Read Tracks (Rock Bottom) for Free Online Page B

seat, and before I know it, we're moving. After a few moments of gett ing my bearings straight, I try to decipher where we are. "Are you going to tell me where he's taking me?" I hope it's not to his place…I hope it is to his place…I mean, not to his place!
    " He’s at the record store right now, I’ma take you there."
    I raise a n amazed eyebrow. Not what I was expecting, but okay. I decide maybe it is a good idea to throw on some make-up. I dig through my purse and pull out my black make-up bag. I open my little mirror and immediately direct it at my hair. Thankfully, it’s dry, long and straight. The summer sun has really lightened it. I throw on some concealer, blush, and shiny lip gloss. I skip the eyeliner. I almost never wear eyeliner. Why dry attention to things so obvious to begin with?
    I zip up my make-up bag and put it back in my purse just in time. The black car pulls up outside a white building with records painted on it. It's sandwiched in between two abandoned shops. On the top of the shop, the dingy sign reads, "Hal's Records." 
    The door suddenly opens and a dark hand extends to me. I g rab it as big man pulls me out.
    "By the way," I say to him as we walk to the door. "Since we keep running in to eac h other, can I have your name?"
    "Rich," he says in a booming voice.  
    "Rich," I say, looking at the huge gold R around his neck. "It fits you."
    I think I get a hint of a smile when he op ens the door and I step inside.
    The store is huge , much bigger than it looks from the outside. As I walk in, there's one cash register at my left, the shelves behind it lined with band memorabilia. In front of me are what look like hundreds of rows of records and CDs. They go vertically across the store from wall to wall, with another row behind the ones in front. There's a staircase in the back that leads to an upper loft.
    I take a few steps, and it's so eerily quiet that my footsteps almost echo. I look behind me to see if big man- uh, Rich- is there, but he must have not followed me in. My heart beats faster. "Hello?" I say , my voice again almost echoes.
    Quietly I hear soft rock music begin to play, a guitar solo that gets louder, as if someone was turning up the volume on the store's speak er system. I look around again.
     
    From above me, I hear a smooth deep voice say, "Up here."
    I stop walking and slowly look up towards the loft. I feel my heart hit my throat. He's there, leaning nonchalantly on the railing. He has a white, long sleeved, button down shirt on with some black jeans. The shirt was unbuttoned a little too far, exposing some of his chest. I can see green ink speckling part of what was exposed. I wonder how many tattoos he has. 
    He grips the railing with his strong white hands, some fingers dawned with black nail polish, and leans over a bit and smiles at me. "Dylan," he breathes my name. My whole body gets tight.
    "Mr. M ason," I breathe.
    He smiles a crooked grin and turns to the stairs. I still haven't moved. He slinks down the steps and walks gracefully towards me. He stops in front of me, but only a few feet. I smell his scent- spicy and intoxicating- and see the rosiness of his pink lips. I think I stop breathing.
    "Jeremy," he corrects me. "I'm glad you came."
    He stares into my eyes. His blue eyes are kind and calm, like the sky after a storm. "Sometimes," I choke out, "I'm not sure I have a ch oice with your security guard."
    He smiles "I'm not sure you do either. He doesn't like to disappoint me. But I guess that's his job."
    I smile and finally disconnect myself from his gaze. I look around the room again. This store is definitely an up and running store, and it's a Thursday afternoon, yet there’s no one else here but us. "Why are there no people here?"
    "The owner is a friend," Jeremy explains. "Sometimes I pay him to shut the store down for me. So I can come here and be alone. Browse the records." He walks over to the nearest row of vinyl.  I turn towards him, but I don't