“Angel Adams: Bitch of Death” Part II
“Ah, yes. The French lacing,” a granular, droll voice called to me as I stared idly at the trim of the skirt. It belonged to a slender man in a light gray button-up and charcoal pants. He crossed in front of me and picked up one of the sleeves of the dress, casting a slightly wrinkled thumb across the material. “One of our best pieces.”
“One of your most expensive, too.”
The man gave a soft laugh. He was older, but handsome, in an accidental sort of way. All of the individual pieces were a bit skewed, but the package as a whole somehow worked. Like an abstract piece of art which might require some historical context to fully appreciate. Like a Picasso piece. He was Picasso handsome.
“You know what—” he said, rubbing his graying chin stubble a bit as he lifted the price tag. He had a look on his face like he’d just remembered a pepperoni Hot Pocket was steaming in the microwave. “Now that I think about it, I believe this particular piece is on sale today.”
“Really?”
As there were no vibrant posters advertising something as enticing as a clothing sale in a clothing store, I found the suggestion difficult to trust. And like my dad always says: “Don’t believe any hearsay from car salesmen.”
I’ll assume the same principle applies to dress vendors.
“Well, not for everyone,” the man continued, raising a hooked eyebrow. “Special employee discount.”
That smug son-of-a-bitch. I knew it. “And this helps me how?”
“Well, if you were my employee, you could have it for free.”
“Your employee?”
“That’s right.”
There was something unsettling about the way he looked at me, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Like those photoshopped pictures on the internet of German Shepherds smiling with human teeth. And who the hell just offers a stranger a retail job? Crazy people, that’s who. I could be an axe murderer. Or a cat person. But that dress…
I needed it. In a way I’m too ashamed to accurately describe.
“Um…I, uh…” I stuttered aimlessly.
“Sorry,” the man laughed, easing the tension. “I know this is a bit…unexpected.”
“You could say that.”
“I just let someone go this morning. She didn’t really understand the business. And I can see by your taste in fabric that you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I’m looking for someone with brains. And the application process takes so long, you see.”
“I wasn’t exactly looking for a job.”
“But you’re looking for a dress.”
I turned back to the French lacing. It’s true, I wanted that lace like fucking pumpkin spice in my lattes. But a job? At Dress Barn? Not quite the wind beneath my wings.
“And I’d get it for free?”
“Nothing out of your pocket.”
I chewed on my thumbnail a bit, staring at the neckline. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” the man said, pursing his lips with an unmistakably false sincerity. “I’m really shorthanded.”
I suppose he was hoping to appeal to my humanity, or something. I looked around the store. One other employee stood behind the checkout counter, flipping her way through Good Housekeeping and clearly uninterested in whatever the hell kind of barter was happening over here. I glanced back to the dress. Then the price tag. Yep, still one-fifty. I guess a little extra cash wouldn’t hurt.
“I have to be in court on Friday. It’s what the dress is for.”
“Go to court on Friday, then.”
He seemed to have an answer for everything. I checked my phone. Two thirty-six. Dad would be home in a few hours.
“I’ll tell you what,” the man continued. “You can try it out for the day. If you don’t like it, you can quit.”
“I can quit…just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And I’ll still have the dress?”
“My gift to you.”
God damnit. He had me.
“Okay, deal,” I said, hating myself a little bit.
The man smiled harder, further exposing his armada of pearly whites. I’ll never forget that smile. He lifted his hand. “Ethan,” he said, his lips curling as his mouth tightened.
“Angel,” I replied, obliging the gesture.
Ethan smirked. “Angel, huh? That’s funny.”
“How’s that funny?”
“It’s—well, you’ll get it later.”
“Uh huh,” I said, slightly reevaluating my recent decision. I pulled my phone back out from my pocket. “Well, I’ll just have to call my dad and tell him I’m apparently working for Dress Barn now.”
Though I had thought it impossible, Ethan’s smile widened. “But you don’t work for Dress Barn. You work for me.”
Somewhere in the distance, a record scratched. Glass shattered. A group of suburban housewives collectively gasped.
“Wait, what?”
Ethan stepped up to me, appearing more menacing than before. He had a good twelve inches on me, so it was hard to look anywhere but up at him and his silvery slicked-back hair. “You. Work. For me.”
