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is you think you could pay for it?” His laughter died as quickly as it started.
    Tommy shook his head and stared at his trashed motorcycle boots, which, in Ira’s presence, no longer seemed cool. The treads were shot. The shank was gashed. It was like hisfavorite boots had suddenly turned on him, reminding him of the enormous gap yawning between him and his dream. Still, it beat looking at Ira, who clearly considered Tommy a fool.
    â€œOkay, triple then.”
    Tommy refused to acknowledge the offer. Ira was insane. The whole scene was insane. He was rumored to be a relentless negotiator, but all this—over a guitar? From everything he’d read about him, the only music Ira cared about was the song that played during last call when he collected the money from his various clubs.
    â€œYou drive a tough bargain.” Ira laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. The tone was way off.
    And it wasn’t like Tommy had to actually look at him to know that his eyes had gone squinty, his mouth wide, his chin lifted in that arrogant way that he had. He’d seen plenty of photos of Ira being the inauthentic, entitled bastard he was. He’d memorized them all.
    â€œSo what if I quadruple my offer, hand over my credit card, and you hand over the guitar? I’m assuming you work on commission? Hard to pass on an offer like that.”
    Clearly Ira had pegged him for the rent-hungry wannabe he was, and yet Tommy still held his ground.
    The guitar was his.
    Or at least it would be just as soon as he collected a few more paychecks.
    And while it was definitely a risky move to deny Ira Redman, Tommy watched as he finally gave up and exited the store as arrogantly as he’d entered.
    Tommy clasped the guitar to his chest, hardly able to believe he’d almost lost it. If he could just make it through the next few months, he’d have enough saved to make it officially his. Sooner if he went on a hunger strike.
    And that was how Ira found him—standing behind the smudgy glass counter, embracing his dream guitar like a lover.
    â€œFarrington wants a word.” Ira pressed his phone on Tommy, who had no other choice but to take it.
    Who knew Ira and Farrington were friends?
    Or better yet, who didn’t know Ira had an in with the owner?
    Fuckin’ Ira knew everyone.
    The conversation might have been brief, but it was no less humiliating, with Farrington ordering Tommy to sell Ira the guitar at the original price. There might also have been a mention about Tommy losing his job, but Tommy was already returning the phone, reducing Farrington’s angry rant into a distant muffled squawk.
    Fighting back tears too ridiculous to cry, Tommy forfeited the guitar. Hell, he hadn’t even cried the night he’d said good-bye to Amy, the girlfriend he’d been with for the last two years.
    He could not, would not, cry for a guitar.
    And he definitely wouldn’t cry over his father making him look like a fool, showing just how insignificant he was in the world.
    Someday he’d show him, prove his worth, and make Ira regret the day he walked into Farrington’s.
    He didn’t know how, but he would. He was more determined than ever.
    With the guitar in Ira’s possession (paid for with his Amex Black card, which probably had a gazillion-dollar limit), Ira shot Tommy one last appraising look before pulling a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and sliding it across the counter. “Nice try, kid.” He made for the door, guitar strapped over his shoulder. “Maybe you could have bought it sooner if you worked for me.”

THREE
REASONS TO BE BEAUTIFUL
    A ster Amirpour closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slipped beneath the water’s surface until the bubbles covered her head and the outside world disappeared. If she had to choose a happy place, this would be it. Cocooned within the warm embrace of her Jacuzzi, free of the burden of parental