Dead on MAYn Day 1 - still untitled.
Prompts used: Dinner interrupted by a rogue/gang fight, courting rituals.
This thing keeps growing so I figured I should just post the first part. It will be continued eventually it’s kinda going places I didn’t expect. I am also using the flickering prompt, but it doesn’t appear in this first part.
Danny dug into his burger with gusto. It was not Nasty Burger, but it was greasy and cheesy and juicy and definitely hit the spot after a whole day walking about Gotham taking in the supernatural sights.
Sam was entirely less impressed with the vegetarian option and had set it down with a grimace and was now just picking at her fries. Tucker had taken it as a personal win for the Meat Team™ and was lording it over her with his eyebrows - thankfully he was too busy eating to actually say anything, which Danny was very glad of. You could only hear the same arguments so many times. At least age and maturity had assured they didn’t end their friendship over it.
“So,” Sam said, “What’s next after this?”
Danny finished chewing his mouthful, before speaking. “I’m not sure, I figured just go back to the hotel for a bit, chill until nightfall? Gotham’s court won’t be in session until then.”
“Seconded. My feet hurt,” Tucker chimed in.
“Maybe if you didn’t spend all your day sitting in front of a screen all day-”
And they were at it again… Danny tuned them out with the practice of years of being on the sideline, humming in agreement when prompted. He loved his friends dearly, but arguing was a part of their love language that he didn’t feel like participating in.
He let his eyes wander around the small diner, and found himself frowning as a group of men hurried inside.
If Danny had been less used to his ghost sense warning him of trouble, maybe he would have reacted in time - or at all. As it was he found himself frozen in shock when he saw the guns - regular human guns, not ecto-guns, ecto-guns he knew how to react to.
It was strange to realize that nobody had ever pointed a normal gun at him before and someone was pointing a gun at him right now - of course it would be in Gotham he got that experience.
“Hey you, stand up slowly and get over here. Hands where I can see them.”
Oh.
Danny’s brain suddenly caught up to the events.
A group of five armed men had entered the diner waving guns. Three kept their eyes on the door and windows as if they expected someone to follow them. One was moving behind the counter towards the back, maybe looking for the waitress who had skedaddled as soon as the armed men entered and the last one had his gun trained on Danny, who of all people in the diner he’d figured was the best option for a hostage.
Danny resisted the urge to laugh.
Slowly he did as bidden, raising his hands and standing up.
On the surface he wasn’t an unreasonable choice. He was short and lean, if he was completely honest he looked like a stiff wind could blow him over. Sam in contrast looked like trouble and Tucker had grown up annoyingly tall, and if Gotham police was like most places it was probably wiser to pick a white boy as hostage anyways. The rest of the people in the diner were two heavy set construction workers and a lady with arms broader than Danny’s thighs, like damn.
So yeah, Danny was apparently the best choice.
Regretfully, he left his dinner to cool on its plate as he took carefully measured steps towards the… what? Mobster? Gang person?
A part of him was wondering how much a gunshot could hurt him. Would it hurt him? In human form probably, as long as he was tangible. Would it kill him the rest of the way? He wasn’t particularly keen to find out.
His eyes flickered to the other armed men when one of them hissed at the guy at the door. “Do you see him?”
Danny considered doing something for about three steps, but he wasn’t experienced enough with real guns and fighting humans that he thought he could risk it. He’d also prefer to fly under the radar while he was here. He was on vacation, not here to mess with anyone.
There was a familiar feeling in his throat, wanting to be let go. His head snapped towards the kitchen. What! That couldn’t be right?
The man grabbed him and put the gun to his head just as a crash sounded from the kitchen and the wisp of cold breath escaped his mouth. Everyone turned towards the noise. The man who held him tightened his hold and pushed the gun so hard against his head he had to tilt it.
Something black came flying out the door and the jumpy gunmen shot at it, but with their attention on the object (a pan, it was just a pan) they didn’t notice the man who followed behind. He was fast, not much more than a red brown blur, shooting the furthest man in the arm so he dropped the gun and then coming in close, punching the first man and kicked the next in the belly. He moved so smoothly, effortlessly.
Danny forgot to breathe. Because that there was the source of his ghost sense. Because that there was also a human.
Another halfa.
Here in Gotham of all places!
His heart gave a hard thump in his chest and he gasped, remembered breathing was a thing he sorta needed as a human. He still couldn’t take his eyes off the other halfa. Now there was someone who knew how to fight. His core hummed pleasurably in his chest. The other halfa had taken care of those goons in less than ten seconds. The fourth one was probably dealt with in the kitchen. And the fifth-
Danny was abruptly reminded of how the fifth had a gun to his head, as he annoyingly poked him with that barrel and pulled him backwards towards the door.
“Not another step or he gets it!”
Danny grimaced. He finds another halfa and he’s a fucking hostage? Stellar first impression, right there! Someone please shoot him- or wait, considering the situation that was probably not the wisest turn of phrase.
“How about you let the civilian go, and I won’t break your kneecaps.” The voice was menacing though clearly modulated and there was a delightful, almost cheerful undertone.
Now that he was standing still, Danny could better appreciate him. He was a big man, probably near a head taller than Danny and so much wider. Death had clearly not stopped him from putting on muscle. Normally Danny might have been jealous, but honestly he was too busy appreciating the other halfa.
He was wearing a red helmet, faceless except for a pair of glaring eyes and he had a large bat symbol across his chest. This last bit should put Danny off. There were very good reasons Danny didn’t want to catch any attention here. He couldn’t think of them right now. But there were… reasons… yes… and thighs walking towards him-
“I swear I will shoot!”
Oh for fuck’s sake! There were too many people involved. Danny promptly stepped down on his captor’s instep, ducked and twisted out of his hold.
Red Hood, because that was his name, Danny suddenly remembered, promptly shot the gun out of the man’s hold and took him down with a punch and a crunching kick to the right knee.
Shit, Danny was jealous, not of the broken kneecap of course, but he also wanted to throw down. He could show the other halfa what he could do, make friends, or more? Would it be too forward to gift him one of his moon rocks?
It probably was too forward? This was the first halfa he met who wasn’t a fruit loop or related to him. At least he hoped he wasn’t a fruit loop.
“Are you alright?”
Danny shook himself out of his thoughts to find that he’d been approached.
Now that he was up close Danny could really appreciate how those arms looked strong enough to bend him in half and- Danny’s gaze stopped at his waist. Was he actually wearing a leather corset? It did great things for his-
“That was either brave or stupid.”
The words had Danny’s eyes snapping back up to the glaring helmet. Danny was frozen. How was he supposed to talk to him? His mind reeled. Do something! Anything!
“How’s this for stupid?” Danny blurted and promptly punched him in the gut with a good deal of ghostly strength. Red Hood bent over with a pained oof.
Fuck! Danny’s brain screamed at him in despair. He could not believe he’d done that! Glancing around he couldn’t find Sam or Tucker so he quickly ran out the diner.
He was grabbing for his phone in his pocket while running, when he was pulled into an alley. He was so wound up he nearly threw another punch, but then he realized it was just Sam and Tucker.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Danny!” They spoke in eerie unison. Tucker snorted, but Sam continued, “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
Danny shook his head, realizing he must look a little dazed. He felt a little dazed. He didn’t even feel like taking the obvious bait.
“I punched Red Hood,” he admitted.
“What!” There they went again I unison, almost as if they practiced it.
“Do you think he’d like a moon rock?”
The looks they sent him then, they were indescribable. Absently he padded his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t grown a second head.
“Are you sick, Danny? Was there something in the food?” Sam put her hand on his forehead checking his temperature, even as she looked at Tucker, “What are the chances there’d be blood blossoms in a random burger?”
“Extremely unlikely, more likely something new, never seen Danny react like this.”
Danny grumpily pushed Sam’s hand away. “The food was fine. I’m fine.”
They gave him twin dubious looks.
“Look, let’s just go back to the hotel room. I just need a little rest and I’ll be fine.”
-
Jason gasped in pain to the sound of laughter in his comms. What the Hell was in that guy’s food that he could throw such a punch?
“What did he did the little guy do, Hood? Kick you in the jewels?” Dick managed to ask through laughter.
They didn’t have visuals, small mercies, but Oracle the traitor had let on to the former hostage’s scrappy stature in the run down of the situation.
“He did not.” Jason growled and turned off the comms, done listening to those idiots. Shit, fuck. Definitely a meta, that had been super strength. Keeping one hand over his pained abdomen he walked over to kick the goon who had decided to crawl for his gun in Red Hood’s apparent distraction.
“Don’t even think about it, I am not in the mood for it,” he growled and the goon whimpered.
When he finished securing the goons, of course the meta was long gone. Jason sighed in annoyance. Just his luck.
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AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic asshole. After their moment at the wrap party, Tom shows up at Parker's bookstore. How is it possible someone can be such an asshole when asking for a favor?
Two weeks later finds the weather outside shifting with the first hint of autumn; cooler temperatures in the morning greet Parker when she walks to work, and the coffee shop next door has started advertising their new fall drinks of pumpkin spice and cinnamon tea. She's seen her brother every day since the wrap party—partly because he always makes a point of taking some down time after finishing a movie to recover from his stunts, and partly because her and Jody have become fast friends—but she hasn't seen Tom since their moment in the bathroom.
She suspects that's for the best. The internet is flooded with paparazzi photos of him flouncing around town with models every other day, and she's still trying to forget how natural it felt to laugh with him.
But despite her brother's newly open schedule, and Jody's constant pestering to go spend a day at the beach, Parker finds her bookstore just as empty as always.
There are a few stragglers here and there throughout the day. Sometimes she gets lucky when a tour bus stops for gas and snacks, allowing an ensemble of tacky dressed tourists to flood her street for twenty minutes. On unlucky days, Mr. Chamberlain will stop in to peruse her historical section; but he doesn't have any sort of schedule or income, and those visits consist entirely of him describing last night's CSI episode to Parker before trying to set her up with his grandson. Once he bought a book from her dollar bin. He attempted to return it three days later.
On days like today, Parker is visited by a sixteen-year-old named Melissa who hangs out every so often while her mom attends overpriced Pilates in the studio down the block.
"...and then Peter was all 'no, sorry Mandy, I'm not interested". Like, hello! My name is Melissa and we've lived in the same neighborhood since we were four," said teenager was droning on from her spot atop the upcycled reading chair in the corner. She never failed to impress Parker with how much she could talk—the stories quite literally never stopped coming—while at the same time she managed to read about four books a week. Parker suspected that Melissa's brain represented something like the Rainbow Road in Mario Kart, when the music got a little too fast and the turns were a little too hard to keep up with. "Now, I have no idea what I'm going to do. There's no one else for me to ask since it's three weeks away."
Parker, only half-listening to the story, hummed from her spot two rows back. She had won several boxes of books at a local auction about a month ago and had done a pretty good job at pretending they didn't exist.
Ignoring the problem only lasted so long, however, and this morning she had ended up spilling coffee all over herself when her sneaker caught the edge of the box. Pride—and knees—damaged, she decided to tackle the issue first thing in the morning.
It was now four in the afternoon, and the books were mocking her.
"Can't you just go alone?" she asked.
"Go alone? Are you crazy! That's, like, really sad, Park," Melissa explained. She couldn't see her, but Parker could feel the judgmental look the teen girl was giving her. "Only losers go alone to dances."
"Baby did it."
"Who?"
"Baby. You know? You don't put Baby in a corner? That one."
A tut. "You should really update your references."
"Jesus. Since when did Dirty Dancing become an outdated reference?" she muttered while inspecting the spine of a mystery novel from the 70s. It had definitely seen better days, and when she shifted it, three pages fell out. Parker tossed it into the TRASH box with a sigh. "Is going to a dance with your friends considered outdated too?"
"That's the same thing as going alone," Melissa groaned.
"How? You're literally not alone."
"Because if I go with my friends, that means that I couldn't get anyone that wasn't a friend to agree to go with me. I don't need the whole school thinking that I'm a total loser."
"I went with my friends and had a blast. And I'm not a loser."
There was no response other than silence, and after a few moments Parker realized that if Melissa had nothing to say about the subject, she likely had nothing nice to say.
She cleared her throat before moving onto the next, and final, box hoping that there would be better books in it. So far, her KEEP pile was looking pathetically small compared to what was about to be binned. With a forced change of conversation, she asked, "hey, you grew up here, right?"
"Sure."
"Did you know the Sawyers?"
"Like, Miss Sawyer? Down on Oakcrest?"
"The fancy old house with the bushes shaped like dogs. I bought a bunch of books at her estate sale, and so far, they all suck. I thought she was supposed to be a big collector or something."
The sound of Melissa humming echoed throughout the empty store, and Parker peeked around the bookshelves to spot the girl lying upside down on the chair; Doc Martens stuck up in the air, long ponytail hanging to the ground as she played on her phone.
Parker rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, totally. But she collected those kid's books. Original copies or whatever. Mom said she paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for some rabbit book."
"...Peter Rabbit?"
"I guess," Melissa shrugged. There was a loud smack of gum popping before her voice rang out, "she did a bunch of donations to local art musuems and galleries and stuff. A phila-something—"
"Philanthropist?"
"—and there was some big deal about her donating everything to some charity. Mom was talking about it. Which, like, good for them or whatever but I don't understand how donating an old book is helping solve world hunger."
Parker let her head drop against the beat-up cardboard box in front of her, something despondent and miserable sitting on her chest at the realization that she had wasted time and money on nothing but crap. "Well, I wish I knew that before I went into a bidding war over this garbage. Are the Hardy Boys still cool or is that dated too?"
A judgmental laugh floated back. "Um, their name is pronounced Hemsworth, Park."
"I meant—" she started, before realizing that this was a battle she was never going to win, and even if she wanted to try the musty smell resonating from these boxes of crap had burned through her daily allowance of braincells. Something Melissa didn't seem to worry about as she puffed from her vape pen. "Forget it."
Not so shockingly, Melissa did not, in fact, forget it. Instead, she spent the next ten minutes describing in scary detail each Hemsworth brother, their looks on a scale of one to ten, their best movies, and why Chris was the dreamiest of them all. His hair and eyes were a big selling point, apparently, and as Parker listened to the teenager drone on, she couldn't help but wonder if Chris Hemsworth used box dye too.
So wrapped up in her own world of book sorting, Parker didn't notice when the front door opened with a tinkle of the bell until the shop went eerily quiet. Melissa, it seemed, had finally found a reason to shut up.
"I never liked Chris all that much," Parker said as she slowly gathered the KEEP bin and hefted it off the floor. Her lower back ached at the strain. Jesus, maybe I am old. Moving towards the front counter, she continued musing, "There's something about him in the first Thor movie, when his eyebrows were all bleached, that kind of turned me off. I think there's a word for that, right? The ew or something...."
She spots Melissa first.
The girl is sitting upright in the chair now, face flushed a deep scarlet red with a book held tightly in her lap as she pretends to read through it. Her phone and vape are nowhere to be seen, and she doesn't so much as glance up when Parker strides by.
"What happened to you?" she asks with an amused quirk of the brow. Melissa doesn't respond, and Parker turns to set the heavy box of books on the front counter when she spots the other person in the room. "Oh, sorry. I was in the back. Can I help—?"
It shouldn't surprise her as much as it does, but Parker blinks to find Tom Ryder standing on the other side of the counter staring at her with raised brows.
Tom fucking Ryder.
He looks better than the last time she ran into him. He has a nice tan going underneath a funky pair of yellow sunglasses that are, in her opinion, too big for his face. They look a little absurd with the whitewashed denim jacket he's wearing, but the yellow matches the bedazzled t-shirt he has on underneath, so she suspects it's some sort of fashion statement. Paired with an expensive pair of well-polished boots, it all looks quite absurd standing in the middle of her dilapidated bookstore.
Even more so when Parker realizes she's wearing nothing but a pair of cheap cargo shorts and an oversized Twilight sweatshirt that was covering the coffee-stained shirt underneath. (Team Jacob, always).
"Tom. Um... are you looking for Colt or something?"
In typical Ryder fashion, he ignores her question entirely to do a slow spin; blue eyes tinted by his glasses trailing over everything in sight. She can feel the judgement from across the counter, and when he finally fixes his sights back on her, his smirk is rage inducing. "This is your store. Seriously?"
Parker promptly plants her hands onto her hips with a scathing glare.
"Ok, what do you want?"
"Jesus, no wonder this place is empty," he drawls, a pointed smile tossed towards Melissa's prone form as he leans an elbow onto the counter. At being noticed, the teenager ducks her head behind the spine of her book as if she had just been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. "Do you talk to all your customers like that?"
"Just the assholes," she retorts. Over Tom's shoulder she catches Melissa's book dropping down two inches, and the girl's face is completely aghast.
What are you doing! she mouths, that's Tom Ryder!
Parker rolls her eyes. As if she didn't know who the blinged-out asshole standing in her store was. Speaking of—he's still standing there smirking at her. "That's you, if I wasn't clear. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
Tom snorts. "I think I got that after the fifth time you said it."
"And yet..." she gestures vaguely to him, then to her store.
Because he's never behaved like a normal person, however, Tom doesn't seem to mind the insult or the offhand comment that she didn't want to deal with him. Instead, he smiles while his gaze drifts from judging the bookstore to judging Parker. He gives her a glance over—up, down, lingering on her oversized sweatshirt, before going back up—and finishes with a snort. "If the door hits me, I'm suing for damages, and I doubt you could afford the lawsuit. Let alone a lawyer."
God! What. a. fucking. asshole!
Parker bites back the insult knowing that it won't do any good. They've played this game before, and clearly being called an asshole seemed to have lost some of its bite over the weeks. So instead, she forcefully returns her attention to the cardboard box and slowly starts sorting the books into categories. "Fine. Can you just tell me what you want so I can get back to my life?"
He shifts against the counter and over the mustiness she catches a waft of his cologne when he grabs a book at random from her pile. "Why else do people come to a bookstore? I want a book."
Parker snorts. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. Seriously, what do you want?"
There's a moment of silence. She glances up to find him pointedly ignoring her as he flips through the book at random.
"You're... serious?"
He shrugs. "You said you have a bunch of sci-fi books."
"I'm surprised you even remember that given the whole," she sticks a finger into her mouth and mimes throwing up. He doesn't find it funny or cute and responds with a disgusted glare. Parker rolls her eyes with a shake of the head. "It was a—never mind. Why not order off of Amazon? I thought you said you've never even been to a bookstore before?"
This time, it's his turn to roll his eyes. He drops the book with a thwack before turning his attention to the overstuffed bookshelves at her left. At random, he starts ambling towards one. "You should be flattered that I picked your little store to start. Most people would kill to say that you know. Tom Ryder explores rundown bookstore in the shitty side of LA. If you had a picture, the paps would run it in every paper by tomorrow morning," he huffs.
"Yeah, I'll be sure to document this monumental occasion forever," she snarks, but follows after him anyway. His pattern is half-hearted; poking books here and there, glancing for hardly a second, before moving on. "And my store isn't rundown. It just has some... character."
He snorts over his shoulder. "That's what a Mom says when her daughter is ugly."
"Don't you go through PR training or something?" she scoffs as he diverts to a different aisle. "I can't imagine Gail would like to hear that particular opinion if I sold it to TMZ."
"Gail would sue you for everything you own," he laughed while flipping through an old copy of Gone with the Wind. Parker crosses her arms at him with a glare, and in response Tom flashes a too-white smile at her. "She freaked out about the mink rug, by the way. Was screaming and everything. It was hilarious."
Parker's heart stopped in her chest, but when there was no continuation of the joke—haha I can't wait to see you served with papers!—she furrowed her brows at him. "You didn't tell her it was my fault?"
A shrug as he shoved the book against her chest.
She huffed, turning the book over to check for damages, but when he turned his back... well, a part of her did wonder why he would keep that a secret if it was such a big deal. Was it to be nice? Or so he could hold it over her head indefinitely? Then again, if this was his attempt at blackmail, letting it go for two weeks seemed like the wrong way to go about it.
Deciding not to linger on unsolvable riddles, Parker returned the book to the end cap he had found it on and asked, "so, does this mean you've decided to audition for that sci-fi part after all?"
Her question went unanswered as Tom paused in front of the SEX & SEXUALITY section. He pulled a wrinkled copy of Fifty Shades of Grey off the shelf and waggled his brows at her pointedly. "Keeping the good stuff for yourself, huh?"
Parker responded by snagging the book out of his hand and stuffing it back into place. "You break it, you buy it applies here too, Ryder."
"Half this place is broken," he said with a pointed glance at the flickering overhead light. "I still can't believe you own this shithole."
"I happen to love this bookstore—"
"Oh, trust me, I can believe that you would own a bookstore," he said, and while there was nothing insulting about owning a bookstore on its own, the way that Tom spoke made it clear that owning a bookstore was not something he held in high regard. Then again, he spent all his time reading shitty scripts, so what would he know? "I just can't believe that you would own this bookstore. Like, you actually paid money for this place?"
"If you have to know, I used to be friends with the owner, and got a good deal on the property," she started to explain. He raised his brows at her while slowly perusing the RELIGION section, and Parker shook herself. She didn't need to explain anything to him of all people. The reminder helped her find some confidence, and she fluttered her hands at him irritably. "You know what—I don't need to explain myself to you. You've never even been to a bookstore before. What would you know about making sacrifices for something you believed in?"
Tom paused in his search. She saw his jaw clench, and eyes droop towards the creaky wooden floor beneath his shiny boots, and his comment from the other day drifted back to mind.
"You can be a real asshole sometimes, too, he had said.
And while guilt did block her throat up a bit—fucking asshole couldn't even let her defend herself without feeling bad about it—this time he didn't make any such reprimands. Instead, he just shrugged, before diving deeper into the store.
He cleared his throat. "I just expected it be nicer coming from you."
"Does something about me secretly scream rich girl to you?"
Tom harrumphed. "Trust me, no one is mistaking you for rich. Uptight, however..."
"Oh, ha, hilarious, Tom. God! You're such an asshole," she laughed, but it was a mean sound, paired with a mean insult. It failed to have the desired effect, however. In fact, Tom seemed to have shifted from hating the insult to owning it and looked far too amused for her liking. Frustrated, Parker decided the best plan of extermination was a straightforward shot. Through gritted teeth, she asked, "...what kind of sci-fi book do you want?"
The rhinestones on his shoulders sparkled as he shrugged. "I don't know. I need to understand what gets nerds so fucking excited about this shit. Not too nerdy, though. Alright? I'm not trying to be a Trekkie or whatever."
There were so many things wrong with that statement that Parker wasn't sure what to pick first. So, she pinched the bridge of her nose to point out, "I have a feeling the so-called nerds making up your potential fanbase aren't going to appreciate being talked about like that."
"Who's gonna tell them—you?" he asked with a derisive glance over.
It was definitely true what they said about Tom Ryder; his effect on women was instantaneous. Parker just doubted the tabloids were talking about migraines.
"The sci-fi section is on the right," she sighed while pushing past him. It was one of the larger sections she had; it hadn't been a lie to say the books weren't selling all that well despite being her favorite. "What have you read before?"
The blank look he gave her was response enough.
"Ah, right, maybe... Altered Carbon?"
"Isn't that a tv show?"
"Well, yeah, but it was a book first."
He glanced at the book in her hand, but clearly wasn't impressed. Leaning on the shelf, he said, "why the hell would I read that if I could just watch it?"
"Sound logic," she tutted with a narrow eyed look. Parker returned the book with an eyeroll. "Fahrenheit 451?"
"Read it in high school. Not impressed."
She trailed the shelf while muttering, listing books in her head before subconsciously crossing them off the list of something he was likely to read and enjoy. "I guess that means you wouldn't like The Illustrated Man or The Martian Chronicles," she said to herself.
His arm brushed her aside to pluck out a familiar novel. "Nerds love this," he said while already flipping through the pages. She was surprised the size didn't scare him off immediately.
"Nu-uh. No way," she shook her head.
"What?"
"Dune is not a starter book."
He furrowed his brows crossly. "You don't think I'm smart enough to read this shit or something?"
You shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answers to, her mother's voice echoed in the back of her head.
"Reading Dune as your first sci-fi book is like jumping straight into the deep end," she told him in a much more diplomatic approach. "If a sixteen year old wants to start drinking, you don't give him scotch, you give him a fruity cocktail."
Tom huffed; first through his nose and then through his mouth but stuffed the book back onto the shelf anyway. To which Parker then had to put it back on the correct shelf with a huff of her own.
"Don't be a baby and just trust me that Dune isn't a starter book. Okay?"
"Well—what is? You're supposed to be the expert here."
"If you weren't so picky it would be a lot easier..." she deadpanned but returned to her search anyway. Tom didn't seem to like waiting, and scowled at her as she shifted past him. She ignored him as best she could while squatting down to the lower shelves. "Arthur C. Clarke is one of the best sci-fi writers. He established a lot of rules that still exist in writing today. And films."
Parker pulled one of his novels, before moving towards Asimov, and then finally to Sagan. They were all slimmer novels than Dune, but no less complicated.
"Contact is my favorite," she said, shoving the books into Tom's arms. His denim was rough on her hands, and she tried not to think about how feverishly warm his skin had been the last time she had been this close to him. Swallowing, Parker remained on task. "But any of these should be good starter books for you to get into sci-fi with."
He glanced at the choices warily. "My audition is next week."
"Then I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to finish these if you're really serious about wanting to get that role," she chirped.
Together, they wound back towards the front counter. The TRASH boxes sat in the middle of the aisle, and she carefully toed them to the side before trailing past. While she was pretty sure he had been joking about suing her, a workplace hazard was the last thing she needed.
"How do you remember all of this?"
"Where stuff is? I spend almost all of my time arranging books. I'm uptight, remember?"
She felt more than saw his eyeroll. "These books, the authors. You, like, know everything about them."
Parker paused. It definitely wasn't a compliment, but it definitely felt like it could have been. Then again, this was Tom Ryder. When she glanced up from the counter, she found that he already has his nose back in his phone, and the conundrum of compliment versus not was thrown out the window. Parker shot him an unimpressed look to say, "please tell me that you're not on SparkNotes right now."
It was his turn to pause. "I'm just... reading the descriptions."
"Maybe that's why you can't understand why nerds like these books," she argued, hands planted firmly on her hips now. "Why would I go to watch one of your movies if I already looked the plot up on Wikipedia?"
He ignored her point entirely to smirk. "So, you do see my movies?"
"Goodbye, Tom."
"Relax. I'm not going to spoil them, alright? What's the fun in that when I could read them instead, and then leave you a bad review when the books end up being awful?"
"You mean have your assistants leave me a bad review."
He didn't seem impressed at the jab but didn't defend himself either. Most likely because they both knew she was right. Parker shot him a smug smile that he promptly rolled his eyes at. "Hilarious. Just tell me how much the books cost so I can leave before stepping on a rusty nail or something."
"Didn't you see the sign out front? Can't come in without a tetanus shot due to liability reasons."
There was a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but when she glanced up at him, Tom was wiping a hand down his face. "How much for the books, smartass?"
Parker was pretty sure she could upsell him. There was no way that he knew those three books, decades old with ripped pages, were only worth fifteen bucks together. And with all the Gucci name brand bullshit that he wore, she was pretty sure she could get away with telling him the price was a hundred dollars and he wouldn't even blink an eye.
But he was also a customer, a somewhat work acquaintance, and someone she really didn't want to hang around any longer than necessary. Not to mention her brother's pseudo boss, and someone that knew she was guilty of wrecking a far more expensive rug than she could ever pay to fix.
"Just consider them a loan," she said before she could second guess herself. When Tom raised his eyebrows so high they disappeared into his hairline, she waved a hand at him while half-heartedly returning to her job of book sorting. "If you're that put-off by it you can always pay me an agent's fee if you get the part."
He stared at her for a long moment, not necessarily computing, definitely hearing static, before Tom spared her an over-the-top eyeroll that surely had to have hurt to perform.
From his pocket he pulled out a couple of crumpled bills and slapped them onto the counter. He didn't even look at how much money it was. Just shook his head at her, glasses bobbing on his nose, before he was on his way out the door.
"Hey! Don't you want your change—?"
The door shut with a ting.
On the counter sat seventy-three dollars. Parker wasn't sure if she should be offended or complimented.
From outside there was the sound of an obnoxiously loud car engine revving, alongside the thrum of music, before it tore off down the street.
"What a fucking asshole," she grumbled with the shake of her head.
But it wasn't exactly an asshole thing to do, when she thought about it. And she would know; every exchange they had since being introduced had Tom acting like an asshole to her.
Or, well, not every exchange. Not when he had been, almost, nice to her at Gail's party, if only for a few moments when no one else was around.
"OH. MY. GOD!" a shrill voice shrieked across the store, bouncing off of bookshelves, as two boots went crashing towards the window. Parker was reminded in no gentle terms that they had not, in fact, been alone when Melissa smudged her face against the glass to peer out onto the street. "Holy shit! That was Tom Ryder! Tom Ryder! Are you kidding me right now? TOM. RYDER."
"Yeah, Jesus, I know who that was," she winced, pinching her ear when she thought the girl's high pitch yelp may have burst an eardrum. There was definitely a ringing as Melissa tromped around.
"You—he—I can't believe after all of this time you never once mentioned that you're friends with Tom freaking Ryder!" she squeaked.
"Well, hang on, we're not—"
"How long have you known him? How do you know him? Do you have his phone number? Ohmygod everyone is going to flip when I tell them that you know him. Tom Ryder!" Melissa shouted, phone already in hand as she started typing. "My friend, my dear friend and favorite bookstore owner, is best friends with Tom Ryder! Did you see his latest movie, Good Cop, Bad Dog? Ugh! He's so hot!"
"We're not friends," she said immediately, not even bothering to dispute the fact that Good Cop, Bad Dog was a puff piece in an attempt to market him for younger fans. "He's actually kind of an asshole."
The teenager shot Parker a scandalized look, mouth popped open into an O as her brows lifted to her hairline. "What? Are you kidding me right now? He just drove all the way out here to ask for your recommendation for a sci-fi book! His house is, like, fifty minutes from here with traffic. Don't call him that when you just became so cool."
Parker frowned. "How do you know where he lives?" she asked, before adding with much more intensity, "hang on a second, am I not cool?"
But Melissa was already moving on, the sound of facetime dialing on her phone as she darted back outside in hopes of catching another glimpse of the celebrity. Parker, in response, caught her head between her hands with a low groan.
And yet, she couldn't help but think about what Melissa said.
Tom Ryder was a total, grade-A asshole... right?
She cast a despondant glance towards the crumpled bills on the counter, then the box of books at her side, before fishing her phone out of her back pocket, and pressing the second number on speed dial.
"Hey," she said, "do you want to get, like, really drunk tonight?"
Colt didn't bother to ask why before he was checking what ingredients he had in his fridge and offering to invite Jody and Dan over for dinner. Sometimes, she really loved her brother.
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