Costello Music (temporary title)

Author's Note: This is just a pilot opener for my new novel, Costello Music (temporarily titled). I really don't like it, but I'm kind of at a loss for better ways to go about it, so help would be GREATLY appreciated. Please, tell me what you think so far. I know it's not the greatest, but at least the story is getting started. And this is not a complete chapter -- this is only the most I could write before my inner editor kicked in and tried to delete everything. So yeah. Consider it a pilot.

Thank you for listening to my ramble. Story time now.

Costello Music

The whore, the pimp, the thief, and the vagabond.

It was a fairy tale. A twisted fairy tale, but a fairy tale nonetheless. We were living in it – Chelsea, Stevie, Vince, and myself – and no one could snap us out of it.

Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe it was bad.

Either way, it was our life. Our life, and no one was about to tell us how to live it. That was the point. As Vince would put it, it was our American right to freedom from any sort of outside control (ironically enough, he was never American). Parents, well-meaning Good Samaritans, the law. No one could pin us down.

Except ourselves.

The whore, the pimp, the thief, and the vagabond.

Chelsea, Stevie, Vince, and myself.

…Maybe it was never meant to be a fairy tale.

Chapter 1

The Thief

Vince always had an obsession with croissants.

His favourite food, by far. Every day, he’d make a trip to the store and sneak out with a bag of pre-baked ones or a couple cans of croissant dough.

Today was no different.

“Want anything special, Newbie?” he asked as he and I were walking down the street to the nearest supermarket. That was his thing – he always called me Newbie. I had lived with him for two years, as opposed to Chelsea and Stevie, who had lived together with Vince for well over six. I sometimes wondered if Vince even remembered what my real name – Johnny – was.

“Not particularly.”

“Not particularly? Well, what kind of fun are you?” he said, whistling as he bounced on the balls of his feet with each step. The day was a glorious one – the kind Southern California is famous for. Cool breeze, reasonable spring temperatures. Vince’s overly long blond hair fluttered in the breeze, a feeling he matched with his persona.

“Listen, Newbie. We go to the store, maybe a stop at an ATM first, and I’ll get you whatever you like. My treat.”

“An ATM?” I repeated. “But you don’t have a bank card.”

He only grinned at me in his trademark mischievous way and sauntered ahead. I shrugged, and followed.

+++

The bank was just outside the supermarket. I watched in vague interest as Vince approached the ATM, pulling out a wallet I’d never seen before from the confines of his coat.

I wanted to ask the question burning on the tip of my tongue, but knowing Vince, he probably would have punched me for it. Instead, I kept quiet, looking intent as I scooted closer to him. He unfolded the small leather square and pulled out a credit card from its pockets as a bored-looking man in a business suit – a square, as Vince called corporate slaves like him – drew up behind us, tapping his foot and looking anywhere but at us.

“Fucking prick,” Vince swore as he poked the buttons on the ATM. It spat out a couple twenties and Vince swiped them up. I raised my eyebrows.

“How did you manage that?” I said. Vince was twenty-two years old, and probably never had an actual, paying job his entire life. He’d lived off thievery his entire life – even his mum was a thief.

“By sticking the card into the machine. The machine likes me, so it showed a bit of favouritism and gave me sixty dollars.”

His voice, strong with a Scottish accent, was flippant in tone, but a wink from him told me that he was lying through his teeth. He slipped the card back into the wallet, folding it up until the suit behind us stepped up to the ATM and could no longer see Vince.

He winked at me again, crouching down and flicking his wrist. The wallet slid lightly across the ground, coming to rest behind one of the suit’s feet, who had yet to realise it had gone missing.

“You devilish little bastard,” I swore with glee as we turned tail and nearly ran through the supermarket doors.

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Ick, right? Blargh, I know. Comments and chewed-up, puked-up remains of this welcomed with the utmost delight. -.-