Power Play (4 page)

“Joey, just listen for a minute.” I could've been screaming “Fire!” and he still wouldn't have listened.

“Hit Credit. Swipe card. It's not that hard, Gaby.”

An annoyed growl rumbled in my throat. “You have to manually input the amount into this little machine before you swipe or it won't go through.” I tapped the black box that printed the receipt and had a handheld keypad attached for customers to approve the transaction and input their PIN number. “It doesn't automatically do it. The machines don't talk.”

“Hold on.” He pulled his phone out of the back pocket of his dark skinny jeans and tapped the screen. “Yeah, man. Nope. Not busy at all.”

“Ugh!” I slapped the counter with my hand, no doubt causing more pain to my own palm than giving Joey an accurate portrayal of my frustration with him.

Most employees were fairly easy to train. Granted, most of our employees, with the exception of a few people, were members of the Bertucci family and had been running a register and working at some type of store for most of their lives.

Still, my brother did not follow the easy-to-train pattern. I'm sure he could've if he paid any attention to me at all. He must have magical I-know-how-to-work-a-cash-register powers, because he'd never worked in any of the family stores. Or maybe he had a job back in Colorado that he never mentioned. Or showed up for.

The door chimed and I watched an incredible being with arms, legs, and a huge bouquet of flowers for a head walk in.

“Gaby?” A long-haired delivery guy peeked out from around the arrangement.

“Yeah, that's me.” I met him halfway into the store and took the flowers. Curiosity burned my hands, but I set them on a display table.

“Sign here.” He extended a clipboard and tapped the bottom near an X. I scribbled my name quickly and handed the clipboard back.

“Thanks,” I called after him. He held up two fingers, giving me the peace sign as he pushed through the door.

The scent of the mixed assortment of blooms assaulted my senses as I plucked the card out of the bouquet. Though flowers were beautiful to look at, I hated them. Technically, I hated the smell they produced. I'd yet to find a flower whose scent didn't make me sick to my stomach. It wasn't just flowers, but various fragrances. Birthdays and holidays were especially difficult for me because, without fail, someone always gave me body lotions and shower gels as gifts. I always had to pretend to be excited. Now, I know I sound like a huge jerk—I was totally thankful for the gifts, just not the scents. The only smells I could stomach were vanilla and strawberry. Occasionally apple.

Holding my breath, I turned my back to the flowers and read the card.

To the Bertucci Family:

Thinking about you and wishing Joe a speedy recovery.

Please let us know if there's anything we can do while he gets back on his feet.

All the best, Landon Taylor and Family

“Who are those from?”

“The Taylors sent them. They hope Papa gets back on his feet quickly.” My lips slipped into a small smile.

“Old man Taylor should've saved his money and took it off Papa's bill,” Joey said. He'd hung up with whoever he'd been speaking with, and now he was either playing a game or killing ants, judging by his vigorous thumbs slamming against the screen.

“What does that mean?”

“Dr. Taylor is Papa's cardiologist.”

“Huh. Never knew that.” I read the card again. Maybe it was my personal bias, but it looked like the flowers were from Landon, and his family had been an afterthought.

“The Taylors have been customers since we were kids. How can you not know what Dr. Taylor did?”

“Well, I knew he was a doctor, I just didn't know he was a cardiologist. We have a lot of regular customers, Joey.”

“Yeah, but none that get you all fired up like that Taylor kid. The hockey player.”

“Shut up.”

“And he doesn't even know that flowers make you sick.” Joey chuckled. Despite having a semi-conversation with me, he hadn't looked up from his phone once.

“The flowers are for Papa, not me. And he doesn't get me fired up.” I grabbed the vase and headed toward the office in back, then thought better of it, because I couldn't have them in such a small space with no windows. I'd barf.

“Good.” Joey finally looked up and met my eyes. “Hockey players are fucking pricks. They only want one thing.”

“The Stanley Cup?” I asked, feigning ignorance, though I knew where he was going with his lame overprotective big-brother act.

Ever since my parents made me tell them I'd been raped, both of my brothers carried around a burden of guilt. Drew especially, since he'd been at the same party where it had happened. Whether he'd been at the party or not made no difference. I never blamed Drew or thought he could have stopped it. We all trusted Jared Mitchell.

“He's a hockey player and he's twenty years old. Think about how Drew acts right now.”

Despite having a girlfriend for a short time last year, Drew's love life could be summed up in one hyphenated word: man-whore. Which was horrible to say about my own brother, but it was the truth. He chased after anything with long hair. And I mean that. He once hit on a guy who he thought was a girl. It was hilarious.

Drew being such a skirt chaser was somewhat surprising, as his best friend since grade school had been a girl. And I didn't remember him ever trying to make a move on her. Not that I knew what the hell he was doing. I'm just the little sister who'd gone to a totally different high school.

Thankfully, Joey took the light make-fun-of-Drew angle, not the remember-when-you-were-raped-by-a-hockey-player? angle. I appreciated that.

“Even if I did like him, I know I'd never have a chance, Joey. So we can end this conversation.”

“If I ever see you with any hockey player, I'll shove his hockey stick down his throat until it comes out the other end.” Joey's brotherly guilt always came out verbally in rather aggressive ways.

“That's really graphic. And gross.”

“I'm not kidding.”

“I don't even know if that could happen physically.”

“End of the conversation.”

Joey didn't see it, but I flipped him the bird behind the bouquet before I carried it through the office and to the back door. There was a fifty-fifty chance the flowers would be stolen, but I set them outside next to the door anyway and hoped for the best. I'd take them home to Mom after work. She'd be excited for a huge arrangement for our kitchen table. She loved fresh flowers.

Before I went back into the store, I stopped to shuffle through some papers on Papa's desk. The stack held a few invoices that, I assumed, still needed to be paid because they hadn't been stamped. I lowered myself into the well-worn, brown leather chair behind Papa's desk. It had previously been a fixture in our home office. But when the store opened, Papa brought his favorite chair instead of breaking in a new one.

I loved being stuck in the dip Papa's backside had made from years of use. The office still smelled of his aftershave, a warm and welcome scent, especially after the flower attack, although an indication that he might need to tone it down on the Old Spice.

I leaned down, unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk, and removed the oversized binder holding the business checks. As Papa's replacement, Joey should be paying the invoices, but he wouldn't even listen to me explain how to use the register, so how could I expect him to have paid the bills?

“Gaby!” Joey called from inside the store.

“Just a sec!” I hadn't even had a chance to write the first check before he needed me. I tossed the binder back inside the drawer and locked it up.

When I returned to the store, I saw Joey swiping a credit card once, twice, three times in the five seconds it took me to get to the register. The customer on the other side of the counter watched him with wide, cynical eyes. Probably wondering how many times the transaction would charge to his credit card with all of Joey's manic swiping.

“Just back it out if you can't get it,” he said as he grabbed his credit card out of Joey's fingers.

“Sorry, sir.” Joey looked at me with panic. “I can't get the credit card machine to work.”

I moved behind the counter and looked over his shoulder. “You totaled it out in the register, right?”

“Yes.” His voice dripped with annoyance.

I let his cross tone fly over my head. I didn't ask the question to be a jerk. The register had to be totaled out to proceed to the next step. I picked up the handheld keypad. “Did you enter the total into this manually?”

“No.”

The customer tapped his credit card against the counter impatiently. I looked up, catching the V slant of his eyebrows and the frown on his lips. “Thank you so much for your patience, sir.”

Then I glanced at Joey to make sure he watched what I did. I entered the total from the screen on the register into the keypad on the credit card machine.

“I'm so sorry, but I'm going to need your card one more time.”

“He already swiped it twenty times. How many times will my card be charged?”

“I promise you won't be charged for all those swipes, sir. For some reason our register and credit card machine don't communicate. Your card is only charged when we swipe it at the top of this keypad.” I held up the plastic device. “Joey is a new employee. He must've forgotten that from training.”

With a huff, the man handed over his credit card. I swiped it quickly and the tiny box immediately printed the receipt. I tore the paper off after the first pause in printing and set it on the counter in front of the customer with a pen. “Sign on the line, please.”

As the customer signed the slip, I hit another button and a copy of the receipt started printing. I grabbed a coupon from a shelf under the register, threw it in the bag with the receipt, and handed the bag to the man. “Thank you again for your patience. I threw in a coupon for five dollars off your next purchase. Please visit us again soon.”

“After this?” He huffed again as he grabbed his bag and left. I doubted his huffs meant he had a cough stuck.

“I
just
explained the credit card machine to you,” I said, once the man had left the store.

“It's a lot to remember, Gaby. Give me a break.”

“It would be easier for me to give you a break if you'd paid attention to me when I was explaining it to you earlier. I'm going to instill a no-phone-at-work rule.”

“Then what would any of us do?”

I flashed him a scowl. “That was a customer. Let's hope he does come back after the crappy service.”

“Whatever, Gaby. I'm not even supposed to be up here. I'm going back to the office.”

“Good. There are some invoices that need to be paid. Do you know how to write a check?”

“Don't be such a bitch.”

I shrugged, thankful that no customers were in the store to witness our petty sibling squabble. Then again, if there were customers in the store, we wouldn't be having a fight in the first place.

My second annual Halloween road trip to Chicago to visit my best friend, Michelle, came at the perfect time after two weeks of hell with Joey as my boss. I'd never worked in an office environment or the corporate world, but I could totally understand why people complained about their bosses. Especially employees who complained when they knew more than their boss, because their boss was a huge idiot.

My brother was a huge idiot boss.

Joey changes his own oil in his car. He fixes anything that breaks around the house. He even built an addition onto our house. But the kid has no clue how to run a store. Or bring in customers. Or be civil to the few customers who were coming in to shop.

I shouldn't even be thinking about him this way. He's always been a good brother. He's always done the protection thing. He never teased me (too much) or stuffed me in a locker in high school. Granted, we didn't attend high school at the same time, but he wouldn't have done that and it's the thought that counts.

Thankfully, Michelle chose to attend Loyola University out of the hundred schools she'd been accepted to. Okay, maybe she hadn't picked from one hundred schools, but she'd been accepted to every school she'd applied to, so that was something. With my best friend in a fun city only four hours away, I had a place to go to get away from home, at least for the next three years—or longer, if she stayed in Chicago after she graduated.

Some days I wished I'd chosen the college route, rather than work at the store. I'd taken a few accounting and business classes online last year because I thought they'd help me manage the store better. But online classes took more discipline and computer time than I was willing to put in. I realized early that I needed the traditional method of sitting in a class and being taught by an instructor.

Colleges should offer Concert Attendance degrees. I'd ace it. I love live music. I couldn't play an instrument or carry a tune in a choir, but I could make a life out of going to concerts. The people, the vibe, even the sweat—because I always sweat. Even with below-zero temperatures outside, I've got sweat rolling down my back, under my tank top.

Sometimes I wished the you-must-work-for-what-you-want ethic instilled by generations of Bertuccis hadn't been passed down to me. If I were the Bertucci Family Princess, I'd be living off my family's money and traveling from city to city to watch a live band every night of the week. If I could capture the amazing hum created by the buzz of a room packed with people listening to the geniuses who create the music and lyrics that speak to our souls, I'd suck it up in a syringe and inject it directly into my veins. I'm pretty sure I just described how people feel about drugs. Thankfully, I prefer the natural high of guitar strums, drumbeats, and a penetrating, mesmerizing voice rather than a chemical high.

Though I'd be satisfied with seeing a different band every night, I especially loved Twenty One Pilots concerts. Tonight marked my tenth time seeing them, including a show in Detroit a few nights ago. Each concert was a completely amazing experience in itself. The two guys that made up the band actually gave the audience members plywood boards and then came into the crowd, standing on the boards held up by their fans. Seeing it never got old.

Thousands of damp bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in staggered rows facing the stage at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago. The temperature in the Spanish village–style concert hall skyrocketed as people packed in, pushing and elbowing for position, as we anxiously waited for Twenty One Pilots to take the stage. Sweat poured down the crevice of my back, a human shot luge for the streaming succession of sweat.

Michelle and I teetered on our toes, bobbing our heads and getting jostled by the hundreds of other dancers on the floor as the band broke into “Semi-Automatic.” The person behind me kept bumping into my back, which I understand, to an extent. We're all moving, leaning, dancing. But there is such a thing as concert crowd etiquette, no matter how packed the place is, and this person definitely didn't understand those unwritten rules.

I threw a quick glance over my shoulder to see what I'd be up against if I were to confront the pusher. Tall blond girl, tight black dress, stilettos. Instead of making a big deal of the situation at that moment, I focused my attention back to the stage. Then I felt her hand use my shoulder as home base to propel herself upward on her toes. I turned slightly, just enough to make her weeble-wobble on her four-inch heels.

“Sorry,” she said, rolling her eyes at me.

Call me crazy, but if someone rolls their eyes during an apology, I'm apt to think it's not a very sincere apology.

“No big deal.”

No less than two minutes later, she jostled me again. This time she rammed me full force into the person next to me, a short guy in a ski mask, which would be a scary sight at any other concert, but Twenty One Pilots had made ski masks their gimmick, and hundreds of fans wore them during the concerts.

“I'm so sorry,” I told the guy I'd fallen into.

I think he said “No worries,” but the room buzzed and he had that stupid ski mask over his face so it could easily have been “F you.”

When I turned around to lash out at the pushy girl, it surprised me to see a familiar face partially hidden by a black Detroit Pilots baseball hat weaving his way through the crowd.

“Landon? What are you doing here?” I asked when he got within speaking range.

He smiled but shook his head and cupped one hand around his ear. Then he beckoned me closer with the other hand.

I leaned into him and yelled directly in his ear, “What are you doing here?”

“Seeing a concert.”

Suddenly the entire crowd roared and pushed toward the stage as the lead singer addressed the audience, and I was propelled forward with the motion. I stretched my arms out to break my fall and ended up smooshed against Landon's chest, which wouldn't have been a terrible feeling if it hadn't happened the way it had.

Michelle grabbed my arm to steady me, though Landon's hard, lean body had already done the job. I flashed her a grateful smile and stood up straight on my own. The girl in the black dress lay in a heap on the floor at my feet, having fallen in the shoving. Despite my initial annoyance, I squatted down and helped her up before the crowd trampled her in the excitement. It doesn't take a mosh pit or a rowdy crowd to hurt someone. Hundreds of people without a care in the world jumping up and down to a blood-pumping beat can be just as dangerous.

Once she was steady on her feet, she turned around and elbowed her way through the crowd to the aisle that the bouncers kept empty so people could walk to the bathrooms. No thank-you. No apology.

“Are you okay?” Landon asked.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” I nodded in the general direction the girl had gone. “She'll probably have some bruises, but I'm good.”

“Why don't we do this,” Landon said as he maneuvered himself directly behind me. Then he reached for Michelle's forearm. Startled by the sudden contact from a stranger, she jerked away and studied Landon under furrowed eyebrows. When I gave her two thumbs up, she relaxed and allowed Landon to guide her into the space next to me.

“Do you know him?” she asked, giving Landon a cautious side-eye.

Legitimate question. Friends look out for each other.

I nodded. “It's Landon.”

“Who?”

“Landon.” Landon answered before I could say it again.

Michelle's lips rose slightly. Did she realize it was Landon Taylor, my ultimate mega-crush? Or did she think I randomly knew this kid?

Landon's reorganization of bodies meant that Michelle and I were now one row closer to the stage, which was a huge bonus. We were so close we could almost touch the lead singer. Almost. Not that I would've—unless he asked.

Another bonus of having Landon behind me was the arm-box he formed around me when there was a push from the audience. Every time the crowd moved, Landon put his arms up, caging me in and preventing me from getting pushed around. It was sweet. I almost wanted the crowd to get rowdy just so he'd have a reason to put his arms around me.

“I have a confession,” Landon whispered in my ear during a break between songs.

I leaned back into his chest, taking comfort in the hard planes holding my weight easily. It took every ounce of self-control not to sigh and close my eyes. I could get used to Landon's warm, stable body cradling and protecting me.

And then I came back to reality. Dreams of a teenage girl had no place in real life.

“I've never heard of this band before.”

I stared mesmerized as the singer walked to the middle of the stage carrying a ukulele. They were about to play “House of Gold,” one of my favorite songs.

“Excuse me?” I obviously hadn't heard Landon right. Because it sounded like he said he'd never heard of this band, yet he was standing behind me at their concert—in Chicago.

“Well, I mean, I'd never heard of this band until I overheard you talk about them at the store.” Landon circled his arms around me, holding me against his chest, though there was no music to cause a crowd surge to make his embrace necessary.

“Why would you drive four hours to see a band you'd never heard of?” I asked, twisting in his arms to study his face.

“Because you're here.”

“And?”

“I want you to notice me, Gaby. The way I've noticed you my whole life.”

Could someone please tell my legs that buckling was not an option? The girl in the black dress already hit the floor. It's been done. I didn't want to be a copycat.

“Notice you? I've noticed everything about you since the minute I realized all boys weren't all horrible devils, like my brothers, born into the world to torment girls.”

Landon grinned, seemingly surprised by my admission. How could he be surprised? He was sweet and kind and handsome. Okay, he was by far the hottest guy I'd ever known in my life.

“You barely pay any attention when I come into the store. You treat me like every other customer.”

“Treat you like every other customer? Landon, I schedule my shifts around the days and times you're most likely to walk in. I keep my hair down and wear perfume those days.”

“I just thought you always looked like that.”

“Like what?”

“Gorgeous. You should be the model in a Bertucci Produce catalog.”

I burst out laughing, thankful that “House of Gold” drowned it out. “Produce catalog?”

“That's not a thing? Okay the Sunday paper ads, then.”

“Can we talk about this after the concert?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Landon shook his head and lifted his eyes to the singer.

“I'm not mad, I swear.” I spun around in his arms and, though we were nose to nose, I kept rambling, “It's just loud and I don't have any clue what's going on and I can't form thoughts, let alone sentences right now.”

Landon laughed, his entire body shaking me. Then he dipped his head and brushed his lips across mine. I couldn't stop myself from swaying as my knees gave out for a split second. He grabbed my arms and held me upright so my head tilted toward his and our lips stayed locked.

When he pulled away, he licked his lips and smiled. I couldn't take my eyes off him, until he grabbed my shoulders and physically turned my body toward the stage. I tried to twist back around but he held me firm, before sliding his hands down to my waist.

“Just enjoy the moment.”

Oh, I was enjoying the moment. The man I'd had a crush on since I was eleven years old just kissed me at one of my favorite bands' concert. A Hollywood screenwriter couldn't have scripted a better first kiss than that.

First kiss with Landon, I mean. Or second kiss? He still hadn't explained that whole kiss thing. I hadn't had a chance to ask him about it.

As if the buzz of the concert wasn't enough to have my insides flipping pancakes, the kiss and his large, strong hands, which switched seamlessly from roaming up and down my sides to circling around my stomach, just threw some bacon into the pan.

Normally, I'm as comfortable at a concert as I am curled up on the couch in my parents' living room reading a book, which was my other happy place. But Landon had me conscious of everything going on around me. I'd never attended a concert with a guy, let alone had a guy behind me, his hands on my hips, swaying and jumping with me to the beat. Millions of thoughts rushed through my head, all of which led to a nervousness in the sizzling griddle of my stomach that made me want to throw up.

This was one of those moments that I wanted to grab Michelle's forearm and jump up and down. But I couldn't because Landon stood behind me and I had to play it cool. Although, after all these years, he had to know there wasn't a cool bone in my body, and yet he still kissed me.

And what do I say to all that junk about Landon needing me to notice him? How could he not have realized that I noticed every move he made when he came to our stores? I knew he and his family always stopped at our stand first, bought a basket of apples, and walked around the rest of the market eating the apples as they shopped. I knew every hockey team he'd ever played on, and always had some statistic ready to spout in case I saw him the day after a game.

When the keyboard sounded the opening notes of “Screen,” Landon's hands slipped down to my hips and he squeezed. “I love this song.”

“I thought you'd never heard of them.”

“I hadn't. But I've had their album on repeat since I found out you liked them.”

I pinched his arm. He pulled his hand from my hip and shook his arm out. “Ow! What the hell, Gaby?”

“Just checking.”

What kind of sci-fi, alternate-universe rabbit hole had I fallen through? People like Landon Taylor didn't put albums on repeat just because I liked them. That kind of craziness belonged to fan girls like me when we found out our favorite hockey players' favorite bands.