Second Hand: A Tucker Springs Novel 2

blouse. “Well, it was good seeing you.”
“You too.”
She left, and I turned back to my computer.
“What’s with you?” Nick said. “Are you still that hung up on Stacey?”
“What?” I turned to look up at him, which was a bit of a mistake. He was so confident and good-looking. I always felt intimidated by him. “What do you mean?”
He hooked his thumb toward the door. “That girl. Why didn’t you ask her out?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why didn’t you?”
“She didn’t come to see me.”
“She was passing by.” Anyway, why would any woman want me to ask her out when Nick was standing right there? Bulging tattooed arms and blue eyes and quirky smile. There was no way I could compete with that. “She wanted to talk about the clematis I put in.”
“Clematis,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “Yeah. I bet that’s exactly what she had on her mind.”
It occurred to me as I was locking up that night that Nick had been hinting Lorraine had been interested in me, as in, interested. I blushed at the idea, knowing it was ridiculous. She was a judge for the contest and checking on me. Why would she be interested in me for anything else?
Thank God she wasn’t, really, because she wasn’t my type. I didn’t exactly know what my type was, but it wasn’t Velma. Or Daphne either, really. Daphne was too pretty and popular. She’d never go out with me. Velma was too . . . Velma. Did anyone get more sexless than Velma? That only left the boys, and the dog. Obviously not.
Fred was always nice, though. I always thought he’d make a good friend.
I mused over my type all the way home. Someone pulled out of a parking spot just off the square, making me idle in the middle of the street as they pulled away, and I found myself staring across the way at the lights of Tucker Pawn. I thought of El’s dark eyes and wicked smile and the way his lips had felt against mine.
The chipmunk screamed, and a car horn brought me back to reality, where the street in front of me was now clear and I was blocking traffic.
I don’t have a type, I assured myself, keeping my eyes firmly on the street ahead of me, not allowing my thoughts to drift even for a second to rollerblades, kisses, or the owner of Tucker Pawn.

    Of course, before I made it home, I remembered I had to stop at the shop to get my money.
    Scolding myself for being absentminded and ridiculous, I drove back. It wasn’t like I’d even talk to him much. Probably he’d hand me an envelope without even getting up from his chair. I tried to make the idea seem like a relief instead of a disappointment. Money would be good, I told myself. Maybe I’d treat myself to a big juicy burger for dinner.
    El wasn’t even smoking when I came in, and he took his time about getting me my money. “So, Paul,” he said, after giving me the last of the cash, “how do you feel about ice cream?”
    It seemed like a trick question. “Ice cream?”
“Well, it’s frozen yogurt, technically. My treat.” What? My heart started beating too fast again. “I haven’t
even had dinner yet.”
    He smiled at me. “Life is short, my friend. Let’s have dessert first.”
How could I say no to that?
The yogurt shop was up the road a couple of blocks, past the unofficial edge of the Light District. We debated driving, but it was too nice a night, so we walked. El gave me a rundown of the things we passed.
“See this bar? It’s been here for ages, but they change their name every few years. They keep losing their liquor license for serving to minors.”
Next, it was a Starbucks, sitting in one of those strange wedge-shaped buildings on the corner. “This was a brothel once. Upstairs, it was a hotel. I mean, this was way back before the colleges were here. Nobody talks about it. They just say it was a hotel, but my grandma swears it’s true. She was a maid there in the sixties, and she says it’s still haunted by a whore who was killed in the attic.”
Half a block later: “This place here? This used to be the Chamber of Commerce, years and years ago. My dad’s granddaddy worked there. He remembers playing in the vault.”
A bit further on, it was, “See that horse statue? It looks like wrought iron, but it’s brass underneath. Every year, somebody comes down and polishes the dong up all nice and shiny.”
A minute later: “This store used to have penny candy. Honest-to-god penny candy. A fucking case of it. I’d take in a dollar, and go home with a bag of