Strings Attached ➤ Jay

|| Rich Boy Tricks and Tiny Shifts

"I didn't realize working meant invading my personal space before 10AM."

Before he could shoot back a retort, my dad popped out from the back room holding a stack of old Ella Fitzgerald records. "Ah, Jay! You're early. Good man."

"Of course," Jay said, giving my dad that same polite, buttoned-up smile he gave strangers at dinner parties, I'm sure.

"We've got a shipment coming in this afternoon. I could use an extra set of hands lifting the boxes," Dad added, already heading toward the back.

I blinked at him. "What about my extra set of hands? I'm five-foot-two but still technically stronger than this guy."

Jay raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

"Don't test me. I bite."

"Kids," Dad cut in, sighing. "Try not to kill each other in front of the customers, alright?"

Jay gave me a side glance. "Can't make any promises."

The morning dragged, as Saturdays do. Jay actually wasn't terrible at organizing. I'll give him that. He alphabetized the jazz section with freakish accuracy and managed to talk an old man out of demanding a refund on a warped Bob Dylan record by... charming him?

Still, every ten minutes or so, he brought the conversation back to my guitar.

"So... what if I just borrowed it for a bit? Like a test drive."

"It's not a BMW."

"But imagine I play it and realize it's not the one. Then you'll have closure. We'll all sleep better."

"I sleep just fine knowing it's mine and you'll never touch it."

He tried again after lunch.

"Okay. Let's say I offer you twice what it's worth. No — three times."

"You could offer me a planet and I'd still say no."

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Even a small planet?"

Around two, after restocking the new arrivals shelf and threatening Jay with bodily harm for trying to sneak behind the glass display case again, I took a break and slumped onto the little stool behind the counter. Jay stood across from me, flipping through a copy of Rumours like it was light reading.

"You don't even play guitar, do you?" I asked, watching him over the rim of my drink.

"I do," he said, without hesitation.

I narrowed my eyes. "Really?"

"Well, I used to," he admitted. "I had a teacher when I was a kid. He told me I had good hands."

I choked. "That's a weird thing to say."

Jay shrugged. "I think he meant I had good finger control. Like dexterity."

"Still weird, rich boy."

He laughed again, that same easy, stupid sound that somehow didn't make me want to punch a wall as much today.

Then, quieter, he asked, "So what makes that guitar so special? You never said."

My eyes flicked to the far side of the store, to where my Strat sat behind the glass, resting like a sleeping dragon.

"My dad got it for me," I said, not fully sure why I was telling him this. "When I was seventeen. Custom painted. Signed by someone who actually matters to me. First electric guitar I ever played that didn't feel like I was just borrowing someone else's voice."

Jay didn't say anything for a moment. Just nodded.

"...So that's a no to holding it, right?"

I groaned. "You're lucky I haven't banned you from the shop."

"You'd miss me," he said, resting his elbows on the counter like we were about to share secrets.

"I'd replace you with a cardboard cutout of Slash. It'd be more helpful."

The rest of the shift was tolerable — borderline fun, if I was being forced to admit it under torture. He stopped asking about the guitar eventually. Instead, we argued over whether Queen was technically classic rock (he said no, I nearly disowned him on the spot) and debated whether organizing albums by vibe instead of artist would cause chaos or revolution.

When he left that evening, he gave me a two-finger salute and that stupid little smile again.

"See you Monday, Byeol."

I stared after him for a second longer than I meant to, before muttering to myself, "Still not getting the guitar."

But even I could admit — he was growing on me.

Like mold.

Rich, annoying mold with a great jawline.

⚡︎⚡︎⚡︎

A/N: he does have an amazing jawline sillybillys