Work Text:
God, Mondays were always slow.
Scott heaved a sigh as he looked around the empty shop. He’d already neatened all the racks, shoving back the flipped albums and singles and even lining up their edges. He’d unpacked another box of plastic bags, emblazoned with RIVEN RECORDS, and battled to slide them flat under the counter as they all threatened to slither onto the floor. He would have checked the till float, but he’d only had about nine sales all day, so it wasn’t even worth it. In fact, he’d probably spent more than he’d taken; one of the dangers of operating a store that not only sold rare and secondhand records but also bought them.
Right now, his entire clientele comprised two teenaged girls - clearly bunking off school, which was their teachers’ problem, not his - flipping through Pop E-K, both of them huddled together as they lifted one album after another up to look at it, then slid it back down again. They’d been doing that for almost forty minutes, slowly making their way through all three racks of pop albums. He suspected they hadn’t even come in here with the intent to buy anything at all - did teenagers even prefer vinyl over streaming these days? - and instead were just mooching around until school hours were over and they could go back home without arousing suspicion. Nobody else had come through the front door since he’d sat and eaten his lunch; a hasty burger purchased in the ten minutes when he’d shut up shop and legged it to the takeaway across the road.
He’d even changed out the playlist for a bright and bubbly pop one that now thumped around the shop, in hopes that it might draw people in from the dull and grey autumn afternoon outside. If nothing else, it lifted his spirits as he ducked down behind the counter again. Might as well start pricing up the small collection of 80s limited edition coloured vinyl that he’d purchased that morning.
Sharpie in hand, he sorted through the pile, peeling off blank circular price stickers from a custom printed reel with RIVEN arching around the top and RECORDS around the bottom, pressing one onto each cover. None of these discs were super-valuable, but he’d get a tenner each for most of them. There were a couple with rare marbled vinyl, so he’d stick an extra fiver onto those.
The bell over the door tinkled, and he glanced up as the door opened and someone walked in.
A moment later, Scott not only looked, but he looked.
The guy who’d just entered was tall - about six foot - and wearing black ripped jeans held up by a soft black leather belt with metal plating and studs on it. Scott couldn’t make out the name on the faded pale grey band t-shirt the guy wore, but he approved of the black Chelsea boots, dark grey trilby hat, and chipped black nail polish. Heavy stubble and a silver-rimmed pair of Aviator sunglasses completed the look.
Nice, Scott thought, as the guy made his way to Indie Rock A-D and turned his back to the counter, instinctively resting one foot on the low support rung of the sturdy record rack he’d started looking through, which pulled the jeans tight around his backside.
Oh hell yeah. Monday just got a lot better!
The bell over the door tinkled again, twice in quick succession, pulling Scott’s attention away from this very pleasant distraction. More customers! Oh, now this was more like it! Thank you, Mr Cutie; you’re my lucky charm today.
He nudged up the volume a bit on the shop’s playlist, watching happily as three more people dispersed around the small shop, each heading for a different genre.
Returning to his pricing, he carefully wrote either ‘£10’ or ‘£15’ on the stickers, before sliding each record into a protective plastic sleeve. As he worked, he glanced up and around the shop. Nobody here had a bag large enough to shove anything into, but he couldn’t be too careful. The rarest stuff was kept in a display cabinet on the wall behind the counter, but he’d had the occasional item go missing over the couple of years he’d owned this place.
Cutie with the hat had moved around to the other side of the rack. He’d pulled two albums out already and rested them flat across the top of the vertical stacks. Well, that’d be a couple more sales for the day, so Scott couldn’t complain.
Cutie was also glancing around, his gaze occasionally flicking across to the other customers over the top of the Aviators, which he hadn’t removed. A couple of times he locked eyes briefly with Scott, who offered a smile and a nod before trying to make it visibly obvious that he was busy watching the shop, ‘cause y’know… the shop was busy.
Absolutely not eyeing you up. Nope, not at all.
The hat shaded them a little, but Cutie’s eyes were a piercing grey-blue. Scott mentally filed them away as fuckin’ gorgeous as he finished up the pricing and stacked the records in a cardboard box behind the counter. He’d put those out after he’d shut up shop for the day.
Cutie had pulled out another album, adding it to his pile. One of the other customers who’d come in after him approached the counter with a couple of Japanese import 7” singles in his hand. Scott rang up the purchases, took payment, bagged them, and handed them over with a smile and a cheery “Thanks!”
The customer left, followed by the two teenagers. Scott sighed, glancing at the clock. 3:20pm. Yep; they’d not bought a bloody thing. Oh well. There was still Cutie and two others browsing through the racks.
He glanced down at his laptop, tucked below the side counter, and eyeballed the playlist he'd currently got loaded and playing through the shop’s speakers. One song caught his eye and he grinned, flicking a glance over at Cutie, who appeared to have finished looking through the rack and was gathering together the albums he’d decided on.
Scott nudged that song into the ‘up next’ position, and as the currently playing song faded, he turned back to face the shop. Cutie had reached the counter, and laid down the records, shoving both hands into his pockets and glancing around again.
The song changed, and Scott held back a cheeky grin as Carly Rae Jepsen’s Call Me Maybe thumped out from the speakers.
“Good choices,” he remarked as he picked up the albums, sliding each one out of its protective sleeve. Those things were expensive, after all. He couldn’t just give them away.
“Thanks,” the guy replied, watching as Scott tapped the prices into the till.
Your stare was holdin’
Ripped jeans, skin was showin’
“Forty-eight-ninety-nine,” Scott said, watching as the guy dug into his jeans back pocket for his wallet. Flipping it open, he pulled out two twenties and a ten.
Scott’s eyebrows went up. He’d kinda hoped he might get a glimpse of Cutie’s name on a credit card, but… cash? Who paid with cash these days?!
The guy held out the notes, and that was when Scott spotted the calluses on the tips of his fingers.
“Guitarist?” he asked, taking the notes.
The guy’s mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Yeah,” was all he said, as he pushed the shades up a little and shoved the wallet back into his pocket.
“Cool.” Scott turned back to the till, opening the drawer and digging around for some change. “Hey, if you need a deal on some new strings anytime, I could hook you up with my mate. He works in the music shop on the corner. Just say the word—“ He turned back to the guy, closing the till drawer with a backwards shove of his rump “—and I’ll give him a call. He owes me a few favours.”
He handed over the change, then reached below the counter to get a bag for the records. Four of the slippery little buggers slithered onto his feet, but he managed to snag one.
The guy shoved the change into his jeans pocket. “Uh, thanks?” he replied, glancing around again and somehow managing to look both a little nervous and a lot nonplussed at the same time.
Scott wrangled the records into the bag and held it out to the guy.
“No problem!”
Cutie took the bag with a nod, stepping back from the counter. Almost as an afterthought, he gestured toward Scott with his free hand.
“Nice hair,” he said.
Scott bestowed him with his most winning smile and preened his freshly cyan-dyed hair - that he had totally not taken over an hour to style that morning.
“Thank you!”
Cutie just smirked, turned, and left the shop.
Where you think you’re goin’, baby?
***
Three days later, the guy came back. He gave Scott a brief nod as he walked in - to which Scott responded with a smile - and he then headed to the racks where he’d been browsing before.
Similar outfit, Scott noted, but this time the jeans - still ripped - were old faded denim. He wondered if they were vintage, because they looked beautifully soft. Another old half-legible band t-shirt, pale blue this time. The same Chelsea boots, the same belt, hat, and shades. The only other change was a black leather thong bracelet on his left wrist, threaded with alternating beads of copper and turquoise. Oh, and the stubble had grown out a little more, getting closer toward a neatly trimmed beard.
Please be a new regular, Scott thought, as he started pricing a handful of new collectible 7” singles he’d bought not half an hour before. It’d be nice to see a pretty face in here on the regular.
He realised he’d got the same playlist on as he had on Monday. Huh, what a coincidence.
With a smirk, he… doctored it a little, pushing one particular and familiar song into the ‘up next’ position - nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all - and returned to his pricing. He angled his view so he could watch the guy, and he waited.
The only other customers in the shop were two young women, who were browsing through Rock L-R. Like Scott, they were both occasionally glancing at the guy. Hmf, well they could back right the fuck off.
I threw a wish in the well
Don't ask me, I'll never tell
I looked to you as it fell
The guy’s fingers went still on the records he’d been flipping through as Carly Rae Jepsen started singing. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw him start to lift his head, so he returned to the very very important task of pricing. To ease his nervous excitement, he let himself dance a little as he worked; head bopping, foot tapping, butt wiggling. He even started lipsynching to the lyrics. Couldn’t help himself. He actually really loved this stupid fucking song, so he let himself get lost in it, feeling a bit giddy.
With the pricing done, he turned - still bopping around - only to find the guy waiting in front of the counter, watching him and grinning.
“Oh shit! Sorry!” Scott muttered, going both still and a bit pink at the same time, before holding out his hand for the albums the guy had brought to him. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“Favourite song?” the guy asked, handing them over.
“Hey, c’mon,” Scott teased. “Tell me she doesn’t make you wanna dance with this one. I can’t help it!”
“Can’t say she does,” the guy said, still smiling. “But you look like you’re having fun, at least.”
“Best job in the world for someone who loves music as much as I do,” Scott retorted, looking through the albums to enter their prices in the till.
“So,” he mused, making a mental note of the guy’s apparent favourite genre as he rung up the prices. “Indie rock your thing? If I spot anything interesting coming in, I can keep them aside for you, if you like? Thirty-three-ninety-nine, please.”
The guy pulled out his wallet, handing over two crisp twenties.
“I wouldn’t want to give you any extra work—“
“Oh psh!” Scott took the money. “Happy to do it. Sometimes I get some nice rarities in, and I like to help a collector out if I can.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“Surer than sure. In fact, I—“
His words tailed off as he spotted the two young women, both probably around their early twenties, who had been edging away from Rock L-R and were now approaching the counter in a comically non-suspicious manner. They were both staring at the guy.
A moment later, said guy had also clearly caught wind that he was being approached. Scott watched the realisation wash over his face like some kind of sixth sense that changed his entire demeanour; at first defensive, and then mildly defeated.
“Shit,” the guy muttered under his breath, as the young women whispered excitedly to each other. Each appeared to be trying to poke the other to say something.
For a moment, Scott thought the guy was actually about to run out of the shop, leaving behind both the records and his change. But after a second, he turned and acknowledged the women with a nod and a faint smile.
With this permission granted, they rushed up to him, excited but clearly trying to keep it on the down-low. Bemused, Scott watched them quietly freaking out at him. One of them was scrabbling around in her bag for something, but the other simply stared at the guy, rather obviously overwhelmed.
The woman with the bag triumphantly pulled a wallet from it and held it out to the guy, who looked at Scott.
“Uh, can I borrow that?” He gestured to the Sharpie that Scott had been pricing the records with.
Without a word, Scott handed it over and watched as the guy signed the outside of the wallet, then turned to the staring young woman, pen at the ready.
Silently, she turned around, presenting her back to him. He paused, then signed the shoulder of her t-shirt.
The woman with the bag held her cellphone out to Scott. “Could you take a picture of us, please?” she begged.
“Sure.”
The two women flanked the guy, who slung an arm around each of their shoulders and offered the easy smile of someone who had done this - had had to do this - many many times. Scott took a couple of photos and handed the phone back.
The two young women left, chattering excitedly. The guy handed the Sharpie back without a word. The easy smile had faded as quickly as it came.
“That happen often?” Scott remarked, as he returned to the till.
“Too often,” the guy mumbled. He seemed uncomfortable, hands shoved deep in his jeans pockets and shoulders tensed, his gaze darting around the store behind the sunglasses as if to ensure nobody else was going to come up and hassle him.
Scott took his time counting the change, but eventually he closed the till.
“Look,” he said softly as he handed the coins over, “if you wanna browse in peace, come back after four. Thursdays tend to be pretty quiet after lunch, so I usually lock up a bit early and sit out the back to go through the new stock I’ve bought in throughout the week and get the mail order stuff dealt with. If you go around the back road behind here, then look for the little pull-in parking area halfway down, you’ll see a cyan door sort of in the corner behind the half-wall. Knock on that door and I’ll let you in. You can take as much time as you need to look through the racks.”
He handed over the bagged records, adding, “I mean it. It’s no trouble for me. I live above the shop, so it’s not like you’d be keeping me from going home.”
The guy took the bag. Their fingers brushed for a moment.
“Thanks,” he said. “I might take you up on that.”
He turned and left.
Where you think you’re goin’, baby?
***
At 4:15pm, Scott had locked up and was out the back room of the shop, sitting cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by crates of records. In front of him he had a pile of printed orders, and to one side sat a heap of cardboard mailing sleeves, a reel of packing tape, and a thick black marker pen. Biro between his teeth, he was sifting through the orders when he heard a knock on the rear door of the shop.
The biro dropped to the floor and he scrambled to his feet, jogging over to the door and unlocking it.
There stood Cutie, hands shoved into his pockets, shades and hat still on, even in the relative seclusion of the small walled-off parking area around the back of the shop.
“Hey,” Scott said, giving him a bright smile. “Come in.”
Ducking his head to get under the low lintel of the door, the guy walked in and Scott locked up again behind him. He turned, one hand gesturing to the beaded curtain that led out to the shop.
“I left the lights and music on out there for you,” he began, then clammed up as the guy removed his shades and hooked them onto the neck of his t-shirt. They dragged the soft fabric down a little, revealing the top of a hairy chest.
Scott gulped. Fuckfuckfuck! Stop staring!
He dragged his gaze up. God, the guy was fucking gorgeous. And he seemed infinitely amused at Scott’s discombobulation. Oh, great.
“No Carly Rae Jepsen tonight?” he was asking, lips curved in a grin.
Scott smiled, his knees more than a bit wobbly under the intensity of those eyes. “It’s harder to dance when you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor,” he said, nodding to the back room where he’d been sitting amid his little nest of mail order stuff.
The guy looked past his shoulder. “Ah, gotcha. Looks like you’re busy. I’ll leave you to get on with all that. And, uh, thanks for this,” he added, as he pulled aside the bead curtain. “I really appreciate it.”
“No worries.”
***
An hour later, Scott had finished packing up all the orders and his mouth was feeling a bit dry. Cutie still hadn’t come back through from the shop, so Scott got to his feet and peeked through the bead curtain. The guy was over by the indie rock section; his usual haunt. There was quite a decent pile of albums stacked up on the counter by the till; probably a good fifteen or so. The hat had also come off and was sitting on the counter beside the albums, together with the Aviators. The guy’s hair was brown, short but thick and tousled.
Guh. Of course he was a fucking brunette. Gorgeous blue-grey eyes, callus-rough fingertips, chipped nail polish, hairy chest, brunette, and clearly a musician. 1000% Scott’s type. Oh, and he was also famous; or at least well-known enough that he got recognised by fans in random obscure little record shops whose owners he probably wasn’t interested in at all.
This was SO fucking unfair.
God, pull yourself together and stop sulking, you great big slut. Nice big smile now…
“Hey!” he said.
The guy looked up. “Uh, do you need me to settle up and leave?”
“Nah. I’m just nipping upstairs to make myself a coffee. You want one?”
“Wouldn’t say no, if you don’t mind,” the guy replied, offering a brief and grateful smile. “Black, no sugar.”
“You’re sweet enough as it is, eh?” Scott winked at him, then turned to jog up the stairs, grinning as he heard the guy’s laughter drifting up from the shop.
Hopping from one foot to the other in the kitchen as he waited for the kettle to boil, Scott perused the mug cupboard and agonised over which one would give off the right vibe.
‘Blow me - I’m hot’
‘Little Miss Cunty’
‘10/10 - would bang’
‘sorry, ran outta milk, had to use jizz’
He sighed. He really needed some friends with slightly more… classy taste in gifts.
Finally, he settled on ‘Calm your tits and put the kettle on’ for Mr Fucking Gorgeous, and ‘I’m so fabulous I poop rainbows’ for himself. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.
Five minutes later, he carefully carried two mugs of coffee back down the stairs again. Seeing him approach, the guy stopped going through the racks and turned to face him.
Scott held out the ‘Calm your tits’ mug.
“Sorry,” he said, pre-emptively. “Most of my mugs are gifts from my mates, who are all utter wankers. These are the least, uh… yeah.”
The guy took the mug, laughing as he read the slogan. He leaned back against the shop’s shuttered door and nodded toward the rainbow text on Scott’s mug.
“Do you?” he asked, both eyebrows rising. “I’m impressed.”
Scott grinned. “Only on Sundays. Name’s Scott, by the way,” he added, resting an elbow on the corner of Dance A-D and taking a sip from his mug.
The guy also drank, taking a long enough sip that Scott wondered if he was deciding whether to give his name or not.
“Pix,” he eventually said, watching Scott closely.
What, did he expect some kind of reaction? Did he think Scott was only being nice to him because he was apparently famous, or something? Pfft. As if Scott had a fucking clue who he was!
Scott raised an eyebrow. “As in guitar picks?”
Pix gave him a wry smile, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “It’s a nickname, so yeah, pretty much. I spell it with an ‘x’, though.”
“Stage name, I’m guessing?” Scott ventured. “I mean, those lasses clearly recognised you and wanted your autograph.”
Pix sipped his coffee again.
“No,” he eventually said. “Stage name is different. I’m kinda surprised you don’t know it.” He smirked, adding, “Being someone who loves music as much as you do.”
Scott pouted as his own words were turned back around on him. “Hey, not fair! I love music, but I can’t listen to everything, even if I do own a record shop!”
Pix shrugged, still smirking. “I guess I’m no Carly Rae Jepsen, eh?”
“Oh fuck off!” Scott laughed. “I probably wouldn’t recognise her if she walked in here, either. It’s the music I’m into; I don’t really pay attention to how the artists look. Unless, y’know, they’re really hot or they make a big thing of how they look.”
“So, you’re telling me if I waltzed in here dressed like Lady Gaga you might at least know who I was?” Pix teased.
“Oh, absolutely, especially if you rocked that look, lobster heels and all.”
“Jeez, I can manage a two-inch Cuban heel, but I’d fall flat on my face if I wore those fuckin’ things,” Pix chuckled. He set down his mug on the counter and walked over to Rock L-R, reaching toward the back of the racks. Long fingers sifted through a couple of albums, then he pulled out three of them, bringing them back to Scott.
Scott took them, looking them over. All three were by a band called Ryffs. Each of the covers bore some pretty cool stylised art, and one of them was a gatefold sleeve. He remembered giving them a listen a few months back.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard a few of their tracks.”
“Any good?” Pix asked, taking up his coffee again and leaning back against the door.
“I mean, I’m more into pop than rock, but yeah, I liked ‘em. Oh hey, I forgot one of these is a rare edition.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. Got some promo material inside the sleeve.” Recklessly balancing his half-drunk coffee on the top of Dance A-D, Scott wrangled the gatefold album out of its protective plastic sleeve. From inside the left cardboard gatefold he pulled out two 10 x 8 black and white promo photos of the band, one taken in a studio, the other on stage.
He stared at them.
Pix was centre-front on both of them, and on the stage photo he was not only playing guitar but was also clearly the lead singer.
Scott looked up from the photo. Pix was watching him over the top of his mug, his eyes amused.
“You absolute wanker!” Scott protested, laughing. “Not fair to ask me if I liked your music without me knowing it was your music!”
“At least you did like it,” Pix retorted with a grin. “So thanks. I appreciate the honest opinion.”
Scott huffed, turning back to the photos. Damn, Pix looked good on stage. In the photo, he was belly-up to the mic, one hand clasped around the neck of his guitar, the other pointing out at the audience. The photo looked like it was taken at a summer festival, the crowd being both huge and half-dressed, and Pix was getting them involved in the song. They all appeared to be really into it; loads of arms in the air and open mouths that were clearly belting the lyrics back at him.
In the photo, Pix was also wearing skintight jeans, half-laced black combat boots, and a tight untucked sleeveless t-shirt. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
“So, uh,” Scott managed as he pushed the photos back into the sleeve and fumbled to get the gatefold back into its protective cover. “What’s the stage name, then? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“The band’s named after me,” Pix replied.
“So, what… Ryffs? That’s your stage name?”
“Riff. With an ‘i’.”
Scott grinned. “Apt, for a guitarist.”
“Bit corny,” Pix admitted. “I was thinking about changing it, but then things suddenly got pretty big for us around the festival circuit, and now I’m kinda stuck with it.”
“Actually, that might explain why I didn’t recognise you,” Scott mused. “Haven’t been to a festival in ages. Not really a fan of traipsing around in mud and sleeping in a tent. I’d maybe consider glamping, but not camping.”
Pix’s lips twitched.
“Not that kind of camping, at any rate,” Scott added, shooting him A Look as he picked up his coffee again.
“Of course,” Pix said smoothly, turning his mug around and back again, looking down at it. “You, uh, been running this place for long?”
Ah. They’d reached the smalltalk phase. This could go either way, but Pix seemed pretty relaxed. Good sense of humour, open-minded, didn’t mind being called a wanker (always a bonus, especially in Scott’s social circle).
Scott still hadn’t managed to figure out if he was - or even might be - interested, though.
“Couple of years, yeah,” he replied. “Started working here behind the till, then the owner wanted to sell up and move out to Ibiza. The flat above the shop kinda sold me on the idea, so I rented out my old place and moved in here. It’s been hard work running it alone, but I love it.”
“No staff?” Pix raised an eyebrow.
“In this financial climate?” Scott chuckled. “Not a chance. Can’t afford to take anyone else on. I break even most months, but that’s about it. It’s a passion project more than anything.”
Pix nodded toward the pile of albums on the counter. “Well, at least the takings for today will be fairly decent once I’ve paid you for that lot,” he said.
It was a sizeable stack of vinyl, Scott noted.
“Uh, will you be okay carrying those home?” he asked, wondering whether to offer to help.
“Car’s out back.”
Scott nodded. Well, there goes that idea. “Right. I’ve, uh, probably got a spare box around here somewhere that I can put them in for you.”
“Cheers.”
Scott’s mug was almost empty. This was about to get into awkward silence territory. He needed to do something about that.
“I do take cards as well as cash, by the way,” he said, looking over at the counter. There must be a good couple of hundred quid’s worth piled up there. He turned back to Pix, adding with a grin, “Just in case you don’t haul that much cash around with you.”
Pix chuckled. “Yeah, thanks. Sorry if I hammered your till float at all. I don’t usually use my card if I can help it. Privacy reasons, mainly. Real name on the card, and all that.”
“I get it. And I’m almost embarrassed now,” Scott said, taking his mug over to the counter and setting it down. Pix followed him, his own empty mug going down beside Scott’s, as Scott started to sift through the pile of albums and ring them up.
“Why?”
Firmly focused on his task, Scott replied, “Well, I did say that I only really pay attention to how artists look if they’re really hot. Or, y’know, if they make a big thing out of how they look, but mainly if they’re really hot. I’m just a bit embarrassed that I didn’t recognise you, ‘cause… yeah. I’d really pay attention to you.”
There was a beat of silence, coming almost painfully awkwardly at the exact moment of silence between songs on the playlist. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Pix palm a hand to the back of his neck and look down briefly, scuffing the toe of his boot against the floor tiles.
Oh god, you‘re fucking adorable. Hot and adorable. Just kill me now.
“Thanks,” Pix said softly.
Scott smiled. Okay, good. Good. Thank fuck for that.
“This offer stands every Thursday, by the way,” he said.
He’d finished ringing up the albums, and pushed the card reader across the counter, watching as Pix took a credit card out from his wallet and slid it into the reader. Scott sent the amount through to it, and Pix tapped in his PIN number, waiting until the machine gave him the okay to remove the card.
Pix looked up, opening his mouth to speak.
“In fact…” Scott interrupted him, crouching down behind the counter to drag an empty cardboard box out from beneath it. He straightened again, putting the box on the counter and starting to pile the albums into it. “It stands any day. After 4pm on Thursday, but after five any other day. You want peace and quiet and a decent cup of coffee, just knock on that door. I’m usually down here until around six, so I’ll hear you.”
Pix nodded, hooking the Aviators onto his t-shirt again and picking up the hat.
“I really appreciate it,” he murmured, putting the hat on and looking up at Scott. His expression was both soft and a bit flushed, and he looked like he was trying not to smile.
Oh fuck’s sake, LOOK at him! He’s a sucker for a compliment.
Scott winked. “I can’t promise what mug you’ll get that coffee in, though. Like I said; my friends are wankers.”
Pix laughed. “I look forward to seeing what delights my next mug of coffee brings, then.”
Yes. Yesssss!
Scott held back the bead curtain as Pix carried the box of albums out to the back of the shop. Then he opened the back door, holding that open - like a proper gentleman! - as Pix ducked out into the chilly evening air. His car was backed up into the parking space, and as he glanced at it Scott realised why he’d never heard it pull up when Pix had arrived earlier: it was a hybrid.
A hybrid Porsche.
How fucking famous was this dude?!
“Nice car,” he murmured, as Pix opened the passenger door and slid the box onto the seat.
“Record company paid for it,” Pix said, shutting the door and walking around the back to the driver’s side. “It’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but it draws a lot of attention.”
“Oh, the hardship,” Scott laughed, earning himself a grin from Pix. “Hot guy, drives hot car, has people falling all over him. There’s a downside to all that?!”
“Well…” Pix murmured as he opened the driver’s side door. The overhead streetlamp cast a deep shadow over his face from the hat brim. “Loss of privacy, y’know?”
“Ah. Yeah, there is that,” Scott admitted.
Pix touched the tip of his finger to the hat brim, lifting it up a little so the light hit his face.
“Which makes this evening all the more precious to me,” he finished, softly. “So thanks for giving me that.”
Scott smiled. “Anytime.”
He watched as Pix got into the car and closed the door behind him. With a sigh, he went back into the shop and shut the door, locking up and glancing into the back room. He should really get those parcels up off the floor so he wouldn’t trip over them the next time he came back here.
He was halfway through hauling the filled mailing sleeves over to the small desk in the room, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He dug it out and thumbed the reader.
AirDrop
Pix's iPhone would like to share a contact.
Decline | Accept
Huh. He'd left Bluetooth enabled? Well that was a stroke of luck, 'cause he usually left that switched off unless he needed it for something.
He grinned.
Accept.
A moment later, it buzzed again.
AirDrop
Pix's iPhone would like to share a note.
Decline | Accept
Oh?
Accept.
He swiped through to his Notes app and opened it.
hey, i just met you and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe? ;)
Scott may or may not have fistpumped. He may or may not have hissed, “Yess!” He may or may not have followed that up with a mutter of, “Oh, you fuckin’ beauty,” as he fumbled through his contacts and hit the call button.
It was answered within two rings, Pix’s warm laugh greeting him.
“Look,” Scott began. “I make great coffee, but I can also cook, y’know. So, uh, if you fancy a nice dinner one night…”
“Well,” Pix murmured, “that night can be tonight, if you want.”
Scott stared at the locked door. Then, one-handed, he fumbled to unlock it and tug it open.
Pix was right outside, phone still against his ear. His hat and shades had been left in the car and the streetlight shone down on him like it was delivering an angel by special courier. An angel who was giving Scott a grin and a look that did wonderfully unmentionable things to him.
“I want my morning coffee in the filthiest mug you own.”