“Oh, I don’t need any end tables, thanks.”
“They are exactly the right size for any room in the house, no matter the living room or recreation-room size. They will fit, I guarantee it.”
Dash cocks an eyebrow. “You guarantee they’d fit in any room? That’s a boastful recommendation.”
I roll my eyes and leave them there to haggle out whether we are buying new end tables for our townhouse in DC. Dash of course is wearing high-end clothing and very expensive shoes, making him a direct target for the sales people. He says he wears expensive shoes for the support, but I think he just can’t bring himself to wear some poor-people shoes. He won’t dress down, at all. I always thought it was cute before, the way he looked so put together. But now I see it’s bred into him. When I bought Toms in the summer, just some canvas boat shoes for bumming around in, he nearly stroked. I thought I was spending a ridiculous amount on shoes. He couldn’t believe I would wear canvas shoes and tried to convince me to buy some sensible Italian shoes at eight hundred dollars a pair. It’s like dating a college girl with a shoe fetish.
The thought flits about in my head as I walk to the bed where I once saw an actual college girl handcuffed. It’s identical, and up close it’s creepy. The feel of the cold metal makes my skin burn.
I don’t even know how to be near it without losing my mind. I swallow hard and turn back, sending a text to Angie.
Barrel & Barn, University Village Shopping Center, has the bed in stock. I bet it was purchased from here. I’ll get some videos for surveillance if I can and purchase dates for the bed. But I need you to make it rain with creds! Send in the bigwigs to force the hands of these hipster punks so they give me what I want. Get me the president of fucking Barrel & Barn if you have to.
I turn and leave Dash still bartering with the man who has now managed to get Dash over to the end tables. I can see the price tag from here. It’s not pretty. Unfortunately, the pretty saleslady I pointed out, young pretty saleslady, has been sucked into the conversation with Dash and the other salesman now too. She’s mostly giggling and toying with her hair like a nimrod. I almost hope he buys the damned tables and gets them on sale because she is lost in his dreamboat doctor crap.
Lord knows I have been lost in it too, from day one. Dreamy and funny and sexy. Best kind of doctor. If we played fetish or role-playing games I’d never let him change from being the doctor, but we don’t.
I turn away, leaving the three of them to argue rubberwood and furniture buying.
I’m not here for that anyway.
I am seeking out the most important looking person in the store. I snigger when I find him, noting he is of course a hipster. In an urban store like this one the lead salesman behind the counter always will be.
His probably fake eye glasses, skinny jeans, and sweater with a plaid shirt beneath make me suspect he is going to be fun to speak with.
I stroll over, watching him with a steady gaze as he looks up from his binder, giving me a snooty smile. He patronizes before I’ve even opened my mouth. “The salespeople are over there. I’m sure when they’re done, one of them will help you.”
“No, I think you are the one I need to speak to.” I smile, with a little patronization of my own, and continue to walk toward him.
He sighs, aggravated by my very existence. But he has no idea what I have been through, how much sighing and patronizing I can take without it wounding my delicate self. He pushes his glasses up and tilts his head. “If this is a complaint, you’ll have to wait for the manager to be in.”
I shake my head, stopping when I get to the desk. “I’m Special Agent Spears, and I need to ask you a few questions.”
His jaw drops. “I think I need—”
“Identification, sure, why not.” I pull my wallet out and flash the badge I almost never show anyone. It’s not even real, technically. It’s government issue, but I am not entirely FBI. I’m not entirely one thing or another, but I have some form of credentials for every single country in the free world.
He swallows hard. “Th-there must be some sort of mistake. You must be in the wrong store.”
I stare at him blankly. “You think I make mistakes?” I glance at his nametag. “Mark?”
He shakes his head, and I can see just how nervous he is.
“I need to know every single sale you have had, whether in store or an online purchase where the person picks it up here or even has it delivered somewhere, for that bed. The Coal Arched bed frame. Queen-size only. And your surveillance footage for the days when one was bought.” It took me three hours to find the stupid bed. I used Google Image search until my head was spinning, but now we know exactly the bed it was. The uniqueness of the frame saved me from spending the rest of my life searching.