“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re curious. I promise I have the best of intentions.”
I knew that was a lie, but he was right. I was curious.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in my favorite spot in the house. I’ll send you the location on your phone.”
A second later, a little screen popped up with a map of the house. On the map was a little red dot marked “You” and a little blue dot marked “Carter.” I was surprised to see the blue dot move in circles around the room it was in.
“Did you see it move?” he asked me.
“Holy crap. It’s like the Marauder’s Map!”
“Solid Harry Potter reference.”
“Thank you.”
“It is a lot like that,” he typed back. “You can turn off the option to show your location in real time, if you want. I’ll show you how when you get here.”
“Who said I’m coming?”
“You’re coming.”
I bit my lip and sighed. He had me interested, and I was pretty bored anyway. I was just sitting around looking at my phone. I wanted to see what his favorite room in the house was like anyway, and so I stood and headed out.
I guessed it was going to be some Fifty Shades shit. Maybe a sex dungeon with swings, big dildos, all kinds of BDSM equipment. I was ready to run away as fast as I could as I rounded the corner and found the door to the room he was in.
I pulled it open slowly, expecting the worst.
Instead, I heard music.
“Hey,” he said, “Come in.”
I stepped into the room and looked around. The walls were covered in bookshelves, but instead of books, they held records. There was a bar along one wall, a fireplace burning wood in the middle of another, plus chairs and tables all over the place. Carter was leaning against the bar, and in front of him was a turntable spinning a record.
“This is really cool,” I blurted out despite myself.
“Thanks.” He motioned for me to join him. I walked over as he went around behind the bar. “Want something?”
“Sure,” I said. “Surprise me.”
He nodded and went to work as I looked around some more. I didn’t recognize the music that was playing, but the sleeve said it was by a band called The Cinematic Orchestra. It was like jazzy hip-hop without the lyrics, and although it was a little weird, I actually liked it.
“You don’t strike me as the jazz type,” I said.
He laughed. “Jazz is pretentious as fuck. But it helps me think.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I come in here when I have some work to get done but can’t concentrate anywhere else.”
“So am I interrupting your work?”
“Not anymore,” he said. “I finished up a little bit ago.” He handed me a glass. I took it from him and sipped it, surprised. It was delicious, fresh and sweet.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A secret recipe,” he said. “It’s mostly gin, though.”
I laughed and took another sip. He came around the bar and leaned against a stool as I looked around the room, idly leafing through the records. He had thousands of records in there from all different artists, from Snoop Dogg to Bruce Springsteen. It was actually pretty impressive and amazing.
“When did you start collecting all these?” I asked him.
“A long time ago,” he said. “I have way too many now.”
“It’s amazing. I mean, I never got into the whole vinyl thing, but this is cool.”
“Thanks. It’s an impractical hobby, but I love it anyway.”
“I never would have guessed you were the type of guy to collect records.”
He grinned at me. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know. You have all these tattoos. You have a reputation.”
“What do tattoos and reputations have to do with music?”
“I don’t know,” I repeated, frustrated. I felt like I put my foot in my mouth as he laughed and sipped his drink.
“I get what you’re saying. But I’m just a person like everyone else. You’re into music?”
I shrugged. “No more than anyone else. I like whatever’s on the radio.”
“Here, take a listen to this.” He took the jazz record off the turntable, putting it back into its sleeve, and picked out another record. He put that one on and spun it.
“It’s an old Bowie record. Didn’t get a lot of love back in the day.”
“What’s it called?”
“Hours,” he said. “He made it as a video game soundtrack in the nineties.”
I laughed. “Nineties Bowie is the worst.”
“No way. That’s the best Bowie.”
As I looked through the records, Carter came up behind me. I pulled one out and flipped it over, looking at it.
“That’s a good choice,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Bernard Fevre. It’s an old electronic disco album.”
“Is it good?”