Sex.

Okay cool, now that I have your attention, listen up.

It never rains, but it pours.

I got the feeling that someone from around here must have been the first person to say that. In Death Valley, Nevada, rain is a double-edged sword. You don’t get any—water shortage. You do get any—flash flood.

There were two clouds in the sky in the morning of the first day of summer after my junior year of high school. “Love is in the air,” said Turk, my next-door neighbor, as he walked across our grassless lawns to where I was standing by my mailbox, staring up at the sky.

Turk, as he liked to say, was one hundred and ten percent Cherokee. He said his dad’s name was really Dances With Wolves. I have no way of verifying this, however, because both of his parents were dead. I assumed I’d just have to take his word for it. See, when they kicked the bucket, Turk moved out here with his and older brother and his wife, Luka and Shirley (respectively) to live with his grandfather. Shirley was zero percent Cherokee.

“Love?” I laughed. “I think that’s the pesticide my dad sprayed before breakfast. I don’t know why he won’t just let his silly potted plants die like everything else around here.”

“Because he has passion,” Turk informed me. He was twenty-three, had no idea where he was going in life, but thought he knew everything else. “Something you could use a bit of yourself, Izzy.”

“I have passion, all right,” I assured him. “Exhibit A: I have saved halfway for my car. By the end of the summer, it’s all mine.”

“Ah,” Turk mused. I got the feeling he thought he was the Gandhi reincarnated. “And then we can go on our road trip.”

“Sure,” I smiled. Only I may have to take care of my sick grandmother that week or two, if you know what I mean. I loved Turk and all, but I think more than fifteen minutes in a car with him might have made my brain implode and my eyeballs pop out.

Turk always said I had a morbid streak.

“Where did you say you work again?” he inquired, raising a thick, dark eyebrow. What with his hair back in a braided ponytail and his strong cheekbones and square jaw, I could see how my best friend could have had a crush on him. Too bad he was six years older than us.

“Geheimnis Bookshop,” I fumbled the word with my mouth, hoping I was pronouncing it right.

Turk furrowed his eyebrows. “Still doesn’t ring a bell. Nobody I’ve spoken to has heard of it besides my grandfather, and when I asked him about it he was silent and pretended I did not say anything. Strange, yes?”

“No, not really,” I shrugged. “It smells pretty bad in there.”

“But you love it,” he grinned. Okay, okay—I admit it. I didn’t mind. The old book smell? Honestly, it made me feel at home. Growing up in such a desolate place had sparked my obsession with fantasy stories—and a lot of the good ones were pretty old. Right then I was on a particularly large book about the one thousand and one Arabian nights. Nerdy? Yes. Enticing? Even more so.

Turk was the only one I’d shared this with.

“Maybe,” I said. “So really it’s the perfect job, right?”

“How many times have you actually been to this place again?” he queried, even though he knew the answer perfectly well.

“Twice,” I said flatly. “The first time was when I first noticed it, and the second was when I saw the ‘Now Hiring’ sign.”

“And you’ve met the owner…?”

“Once,” I sighed. “Look, Turk, I know you think it sounds shady, but it’s the only place left hiring—and it’s good pay. Nine bucks an hour is good for a teenager’s summer job.”

“I will never get over how you refer to yourself as a teenager,” he smiled knowingly. (I told you—Gandhi.)

“Well I am one, aren’t I?” I shrugged. “Anyway, the guy that owns it doesn’t talk much. My kind of person.”

“Yes,” he smirked. “You two can relate. He is an old grumpy man, and you act like one.”

“Whatever,” I muttered as I shut the mailbox door. As usual, nothing but ads and my dad’s landscaping magazine and my mom’s fitness supplement. “I’ve gotta go—Mom thinks I should be there early to make an impression.”

“What kind of impression?” he chuckled.

“A good one,” I rolled my eyes. “The shop could use a little good. Maybe some tidying up…”

“If there is one thing you can do,” he concurred. “It is clean.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “You’re a doll. Anyway, I’ll see you after work. Say hi to Luka, Shirley and your grandpa for me, would you? Especially gramps. I still don’t think he likes me.”

“He likes me more than you’d think,” Turk shrugged. “He is just not a very… warm person.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, heading inside to toss the mail on the table before heading out. “Just like the Grand Canyon isn’t very small.”

“Just be careful, okay squirt?” he called.

“Whatever!” I called back, grinning. He hated the word—said it wasn’t precise. He couldn’t understand why someone as picky as me would be the one who said it the most.

Yeah, whatever.

x

I got to the shop five minutes early—not too early so I might seem overeager. I actually got the feeling that would have annoyed the guy. He wasn’t in sight when I walked in, but I figured he couldn’t have gotten too far. His keys were set out on the counter with the cash register. Even though there were so many of them I couldn’t figure out how he fit them all on a keychain, I had no idea what they were all for.

First of all, he didn’t have a car.

It was probably a defining personality trait, considering how far everything was spaced around here. The nearest neighborhood (er… set of houses) was at least three miles away, and in the heat of summer, seemed like a lot more, trust me.

Second of all, I didn’t have any inkling of where he lived, and I wasn’t planning on asking him. I almost wondered if he lived at the store.

Third, the store had this really old feel, despite the fact that nobody had seen it before a couple of weeks previous to my starting day. Not only was the scent musky and worn, but the walls were cracked and the paint was chipped. Of course, all of that was because I’m sure the building had been there a long time, even though I didn’t remember seeing it. However, if it were empty, why would I have paid any attention?

So really the only truly weird thing was the thick layer of dust shrouding not only the books but also every chair and table. A layer that was way too thick to have settled in two weeks.

Maybe he brought them that way?

I decided it would be best not to think about that, and keep my head on the job. If I wanted to make a good impression, it would be by starting my work without him having to tell me to do so. I worked hard—he wouldn’t have to tell me to do anything—we wouldn’t have to talk—we’d both be happy.

Perfect.

I was about to start dusting off the first row of books (though they didn’t appear to be in any particular order, so it could have been the last row, or any row in between) when grumps himself walked in.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled harshly. “Those are in order, I don’t want them misplaced.”

“Um, sorry?” I raised my eyebrows. “I was just trying to—”

“No, no, no,” he said. I had forgotten he had a distinctly German accent. “You sit at counter and wait for customers.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts,” he waved his finger at me, having to look up (which was quite an accomplishment on his part, considering I was only five-foot-three.) “You sit at counter, I take care of books. You do not touch anything.”

“Um, okay, whatever,” I said, power-walking to behind the counter so he wouldn’t hit me over the head with his cane. I would have been more polite if I hadn’t been so confused, I promise.

I eyed the chair behind the large wooden antique desk—it was completely covered in dust. It was disgusting, and I sincerely hoped he didn’t expect me to sit on it without dusting it off first.

I bent over to look for some kind of towel or napkin or duster that I could use to clean it off, fumbling around through all of the papers in all of the drawers. None of them appeared to be written in English.

I had my hand extended all the way to the back of one of the larger compartments, feeling kind of paranoid because I couldn’t see over the desk to watch for the old guy, when the bell on the door was hit by it being opened.

I’m not gonna lie, it scared the crap out of me.

My automatic reaction was to pop up of course, to see who had come through—unfortunately when I did this I hit my head rather hard on the underside of the top shelf of the desk, swearing loudly under my breath.

I was clutching my head and wincing with pain when I first saw Levi Driscol.

He looked more out of place than most do in Death Valley. First of all, he was wearing a leather jacket. Either he was insane, or just stupid. I was guessing the latter, because he at least talked coherently.

“Hey there,” he said, raising his dark auburn eyebrows at me. “You okay? Might want to keep track of where that desk is.”

“I’m fine,” I mumbled. Why was it that every time I did something stupid, a boy was watching? Good fortune, Turk had told me. Then again, Turk also supported my dad trying to landscape our yard. “I—Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, you can, actually,” he waggled his eyebrows. “It’s my first time in Death Valley, and I was looking for a good time.”

I rolled my eyes. “Did you come here to buy something, or just to torment the locals?”

“I was interested in what it was,” he shrugged. “You can’t tell from the outside, you know.”

“Thank you for that,” I nodded. “Now, either I can help you buy something or you can go remind the rest of the citizens why they moved out here to nowheresville.”

“Actually,” he informed me. “My dad just moved us out here. Said he needed to get away from it all. I guess he really meant it all, eh?”

“Yes,” I said, glaring. “You’ll fit right in.”

I’m not sure what it was about Levi Driscol that made me feel witty—because usually I stumbled all over my words (with my two left feet). Especially if the guy happened to look like a movie star—which I have to admit, he did. It wasn’t as much his face as it was his aura. Tall and broad shouldered, the guy could have been a stand in for a number of box office hotshots. Too bad he was so obnoxious.

“Look,” I ugh-ed. “Either you can buy something, or you can leave. My boss doesn’t want loiterers—bad for business.”

He looked around him at the dark wetness of the place. From our end of the shop, you couldn’t see opposite walls, and for whatever reason, it was kind of creepy. “From the looks of this place, your boss doesn’t know too much about business.”

“I’m betting he knows more than you do,” I shrugged. “Please leave.”

“What’s wrong?” he raised an eyebrow. “Don’t like the company?”

“Don’t like your company,” I huffed. I would remember not to mention this to Turk, since I promised him I’d be more polite. “Do you want anything or not?”

“Well,” he shrugged. “I don’t like books, but since you’ve got nothing else to do—”

Don’t like books? Don’t like books? Who in their right mind didn’t like books? They’re one of the few things that have remained constant for thousands of years. They’re practically the stinking basis of our society! “Well this is a bookshop, Mr. Driscol,” I said simply. “You’d be more comfortable at the electronics store a few buildings down.”

“Nah,” he shrugged. “I’d see too many of my dad’s products. You know, Driscol Electronics, and all,” I could have sworn he said that part smugly. “Besides, this place is more interesting. But how did you know my name?”

“What?” I blinked. “Well, you said it, obviously.”

“No, I don’t think I did,” he gave me a weird look. “You some kind of stalker?”

“No,” I glared, starting to feel a little bit jumpy. He did say his name. He did. He’s said, Hi, my name is…something Driscol. Didn’t he? “Would you please leave? I have a job to do.”

He looked at me skeptically but shrugged. “Whatever you say, Elizabeth.”

“How did you know my name?” I demanded, flabbergasted.

“Because,” he shrugged, heading towards the exit. “It’s on your nametag.”

Oh. Well, I should have known I couldn’t keep the witticism up for long. On the way out, he ‘accidentally’ knocked over a few books. Which, in turn, knocked over a few more books. And so on.

“Hey!” I shouted after him. “Pick that up!”

“You told me to leave!” he called over his shoulder. It was going to be a very, very long day.

I just didn’t know how long.

x

I grumbled to myself as I restacked all of the books he’d knocked over. At least then I knew why old people like Mr. Geheimnis—at least, I assumed that was my boss’s name—hated teenagers so much.

People like what’s-his-face Driscol.

It hadn’t been the best way to kick start my job, but it could have been a whole heck of a lot worse. At least his knocking over all of the books had given me something to do. I stacked them and restacked them, putting them in alphabetical order, then numerical order, then from thickest to thinnest and oldest to newest, until I heard a thump in the supply closet.

It was probably just Mr. Geheimnis, but I hadn’t seen him go in there. He hadn’t come out of his office, actually, the entire day. I decided I should check on it—make sure the poor dude hadn’t hurt himself—broken a hip or something.

I tiptoed over to the door, hesitating as I moved my hand over the doorknob. The door looked bigger than it should have, but then again, the building was as tall as it would have been if it had two stories, it just didn’t.

When I touched my hand to it I found that it was ice cold, like somebody had recently tied an ice pack to it, or something. It was weird, because I thought it was fairly warm in the building, but maybe that had just been my imagination.

I rolled my eyes at the stupidness of the fact that I had the sudden urge to look behind me, and opened it slowly, slipping in as to make as little noise as possible so Mr. Geheimnis wouldn’t get mad if he wasn’t in there.

Only once I was in, I realized that it was pitch black, cold, and I couldn’t see the light switch (and let me tell you, I was not going to feel around the walls.) A shiver shot up and down my spine and I practically threw myself back out, relieved to hear several voices.

Finally, I thought. Customers.

Only none of the customers appeared to speak English. In fact, none of them appeared to be customers.

In fact, I didn’t appear to be in the bookshop. It was more of an antique store… only all of the antiques looked oriental, maybe Chinese…

In fact, I was starting to get the feeling I was in China.

Todo, we’re not in Nevada anymore.

A/N: So yeah. This is going to be way different (I'm hoping) from anything else I've ever written, because it's not only a romance, but also a fantasy. Like a fairy tale, only COMPLETELY original.

You know you want to review.

By the way, I'd just like to mention that

THE IDES OF MARCH ARE COME.

(But not gone.)

Et tu, Brute?