Bentley Little - The Store

"Very well." Mr. Lamb turned back toward the nearest wall. "As a security monitor, you will be responsible for observing customers on these video screens here and logging any inappropriate activity so that management can later determine whether it's feasible to prosecute or take other necessary action." He moved closer and pointed to a series of numbers on a digital readout below one of the screens. "As you can see, everything is taped. If an incident occurs, you will record the number corresponding to the tape location so that the incident can be easily referenced."

Jake nodded, not sure if he was supposed to be paying close attention, if this was part of his training, or simply an overview of information that would be repeated when his actual training began.

"Uh, when will I be starting?" he asked.

"When would you like to start?"

"Tomorrow?" he offered.

Mr. Lamb smiled. "That will be fine. There will be a two-day training session, before you begin monitoring the card department. If you are effective in this assignment, you may eventually move up to" -- he paused dramatically "the women's fitting rooms." His smile growing broader, he led the way across the room and pointed to a screen above the head of a young man with a blond crew cut. On the screen, in a closed dressing room, Samantha Davis unbuckled her belt, unbuttoned, unzipped, and pulled down her jeans. The crew cut man turned a knob on the console, and the camera zoomed in on her crotch. Her panties had a hole in them, and through the small tear in the patterned cotton he could see blond pubic hair.

Jake was immediately aroused, and he casually moved his right hand in front of his crotch, surreptitiously trying to push down on his growing erection. He had often imagined what Shannon's sister looked like naked, and here she was in the flesh.

A natural blond.

She adjusted the panties, pulling them tight, clearly outlining the cleft between her legs, before trying on the jeans that she'd brought into the dressing room with her.

He dared not move, for fear that even that slight friction would set him off. He stared up at the screen in wonder. He could sit here and spy on the girls in town as they tried on clothes, see them in their underwear, and get paid for it? This was heaven.

Mr. Lamb grinned, put an uncomfortable arm around Jake's shoulder.

"Sometimes," he said, "they don't even wear panties."

5

Bill stared at his computer screen.

Street had won the chess game.

It took a moment for him to realize what had happened. He hadn't expected this, hadn't been prepared for it, and he was mentally thrown off balance. When his brain finally did assimilate what had occurred, he leaned back in his chair, a shiver passing through him.

It was not an earth-shattering moment. Nothing important had occurred.

Hell, by rights this was something that should have happened a long time ago.

The surprising thing was that it hadn't occurred before now.

But after so many consecutive wins, this loss seemed somehow ominous, and he found himself reading into it an import that perhaps wasn't there.

_Perhaps?_

There was no "perhaps" about it. There was no larger meaning to the loss of a chess game; there was no significance to it at all.

So why did he feel . . . uneasy?

The phone rang. Street, no doubt. "I'll get it!" he called out. He picked up the cordless from his desk and pressed the "Talk" button. "Hello?"

It was Street, but he hadn't called to gloat, as Bill had expected.

Instead, he seemed subdued. "I won," he said, and there was a superstitious hush to his voice, as though he had just broken a mirror and was waiting for the imminent arrival of seven years' bad luck. "I didn't think I'd win."

"I didn't either," Bill admitted.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Want to call Ben and come over for a board game?"

"Sure." Bill searched around his desktop, trying to find where he'd laid his watch. "What time is it?"

"Still early. Why don't you come on by?"

"Okay," Bill said. "See you in ten." He started to turn off the phone, then held it once again to his mouth and ear. "Oh, I almost forgot. Congratulations."

"Thanks," Street replied, but there was no joy in his voice.

Bill switched off the phone, switched off his PC, and emerged from his office, walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water.

"He does still live here," Shannon said loudly from the living room.

"Very funny." He made a face at her.

Ginny looked over at him from the couch. "You could spend a little more time with your family and a little less time hiding in your room with your computer."

"Yeah, Dad."

"You're with that computer all day. Do you have to do it at night, too?"

"Sorry." Bill grabbed a glass from the sideboard, rinsed it out, poured himself some water from the sink, and drank.

"So what's your plan now?" Ginny asked. "Are you going to stay here with us for once, or are you going to hang out with your cronies?"

"My cronies?"

"Your cronies." Ginny looked at him levelly.

"Well . . . I was going to go over to Street's house for a quick game."

"Jesus. Don't you think for once you could do something with me instead of your friends?"

All lightness, all trace of bantering, had left her voice. If it had ever been there. Shannon was on the floor, moving closer to the television, trying to pretend she couldn't hear what was going on.

Bill put his glass in the sink. "Fine," he said. "I'll stay home. We'll have our match tomorrow."

"But you're going to be angry about it, aren't you? You're going to be silent and pout all night."

"What's with you today?" He moved around the counter, into the living room, sitting down on the couch next to her. "That time of the month?"

"You're gross," Shannon said.

"Are your little hormones telling you to be angry with me?" He pinched Ginny's side, tickling her, and against her will she laughed. "You _are_ gross," she said.

"But that's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, you like it."

"Dad!"

"Okay, okay. Sorry." He gave Ginny a quick kiss. "Just let me call Street and cancel."

"You sure you're not going to pout?"

"No," he said. And as he walked back down the hallway to his office, he realized that he hadn't been lying to Ginny. He wasn't angry. In fact, he wasn't at all upset that they wouldn't be playing chess tonight.

He was relieved.

"Thank you, Fred," Street said as he handed the customer his change.

The old man nodded, took his bag of adapters. "Thanks."

Ben waited until the customer had left the store, then turned toward Street. "Whatever happened to the words 'You're welcome'?"

"What?"

"It seems like every time I say 'Thank you' to someone, they say "Thank you' back to me. Everyone's thanking everybody these days. No one says, 'You're welcome' anymore."

"What is this crap? You trying to be Andy Rooney or something?"

"Like what just happened here. What are you supposed to say when someone buys something from you? Do you thank him for buying from you and patronizing your store? You do, right? Then he's supposed to say, 'You're welcome.' That's the correct response to Thank you.' But, instead, Fred said, 'Thanks.' Why?

What's he thanking you for? Giving him his change?"

Street shook his head. "Give it a rest, will you? It's been a crappy day."

The editor looked over at Bill, changing the subject. "Well, maybe this'll start a new pattern. Now maybe he'll win all the computer games and you'll win all the board games."

"Street's right," Bill said. "Give it a rest."

He didn't feel like talking about the chess game. In fact, he didn't feel like playing chess ever again. He _had_ won the board game in their little test, and that pattern reversal had shaken him far more than he cared to admit. It had not been a surprise -- hell, he'd been expecting it -- but confirmation only made it that much worse.