea of you sticking around.”

I roll my eyes and ignore his flirting before sliding down to help the next customer. I throw a napkin on the bar and look up to find the redheaded diner waitress. She’s out of her polyester uniform and into a rocking purple top that makes her boobs look great.