Rock Star (2 page)

“Girl, if one more person asks for Night Weasel I’m going to have to take hostages,” Callie muttered under her breath as Tonya returned to the register. She had never been able to determine why it happened, but each year any number of people managed to mangle the title of the Pulitzer prize-winning book Night, by the Holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel.

Tonya giggled. “Now remember, Callie, this is your dream…to bring literature to the unwashed masses.”

Callie rolled her eyes. Then looking out at the crowd in the store, she had to snicker too. This was her dream. What on earth was she complaining about? She smiled as she recalled the pride and sense of accomplishment she’d felt the day the sign had gone up on the front of the store. Printed in elegant script, the sign was painted canary yellow and robin’s egg blue to coordinate with the trim on the aged, red brick storefront. When the Maple Fork Restoration Committee had undertaken the task of rejuvenating downtown Maple Fork, they’d been dismissed as a bunch of crackpots. No one had believed the town could survive the loss of the steel industry. One of the first plans had been to restore the storefronts in the area to their original red brick. Each store owner had been required to coordinate trim and door colors in a way to give the entire street an enticing homey feel that made customers want to get out of their cars and walk along the cobblestone sidewalks, increasing foot traffic. Callie had chosen the bright blue and canary yellow scheme for her store. On the inside, canary yellow gave way to a soothing butter cream. With light streaming in from the four large windows in front reflecting off aged yellow pine floors, the interior literally glowed. Callie had deliberately accentuated the effect with soft, cozy chenille-covered chairs and benches all over the store to invite the readers to come in and curl up with a good book.

She and Tonya had started the store five years ago when she was right out of business school with a bright and shiny new MBA, but very little money. She’d been told repeatedly that she was foolish to start a business in small-town Alabama when she could go to the “big city” and parlay her credentials into a lucrative career. But fired up with the fever of black entrepreneurship, Callie hadn’t listened to the nay-sayers. Enlisting the aid of her best friend Tonya, she had begged, borrowed, and leveraged herself to the hilt to open Books and So Forth.

Tonya was more or less a silent partner, allowing Callie to handle most of the day-to-day operations of the store. She’d contributed capital, sweat, equity, and her own creative flair to make the endeavor a success. Now in their fifth year with the bookstore, they were finally in the black and could contemplate finding living accommodations away from the store. And maybe even hiring some help. She and Tonya had worked extraordinarily long hours for the past five years, and Callie knew that they would have to hire someone, or the type of imaginative innovations and customer service that had made Books and So Forth a success would begin to suffer. A little rest and relaxation would give them an opportunity to brainstorm. She made a mental note to talk to Tonya about placing an ad for a cashier.

During a late-afternoon lull, Callie and Tonya took a much-needed break to grab a bite to eat and rest for a moment. They sat down at a table in their little break area in the back of the store. The room was tiny with cinder block walls and barely enough room for a small refrigerator, a table, and two chairs. Callie did most of the paperwork for the store upstairs in their apartment, where she’d set aside an area for a home office. This room was primarily for taking a breather during a lull in floor traffic. They kept it stocked with bottled water, sodas, and snacks because they frequently had to eat at odd hours, and never knew when hunger pangs would strike.

“He came back, you know,” Tonya said offhandedly as she took another sip of her iced tea.

Callie looked up distractedly from the morning receipts. “I think we’re going to break a thousand dollars today. It’ll be our biggest one-day total.” She frowned as Tonya’s statement sank in. “Who came back?”

“You know, the fine, white guy who was in here the other day. The one who was checking you out.”

Callie stacked the receipts and abruptly stood up. “He was not checking me out!” She went out to place the receipts back in the register and then returned to the break area. Curious, despite her best efforts not to be, she asked with a nonchalance she didn’t feel, “When did he come back?”

Not fooled for a second, Tonya replied, “He was in here in the early afternoon, when you went to make the bank drop.”

“Hmmmm, did he buy anything this time?” Callie asked, the sales record still uppermost in her mind.

“Naw, he stood in the doorway, saw all those crazy folks in here and dipped,” Tonya said, tossing the remains of her salad into the trash. “Of course, he could’ve left because he didn’t see his “Nubian Goddess” behind the counter,” Tonya teased. ‘Nubian Goddess’ was an inside joke with them, as a young man in college had followed Callie around for an entire semester calling her that. Fortunately, he had flunked out over summer break, or they would have had to resort to desperate measures to deal with him. Callie sniffed, “I don’t think so. I’m sure he just came back for some more books. With his looks he doesn’t have to come all the way to Alabama to get his swerve on.”

“I didn’t say he had to, I said he wanted to,” Tonya replied.

Callie dismissed the idea, “Regardless, there won’t be any swerving here, no matter how fine he might be.”

“Oh, so you did notice his looks?” Tonya asked archly.

“Well, they would be kind of hard to miss,” Callie replied sardonically.

“I don’t know, girl, sometimes I wonder about you,” Tonya replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, guys are checking you out all the time, and you seem sort of, I don’t know, oblivious to it. I just wonder what the deal is.”

Callie wiped the table down with a sponge. “Do you really think I have had time for a man these past five years? You know the kind of hours we’ve had to work just trying to get this store off the ground. Besides, it’s not like you’re burning up in the romance department either.”

“Yeah, but a fine guy like that doesn’t just walk in this store every day. If it was me he’d been checking out, I would’ve been all over it.”

A customer entered the store, triggering the buzzer designed to alert them. Callie gave a sigh of relief, happy to be extricated from the conversation, “Oh well, back to the salt mines,” she drawled, turning to reenter the sales floor.

* * *

Bryan peered through the plate-glass window of the Books and So Forth storefront. In the past month he’d been back several times, but the massive crowds had been a strong deterrent to entering. Indeed, the level of activity had more closely resembled a train station back East than any bookstore he’d ever been to. The place seemed to be occupied day and night. He’d never seen anything like it. These women had to be marketing geniuses to keep their store so busy in a small town. Unfortunately, the crowds were a major problem for him. He didn’t bother trying to travel incognito because he’d found that disguises usually drew more, not less attention. However, he wasn’t in the mood for a bunch of screaming teenaged fans. The problem was that he had run out of books, not to mention that he wanted to see Callie again.

After some consideration, he’d decided that pursuing her might help him take his mind off the absolute shambles he’d made of his life. Since he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind for weeks, it had been an easy decision. Unaccustomed to celibacy, Bryan had concluded that his fixation on Callie could only be attributed to his lack of sexual release. He’d never been celibate before for longer than a few weeks, but at the moment he was well into his fourth month and not enjoying it at all. His breath whistled through his teeth approvingly when he saw Callie on a ladder putting some books on a high bookshelf in the otherwise empty store.

Going in, Bryan leaned against the bookcase casually, gazing up at the picture Callie made as she perched on top of the ladder. She was wearing her typical work outfit, well-tailored gray gabardine trousers and a deep rose pink sweater set and loafers. The vibrant color added to the natural luminosity of her skin. Could it possibly be as smooth and soft as it looked? Today her locks were pulled up into an elegant updo, and Bryan enjoyed the view of her gracefully curved neck and shoulders. Is there anything about this woman that isn’t sexy? Feeling the effect she had on him and not wanting to have his arousal become evident, he finally spoke up. “Good morning.”

Callie started, and bobbled a bit on the ladder before steadying herself. She looked down into a pair of familiar blue eyes. “Okay, you’ve really got to stop doing that!” she exclaimed.

“Doing what?” Bryan asked, pleased to have flustered her.

“Stop sneaking up on me.” And checking out my ass, she added silently to herself. “How do you do that anyway?” she asked, climbing down the ladder. “You’re wearing those big, clunky boots again, and I should be able to hear you from across the room on these wood floors.”

Bryan held the ladder steady until she reached the bottom. “I’ve always been light on my feet. I do a lot of hiking, so I always walk with soft knees.”

Callie could tell that he did get a lot of physical exercise. His thighs and legs, outlined as they were in black denim, were well-sculpted and taut. She’d always had a preference for long-legged men, and Bryan’s were definitely some of the best legs she’d seen.

Bryan changed the subject. “You know, it’s almost impossible to get into this store. I’ve been back several times, and it’s always a madhouse.”

Callie grinned, always happy to discuss the store’s very healthy balance sheet. “Yeah, I know. It’s terrific. This time of year is always very busy with back-to-school shopping. Then we wind down until the Thanksgiving rush and Christmas. You have a problem with crowds?” she asked, looking up at him quizzically.

“Not necessarily,” he replied. “I just don’t want to be bothered right now. I’m here for some rest and relaxation.”

Callie nodded. “That’s what most folks come here for, especially all the hiking, camping, and fishing. So what can I do today to help you on your mission? Are you looking for some more Gibson books? Did you finish those Octavia Butlers?”

Bryan nodded, fairly certain that Callie didn’t want to know why he needed to relax at this point.

“Yeah, and you were right. Octavia Butler is a great writer. Her vision of an apocalyptic future is almost too real for me, you know what I mean?” Callie nodded. “I mean, it’s really possible, hell, even probable, that we’ll bring about our own destruction through ignorance and greed. It just amazes me that even in a state like California they could vote to deny medical benefits and education to the children of illegal immigrants. How narrow-minded and shortsighted can you be?”

As Callie listened to this impassioned speech, she noticed not for the first time the raspy quality of his voice. He sounded as if he drank a quart of bourbon and smoked a pack of unfiltered cigarettes before getting out of bed each morning. She wondered if he smoked, but could detect no odor of cigarette smoke on him. Surprisingly, his views closely mirrored her own.

“That’s the amazing thing about Butler. She projects the issues we have today to the only outcome possible in the future,” she replied. “We already live in a society where access to education and healthcare is dependent on wealth. For the life of me I can’t figure out why people don’t understand that we are all better served when everyone has good healthcare and education.”

Bryan gave her that brilliant grin again. “Will you marry me?”

Callie stepped back. “What?”

“I always told B.T. that when I met a woman who was as intelligent as she is beautiful I would marry her on the spot.”

Callie smiled, “You are silly.” She nudged his arm. “Who is B.T.?” she asked curiously.

Bryan leaned back against the bookcase, his arms still crossed. “B.T. is Bobby Tom Breedlove, my manager,” he replied in his best corn pone accent.

Callie snorted sardonically, “Bryan, nobody is named Bobby Tom Breedlove.”

“Well, you’ve got a point there. Everything else about him is fake, so I’m sure the name is, too.”

“If you know the guy is fake, why on earth do you let him manage you? And exactly what does he manage for you anyway? The only folks I know who have managers are athletes and celebrities.” When Bryan didn’t respond, she gave him another close look, then scurried over to the magazine rack. “Oh my God. You’re Bryan Spencer,” she whispered almost to herself, picking up a copy of a magazine. “You’re on the cover of Rolling Stone this month.”

Bryan followed her. “Yeah, B.T. told me about that. What did they call the article? ‘The Casualty Report’ or something like that?”

Callie nodded, looking at the photograph of Bryan and three other young men. Bryan was in the center, dressed in black, his hair hanging loosely around his shoulders. He had another guy, a muscular redhead, in a headlock. Standing on the other side of him were the other two band members, one with closely cropped blonde hair, the other with long, artfully coifed white-blonde hair hanging in loose waves. A large hypodermic needle was superimposed over the image.

Bryan took the magazine from her hands, clearly irritated by the photograph. “It would’ve been nice if they’d at least talked to somebody in the band before they published this crap,” he muttered to himself.