Started writing something, should I continue it?
Jack Kelly walked along the cracked Manhattan sidewalk with Racetrack Higgins and Crutchy Morris, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn denim jacket. School was out for Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and the three of them had decided to spend it wandering the cityâno plan, no destination, just miles of pavement and whatever trouble they happened to find.
Race stayed close to Crutchy, matching his pace without making it obvious. Jack, on the other hand, drifted a few steps ahead. Slowing down had never really been his thing.
He stopped short in front of an old record shop wedged between a laundromat and a closed bakery. The windows were dusty, the paint around the frame chipped and faded.
Jack grinned. âHey, fellasâhow âbout we check this place out?â
He didnât wait for an answer before pushing the door open. A small bell jingled overhead.
The shop smelled like incense and fresh paint. Somewhere in the back, a Beatles song hummed through slightly crackling speakers. The place was narrow but deep, rows of vinyl crates lining the floor and walls plastered with old band posters.
Jack flipped lazily through a crate, pausing over a Good Charlotte record before sliding it back. He wasnât really looking.
A boy stepped out from the back room and slipped behind the counter.
Jack forgot how to breathe for a second.
Brown curls. Striking blue eyes. Dark jeans and a thin, pale-blue flannel layered over a worn Smiths T-shirt. He looked like he belonged in the shop, like heâd been printed there between the album covers.
Jack smiled without thinking. The boy hesitated, then offered an awkward smile in return before quickly looking back down at the shelves behind him.
Jack was just working up the nerve to walk over when the door burst open again.
A smaller kid hurried inside, clutching a brown paper bag.
The boy behind the counter turned. âYou forgot your lunch,â the kid said, holding it out. âMama told me to bring it.â
David took the bag, his expression softening. âThanks, Les. Tell her Iâll be home early today, okay?â
Les nodded, giving Jack a curious once-over and a quick wave before heading back out the door.
David watched him leave, then turned back toward Jack.
âSo,â he said, folding his hands on the counter, âare you going to buy anything?â
Jack stepped up and leaned casually against the counter, flashing his best grin. âYou recommend anything?â
David raised an eyebrow, studying him. âFor a first-time collectorâwhich Iâm assuming you areâyou should start with something classic. Good quality. The Beatles are always solid. Youâll find them under âBE.â Rock section, sometimes pop.â
He stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward a nearby crate. Jack followed without hesitation.
David flipped carefully through the records before pulling one out. âThis oneâs one of my favorites.â
He held up the sleeveâHelp! by The Beatles.
Jack reached for it at the same time David did.
It was barely a second, but Davidâs ears turned pink, and his eyes dropped to the floor.
âItâs, uhâitâs a good starting point,â David added quickly. âStrong songwriting. Harmonies. Historically significant.â
Jack tilted his head, amused. âYou sound like youâve given that speech before.â
âItâs my job,â David replied, a flicker of defensiveness in his voice.
Jack softened a little at that. âRight. Of course.â
For a moment, neither of them looked away. Up close, Jack noticed faint flecks of gray hidden in Davidâs blue eyes.
The bell above the door jingled again.
Race and Crutchy wandered in, both holding melting ice cream cones.
âJackie, you done in here?â Race askedâthen stopped when he noticed the tension. His grin turned sharp. He sauntered over. âWell, whoâs the pretty boy?â
âRace, youâve known me for years. Iâm hurt,â Jack said, pressing a hand to his chest.
âNot you, ya dumbass. I mean your friend. The record boy.â
Jack rolled his eyes, laughing. âRacetrack. Crutchy. This is David. David, these are my brothersâadoptive, but still.â
âNice to meet you,â David said politely.
âLikewise,â Crutchy replied warmly.
âMedda wants us home for dinner,â Crutchy added, glancing at Jack.
Jack hesitated, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed David a hundred-dollar bill.
âThis should cover it.â
David blinked down at it. âThis is almost twenty dollars more than the actual price.â
Jack shrugged. âKeep the change.â
David looked like he wanted to argue. Or protest. Or say something smart.
Jack backed toward the door instead.
âDonât think I wonât be back,â he added with a wink. âSee you around⌠Davey.â
The nickname hung in the air.
Then he was gone, the bell jingling behind him.
David stared down at the bill in his hand long after the door closed.
