Chaos and Control(27)

“There’s a new band playing at Mac’s in Franklin tonight. You coming?” the brunette asks. “We’re going to be there.”

Preston shakes his head but doesn’t say a word. I see his fingers wrap around a bottle of hand sanitizer beneath the counter. He’s trying to wait until they leave. I jump up from my chair and place my hand on his forearm. His whole body jerks from the contact, but then relaxes. I grab a paper bag and slide the purchased record into it and drop the receipt inside.

“We have plans tonight, ladies. But thanks for the invite,” I say, giving them a wave.

The two take their bag and exit quickly, frowns firmly in place. As soon as the door closes behind them, I finish my sentence.

“Whores.”

Preston squeezes the sanitizer into his hands and rubs them together with vigor. He runs his fingers over his forearms up to his elbows and back down. Somehow this show has become erotic. I slide my finger along the collar of my shirt and get lost in the sight of his hand porn.

“I thought you were working tonight,” he says without looking up at me.

“I am.”

“And why are they whores?” Amusement seeps into his tone, and I know I’ve been caught marking my territory.

“Anyway,” I say, not wanting to admit anything. I cross my arms and search my brain for something else to say.

“Stop doing that,” he says.

“What?”

“Playing with your collar. It drives me crazy.”

I smirk. “Hmm. Noted.”

“It’s like handing ammunition to the enemy,” Preston says, throwing up his hands.

I step toward him, curl my fingers into his front jeans pocket, and tug. Preston sucks in a breath and holds it.

“Am I the enemy, Preston-who-used-to-be-husky?”

He opens his mouth to speak just as the door chimes again. We pull apart and find Bennie looking back at us.

“Interrupting something?” she asks, pushing past and taking a seat in her chair.

I hop up onto the counter and cross my legs. My boots tap out a tune against the cabinet. “Not really. We were just talking.”

“I don’t normally stand so close to people when talking,” Bennie says.

“Yes, well, I wanted to make sure Preston could hear me.”

Preston’s head shifts back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match.

“I think he hears you loud and clear, Wren.”

“Uh, I’ll just get back to work,” Preston says before escaping to the far corner of the store.

We both watch him go, though I guarantee our thoughts on his departure are extremely different.

“What are you doing with him, Wren?”

I look at my shoes and the floor beyond. “We’re just hanging out. I like him.”

“I know he seems like a big, strong man, but he’s much deeper than that. You could ruin each other.”

I jump down and glare at her. “We all have issues. He’s just a guy. And he likes me, too. We’re not doing anything wrong.” She frowns at me, and her eyes find Preston across the store. “Are you more worried about me or him?” I ask.

“I’m just worried.”

“We’re adults. We can handle it. I won’t ruin him if that’s what you’re really trying to say.”

I march my way to the back of the store, past Preston, and up the stairs to the apartment. When I get inside, I swear I smell weed. Though that wouldn’t surprise me coming from Bennie. I flip through her personal record collection and find what I need. The intimate movements of sliding the vinyl from the cardboard sleeve, balancing it on the tips of my fingers, placing it on the turntable, lifting the arm and swinging it over, and finally lowering it down to find its groove, is a dance I know by heart. It’s the beginning of a relationship between the music and me. When the opening notes sound, my body sways. The lyrics wait on my tongue.

“Happiness hit her, like a train on a traaaaaaack.”

When the beat comes in, I clap my hands in time. Clap, clap. Clap. Clap, clap. Clap. The words flow from my lips as I dance around the coffee table.

My voice is lost beneath Florence and the Machine, but I don’t care. I feel lighter and lifted above the heavy thoughts in my head. Shaking my hips and spinning around, I dance across the living room singing my heart out. I let the music take me, hopping over the back of the couch and wrapping myself in Bennie’s curtains. When the tempo changes again, I throw them off and spin in circles until I’m dizzy.

“Wren.”

Preston’s voice makes me freeze in place. He’s standing between the kitchen and me, his face dark. My chest heaves from dancing, and we have this sort of standoff amongst motley furniture. He says something else, but I don’t catch it. I hold a finger up, asking him to wait, and move to turn the volume down.

“What?” I ask from across the room.

“I told Bennie I’d check on you,” he says. He looks uncomfortable here, his eyes scanning the room but always coming back to me. I’m North on his compass.

“I’m fine. Great, actually. Just blowing off some steam.”

“I can see that.” Preston’s voice is strained, and so is his zipper. When he notices me noticing, he purses his lips and steps behind the tall armchair.