Alyson Noel - Unrivalled

Tommy hesitated, which seemed kind of dumb, since it wasn’t like Ira was gonna steal it. And yet it required every ounce of his will to hand the piece over and watch as Ira balanced it in his hands as though expecting the weight to reveal something important. When he strapped it over his chest and assumed some ridiculous, pseudo-guitar-god stance, laughing in this loud, inclusive way like they were both in on the joke, Tommy had to fight the urge to hurl right then and there.

The sight of Ira manhandling his dream had him sweating straight through his Jimmy Page T-shirt. And the way he dragged it out, pretending to do a thorough inspection when he clearly had no idea what to look for, made it clear Ira was putting on some kind of show.

But why?

Was that how bored rich people entertained themselves?

“It’s a beautiful piece.” He returned the instrument as Tommy, relieved to have it safely out of Ira’s possession, propped it back against the wall. “I can see why you’d want to own it. Though I’m not convinced you do.”

Tommy’s back stiffened.

“The way you handle it …” Ira placed both hands on the counter, his manicured fingers splayed, his gold watch gleaming like a cruel taunt, as if to say, This is the life you could’ve had—one of great privilege and wealth, where you’d get to harass wannabe rock gods and piss all over their dreams just for the fun of it . “You handle it with too much reverence for it to be yours. You’re not comfortable with it. It’s a part from you, rather than a part of you.”

Tommy pressed his lips together. Shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had no idea how to reply. Though he’d no doubt the whole thing was a test he had just failed.

“You handle that guitar like it’s a girl you can’t believe you get to fuck, rather than the girlfriend you’ve grown used to fucking.” Ira laughed, displaying a mouthful of capped teeth—shiny white soldiers standing in perfect formation. “So how ‘bout I double whatever it is you think you could pay for it?” His laughter died as quickly as it started.

Tommy shook his head and stared at his trashed motorcycle boots, which, in Ira’s presence, no longer seemed cool. The treads were shot. The shank was gashed. It was like his favorite boots had suddenly turned on him, reminding him of the enormous gap yawning between him and his dream. Still, it beat looking at Ira, who clearly considered Tommy a fool.

“Okay, triple then.”

Tommy refused to acknowledge the offer. Ira was insane. The whole scene was insane. He was rumored to be a relentless negotiator, but all this—over a guitar? From everything he’d read about him, the only music Ira cared about was the song that played during last call when he collected the money from his various clubs.

“You drive a tough bargain.” Ira laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. The tone was way off.

And it wasn’t like Tommy had to actually look at him to know that his eyes had gone squinty, his mouth wide, his chin lifted in that arrogant way that he had. He’d seen plenty of photos of Ira being the inauthentic, entitled bastard he was. He’d memorized them all.

“So what if I quadruple my offer, hand over my credit card, and you hand over the guitar? I’m assuming you work on commission? Hard to pass on an offer like that.”

Clearly Ira had pegged him for the rent-hungry wannabe he was, and yet Tommy still held his ground.

The guitar was his.

Or at least it would be just as soon as he collected a few more paychecks.

And while it was definitely a risky move to deny Ira Redman, Tommy watched as he finally gave up and exited the store as arrogantly as he’d entered.

Tommy clasped the guitar to his chest, hardly able to believe he’d almost lost it. If he could just make it through the next few months, he’d have enough saved to make it officially his. Sooner if he went on a hunger strike.

And that was how Ira found him—standing behind the smudgy glass counter, embracing his dream guitar like a lover.

“Farrington wants a word.” Ira pressed his phone on Tommy, who had no other choice but to take it.

Who knew Ira and Farrington were friends?

Or better yet, who didn’t know Ira had an in with the owner?

Fuckin’ Ira knew everyone.

The conversation might have been brief, but it was no less humiliating, with Farrington ordering Tommy to sell Ira the guitar at the original price. There might also have been a mention about Tommy losing his job, but Tommy was already returning the phone, reducing Farrington’s angry rant into a distant muffled squawk.

Fighting back tears too ridiculous to cry, Tommy forfeited the guitar. Hell, he hadn’t even cried the night he’d said good-bye to Amy, the girlfriend he’d been with for the last two years.

He could not, would not, cry for a guitar.

And he definitely wouldn’t cry over his father making him look like a fool, showing just how insignificant he was in the world.

Someday he’d show him, prove his worth, and make Ira regret the day he walked into Farrington’s.

He didn’t know how, but he would. He was more determined than ever.

With the guitar in Ira’s possession (paid for with his Amex Black card, which probably had a gazillion-dollar limit), Ira shot Tommy one last appraising look before pulling a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and sliding it across the counter. “Nice try, kid.” He made for the door, guitar strapped over his shoulder. “Maybe you could have bought it sooner if you worked for me.”

Aster Amirpour closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slipped beneath the water’s surface until the bubbles covered her head and the outside world disappeared. If she had to choose a happy place, this would be it. Cocooned within the warm embrace of her Jacuzzi, free of the burden of parental expectations, along with the weight of their disapproving gaze.

No wonder she’d favored mermaids over princesses as a kid.

It was only when her lungs squeezed in protest that she sprang to the surface. Blinking water from her eyes, she pushed her hair from her face, allowing it to fall in long, dark ribbons that flowed to her waist, and adjusted the straps of her Burberry bikini—the one that took a month to convince her mom to buy, and then another month to convince her to let her wear it, and then only within the walled-in confines of their yard.

“All I see is four tiny triangles and a handful of very flimsy strings!” Her mother had dangled the offending pieces by the tip of her index finger, looking as though she’d been scandalized by the sight of it.

Inwardly, Aster rolled her eyes. Wasn’t that the whole point of rocking a bikini—to display as much gorgeous young flesh as possible while you still had gorgeous young flesh to display?

God forbid she wore something that might be considered highly immodest within the confines of her Tehrangeles neighborhood.

“But it’s Burberry !” Aster had pleaded, trying to appeal to her mother’s own high-end shopping addiction. When it didn’t help, she went on to add, “What if I promise to only wear it at home?” She eyeballed her mother, trying to get a read, but her mom’s face remained as imperious as ever. “What if I promise to only wear it at home when I’m the only one there?”

Her mother had stood silently before her, weighing the merits of a promise Aster had no intention of keeping. The whole thing was ridiculous. Aster was eighteen years old! She should be able to buy her own stuff by now, but her parents liked to keep as tight a rein on her spending as they did on her comings and goings.

As far as getting a job and financing her own bikinis—Aster knew better than to broach that particular subject. Other than the rare exception of a random lawyer here, a famed pediatrician there, the females in Aster’s family tree didn’t work outside the home. They did what was expected—they married, raised a family, shopped, lunched, and chaired the occasional charity gala—all the while pretending to be fulfilled, but Aster wasn’t buying it.