"Ready to get a feel for the world of commercial advertising?" Greg asked as they stepped out of the restaurant and onto the crowded strip. He could've kicked himself for asking, but it was what they were supposed to be doing. On top of that, he wanted to get back out of the relentless downpour. It hadn't slowed up since they'd entered the restaurant.
"Nope," Anne smiled innocently and pushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes.
"What then?" he asked, noticing exactly how that hair now lay against the mass of thick, dark hair about her shoulders.
"Where do you get your records?" she asked.
Greg opened his mouth to ask how she knew he even listened to records.
"You have duct tape on your shoe," she answered his unasked question. "You're pupil's aren't dilated so you're not on any drugs I know of. You don't strike me as the type to waste his money on porno. And the only other thing I can think of to keep you from buying new shoes is music."
Greg was slightly stunned at her proclamation. She was definitely Grissom's niece through and through.
She stuck a foot out and stepped down close to Greg's, showing him her own red Chuck Taylors. He laughed when he noticed for the first time that she, too, fixed her shoes with duct tape.
"If you can't duct it, as they say," she giggled.
Greg laughed with her and was tempted to put his arm around her and hug her close for a moment. He resigned himself to merely basking in her smile.
"So spill, Lab Boy," she urged. "Record shop."
"Big B's, of course," he said as though she should've known.
"How big?" she asked.
"Big enough. Best for vinyl and cds anyway."
"Good," she said. "Lead the way."
Greg was hesitant for a moment.
"C'mon," she urged. "Remember, I won't tell if you don't tell."
"All right," he caved. "I'll take you but you have to be good."
She put on an expression of mock indignation.
"Haven't I been good so far, Greg?" she asked with a façade of hurt in her voice.
"Yes, but, as a fellow duct taper, you've got to understand that I know what it's like to walk into this place and lose a little control."
She smiled at that.
"Touché, my friend," she said. "All right, I promise I'll be good if you take me to the record store."
"Okay then," he said and hailed another cab, glad to be getting out of the rain again.
"Marry me," Anne said in a soft voice as they stepped inside of Big B's on Maryland Parkway.
"I hardly know you," Greg replied, feeling a bit more himself. "Besides, how do I know you're not here to pick up some Sugar Ray or Pink?"
"I'll be offended by that later," she said and made her way unabashedly towards the shelves upon shelves stacked with vinyl.
After about half an hour of sifting through album after album, (something Greg would never tire of whether he was with a pretty girl or not) she spoke.
"Yes!" she shouted loud enough to be heard by half of Las Vegas.
"You promised to be good," Greg whined jokingly.
"I am," she protested, "I just scored Unknown Pleasures!"
"What?" he asked, skeptically.
"Joy Division, Greg, Joy Division."
Greg was impressed that she was all for the Division.
"There's some New Order over here," he said, testing the waters.
She merely scoffed. "New Order are crap," she said flatly. "We all know Ian Curtis was it."
Greg heart leapt into his throat. Any woman that would listen to Joy Division and not the surviving members in New Order was definitely for him.
"What else are you looking for?" he asked, standing behind her. He could smell the light perfume of her shampoo from where he was.
"Happy Mondays," she answered.
"How does it feel?" he asked hopefully.
"Well, duh Greg," she laughed good naturedly, as though there should've been no question on his part.
"Woman after my own heart," he muttered and reached for an album that caught his eye. He brought it down to see who it was and grimaced.
"Ugh, Duran Duran."
"Which album?" she asked, immediately interested.
"Duran Duran," he replied, after looking over the cover art for the album title.
"Give it here," she ordered and he handed her the record.
"Please don't tell me you listen to them," Greg pleaded.
"Greg, Duran Duran are more hardcore than anything you've probably go in your
cd player right now. They sing about true feelings, the way things are and not the way they're romanticized by media."
"Are we talking about the Hungry Like the Wolf Duran Duran?" he asked, suddenly not so sure he trusted her taste in music anymore.
"Greg, have you ever listened to Careless Memories?"
"I steer clear of them altogether, thanks."
"Careless Memories is the best break up song to date." She looked around the room, seemingly in a panic until she found what she was looking for. A listening booth.
"Come on," she said and took his hand in hers, the record in the other. "I'm gonna make a Duranie out of you."
He was about to make a crack about how much the word Duranie sounded like the word Trannie, but kept his mouth shut. Her hand was small and warm in his slightly clammy palm and she was holding his fairly tightly as she half pulled him to the sound proof booth across the room.
He watched with some fascination as she expertly removed the record from the sheath and carefully counted the grooves before setting it onto the turn table. The needle came down and Greg was drowned by the rhythmic bass skills of a much younger John Taylor. He listened to the song pick up and before Simon LeBon could utter a single syllable, Greg watched with hungry eyes as Anne began to unconsciously sway her hips to the music.
He was transfixed, only half listening to the song while his other half was completely absorbed in the way she was moving in the small booth. They were already close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, but once she started moving, her hips brushed against his. As the song went on, she began to move in earnest, her movement now becoming more insistent, as though she felt every word that was being said and every note that was being played.
In the end, Greg felt that, while the music hadn't proven to interest him much, he would become a hardcore Duranie if only to be near Anne whenever they inspired her to dance like this.