Disclaimer: I don't own Charmed, or any of the characters who appeared on the show.

Chapter 2

Chris orbed into the bathroom stall of the Bay Mirror. Piper would worry until the end of time that he would get caught commute orbing; but it saved him money, time, and stress—three things which he did not like worrying about.

"Until the day I fall on top of some guy reading the newspaper," he thought. He imagined Wyatt chortling. Chris stepped out of the bathroom cautiously and walked towards his desk.

"Halliwell!" Ted Rickson, chief editor of the Bay Mirror, stood at his office door. Chris inwardly cursed. "You're late," his boss said, voice booming, "Do you think I'm running a freaking circus?!"

Chris pulled short in his walk and faced his boss. "No, sir," he said.

"No, sir," mimicked Rickson mockingly. "NO, SIR! You want to tell me why you're late, then?"

Chris bit his tongue. By internationally accepted time, he was two minutes early. By the clock in Rickson's office, he was five minutes late. Chris suspected that Rickson played with the clock just so he could torture his employees. "Well?!" Rickson boomed again.

His face was beginning to turn red, but he looked like he was having the time of his life. The other employees alternately watched or ignored the show. "My watch says it's 8:58, sir," Chris said.

Rickson looked like Christmas had come early. "YOUR watch?" he asked dangerously. He looked around the bull pen, grinning. "Chrissy, here," he announced, "seems to think that he runs on his own time. You know, why that's wrong, people?!" Several employees intensely studied their computers, attempting to escape notice. "DO YOU KNOW WHY?" Rickson shouted again.

Chris imagined Rickson dissolving into several molecularly combusted molecules. A timid looking reporter who reminded Chris of Peter Parker, pre-spider, raised his hand. "Yes, Jensen?" Rickson said.

"It's wrong because we run on your time, sir," he said in a squeak.

"EXACTLY," yelled Rickson. Chris began to wonder if his vocal chords ever gave out—ever at all. "EXACTLY," Rickson said, "You run on MY time—"

Peter Parker-esque guy raised his hand. "Yes, Jensen?" Rickson barked, not looking as if he appreciated the interruption.

"Sir, since I answered, can I take an early lunch now?"

Rickson's face began to change from red to purple. His eyeballs began to show their blood vessels. "You—You—" he sputtered, looking as if he might hop up and down. Chris inwardly groaned. Jensen was a prick but he was going to be killed; he would probably cry too.

"Your clock is fast, sir," he said.

"What was that, Halliwell?" Rickson said. He turned on him and Chris felt a momentary surge of savage one-upmanship. If he was going to play the hero, was it so bad that he got to aggravate Rickson while he was at it? "It's fast, sir. My clock is remotely set by cell towers. I was two minutes early."

Rickson advanced on him, trapping Chris between himself and a desk chair, clearly expecting Chris to fall into the chair. When he didn't, Rickson simply stood with his face inches away. "You want a permanent job when you graduate from Berkeley, Halliwell," he barked, "You start telling those cell towers to follow my clock." He moved threateningly forward. Chris willed himself not to flinch.

"Get to work!" Rickson shouted to the bull pen, backing off from Chris. "Get to work, people! What do I pay you for?" He turned towards his own office. "And, Halliwell!" he shouted.

Chris looked up.

"Coffee! Now!"

The door slammed as activity resumed. Chris started walking reluctantly. He was convinced that Rickson had demon blood in him. He wished his suspicion was enough for a vanquish; he wished finding out he was right would be enough. Unfortunately, Rickson would have to actually do something—besides bullying his employees.

Chris entered the break room and pulled coffee from the cupboard, allowing himself to imagine that Rickson had done something horrible. "Maybe he'll try to destroy San Francisco," he thought hopefully.

Rickson would be a pile of quivering dust on the floor. Chris would sweep him up with a dust pan. Or Mel would say the "seen ,unseen" spell and it would be as if the bully had never existed. The little Rickson dust particles would scream their protest as he dumped them into the trash.

Chris let the machine grind out the coffee as he got lost in the daydream.

"Ahh!" yelled all the little individual Rickson dust particles, "Please don't sweep so fast! Mercy! Mercy!"

"Sorry, guys," said daydream Chris, "But I really can't be late."

"HALLIWELL!"

Chris jumped and hit his head on the still open cupboard door. "Ouch!" he groaned.

He grabbed the coffee and put in Rickson's required one and five-eighths packets of sugar. He quickly exited and nearly bumped into Jensen who was entering the break room.

"Mr. Rickson wants his coffee," Jensen said self-importantly. As he pushed past him, Chris hoped his glare was withering.

…

At P3, Wyatt was sitting at one of the tables in front of the stage. "I'm sorry," he said, "But you're just not the direction that we want to go with our entertainment."

Dane, the new bouncer, stifled something which sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

On stage, the musicians who had just finished their set shuffled despondently. "Do you mind explaining?" the lead performer asked. He stood on the stage, clutching his accordion, clad in lederhosen. Around him, his various colleagues, also in lederhosen, shuffled as well. Wyatt wished he had Dane's job. "Well, we tend to hire bands with a hard rock sound," he said diplomatically.

"That's us," said the lead singer.

His colleagues nodded or murmured their agreement. "Yep." "Mmhmm." "What's he getting at?" The whispered grumbles started to grow louder.

"Right," said Wyatt, "And, I want you to know that I, personally, appreciate the fusion music scene."

Dane stifled another laugh/cough, and Wyatt briefly considered throwing something at him. He restrained himself.

The lead singer nodded again, looking more hopeful.

"But," Wyatt said, "P3's patrons just aren't ready for the accordion-rock scene yet. It's great; I mean, you're playing the hits, but the polka context—the accordions, instead of guitars—it's just not the right direction for us."

"Not the right direction?" demanded one of the singers to the left. He had a blue-gray tattoo curling up his arm, declaring that he was "Vicious", a black eye patch over one eye, long greasy hair, and an accordion still slung over his shoulder, hitting just above his bright green shorts. "Not the right direction!" he said again.

"Right," said Wyatt, pacingly, "Not for me, of course. I love you guys. I'm talking for the masses—they're not cultured enough yet. It's them, not you—or me."

"Nice, Wyatt," he thought, "Throw down your patrons."

"You know who else probably said that?" Vicious asked. "The guy who turned down Edison 99 times," he said.

"Who?" asked Wyatt, genuinely confused.

"The guy who told him 99 times that the light bulb wouldn't work. He regretted it by the 100th time you know, and you will too," said Vicious threateningly,

"I'm pretty sure that's not the story," said Wyatt blandly.

"Does he mean that I'll regret it in 5 minutes when he meets me in the parking lot?" he thought glumly.

"You telling me that I don't know my history?" Vicious demanded. Behind him, his polka-rock mates started to gather in a knot, grumbling ominously as they did so.

"Thinks he knows Edison better than Vicious," one said.

"Edison is Vicious' jam," another said.

"Who does he think he is?" asked another.

"He want a fight? We'll give him a fight," promised the last bandmate.

Wyatt had just barely a moment to wonder who called anything a person's 'jam' anymore, when he noticed Dane moving towards the stage, ready to kick out the quickly angering band. He held up a hand to stop him.

"All right," he said loudly, bringing the group's attention back to him, "Listen up. I can't hire you for this weekend; that's how it is. If you want to audition again, in the future, you are welcome to do so." He stood up to his full height and met the band members' gazes steadily—he wasn't one of the Twice Blessed for nothing.

Vicious glared at him. "We're never coming back," he said, spitting impressively, "We've got better places to be."

"That's unfortunate," said Wyatt. Dane had moved back to his place near the bar as the band members settled down. As one, the polka-rock men started to move towards the door.

"You'll miss out on the best jam you ever heard," one said.

"And yet I won't miss hearing it called a 'jam'," Wyatt thought. He waved the band out.

"I, personally, am a huge fan of the fusion music scene," said Dane, when the door had safely closed on the last band member.

"Shut up," said Wyatt, good-naturedly. He got up from the table and walked back to the bar.

"It's going to be tough to find a new act fast," said Dane.

"No kidding," said Wyatt.

"I don't envy you," said Dane.

"Oh, you will," said Wyatt.

Dane looked confused. Wyatt pulled out a pen and wrote down a phone number on a scrap of paper, then pushed it towards him. "That," said Wyatt, "is my sister's number. And you're going to call her and let her know that we haven't booked a band for this weekend."

"We?" Dane asked strongly. "There is no 'we'," he said, starting to sound panicked, "I'm telling Melinda that this was all you."

"And yet, you'll be the one on phone with her," said Wyatt, grinning. "Still envy me?" he asked.

Dane's glare was his only answer.

…

Melinda sat in the corner of the Manor's attic that she had turned into a home office. A fly buzzed amiably by her head; she swatted it away.

"There once was a cat named Tom," she thought aimlessly, "and a mouse named Jerry." She put her head in her hands in an overdramatic gesture. "Why did I ever think that I had enough creativity to write for a living?" she thought.

She pressed her finger down on the 'j' key, allowing herself to revel in the mindless repetition of the letter. "JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ," she typed.

Her phone's sudden ring startled her from her pity party.

"Hello?" she asked, picking it up.

"Melinda?" a feminine voice asked, "It's Carol; I'm returning your call about a decorator?"

"Right," Melinda quickly pulled herself together and pulled a scribble-filled notepad towards her. "Hi, Carol," she said, "I'm calling on behalf of a couple that I'm working for."

"You're not the person who needs the decorator?" Carol asked.

"No," said Melinda, "I'm an assistant to Mr. Richards who is researching companies to decorate his home." She absently registered that another call was being sent to voicemail while she talked. It was P3; she would have to call back later.

"Well, that's no good at all," Carol said sounding affronted.

Melinda sighed; Carol was the most upfront about it, but none of the decorators that she had called today had been pleased to speak to an assistant. Sometimes, she seriously thought about quitting this temporary job that allowed her the freedom to also help run P3 and write for a living. Then, she remembered that it was a steady paycheck that allowed her to simultaneously help run P3 and write for a living.

"I understand," said Melinda, "And as soon as Mr. Richards moves forward with this process, he or his wife will be in contact. I'm just collecting information on their behalf right now."

"Hmmph," Carol said, still upset, "Well, do you know what rooms it will be?"

"The living room and the dining room," Melinda said, "They would like to do it over entirely. At the moment, they're interested in getting a price quote."

"Well, I can't give it," said Carol, sounding outraged at the thought, "Not without speaking to them."

"I understand," said Melinda again, "Can you give me an estimate though?"

"You don't understand, dear," Carol said, "I decide the price by the family. I'm an artist. I can't tell you the price without knowing how I feel about the people who will be living in the rooms."

Melinda clicked at her computer screen, pulling up Carol's Yelp reviews one more time.

"5 stars" raved the reviews.

"Consummate professional," said one.

"Absolutely divine," said another.

She clicked another tab: "Decorator Receives Prestigious Award," read the Daily Mirror headline.

"And you are Carol Vine?" Melinda asked, "Of Vine Decorating?"

"Well, of course," said Carol, "But, dear, I really must go."

"Ok," said Melinda, trying to channel her most charming self, "But, would you mind just letting me pass along an estimate? I would really appreciate the help."

She was certain that she could sense Carol wavering over the phone line; but that might have been less attributable to empathy than wishful thinking.

"Well," said Carol again, "You see…"

"Assuming you liked the family, what would the price be?" Melinda asked, jumping on the hesitation.

"Well, that's just not it," Carol said, "I may like the family, and that would be one price; and I might love the family, and that would be another."

"I can work with that," thought Melinda.

"What if it was a sliding scale?" she asked, "You found the family to be somewhere from good to great? What would you charge?"

"I suppose $65 to $45 an hour, depending on the family of course," Carol said.

"Perfect," said Melinda, feeling a surge of self-satisfaction, "I will pass that along. Thank you so much for the quote, Carol."

"But you will tell them that nothing is final, won't you?" asked Carol.

"Of course," said Melinda. In the email to her boss that was now open on her desktop, she wrote "Spoke to Carol Vine (interior decorator) today. Quoted between $45 to $65 an hour, but warns that price may vary according to circumstances."

"Thank you again, Carol," she said.

"Thank you, Melinda," Carol said.

The women hung up at the same time.

Melinda bit back her currently less than charitable thoughts. "It's income," she reminded herself. She looked again at the document that was supposed to contain a story to send out to magazines.

"JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ," the document read.

"Not exactly a masterpiece," Melinda thought.

She looked at her phone again. The missed call from P3 blinked on the screen.

"Wasn't adulthood supposed to be fun?" she asked the still-buzzing fly. It merely kept going about its business, buzzing through the dollhouse she had played with as a child, then over to the Book of Shadows, before finally returning to the desk.

"Guess you don't know either," Melinda said.

…

Three hours later, a little after 1 PM, Chris burst into P3 and tore down the stairs, falling dramatically onto the nearest couch. "I hate my boss!" he declared loudly.

Wyatt stopped shelving the newly arrived alcohol. "I don't get it," he said, "Isn't it like your dream job?"

"Yeah," said Chris grudgingly, covering his eyes with his arm.

"And weren't you over the moon because you got it while you were still in your senior year at Berkeley?"

"Yes," Chris admitted.

"And aren't you pretty sure that it will turn into a fulltime position when you do graduate?" Wyatt asked, "I thought this was living the dream for you."

Chris thought of Rickson, and his clocks, and the one and five-eighths packs of sugar for the coffee. "It was," he said, grumbling.

"Then what's the problem?" Wyatt asked briskly. He started to shelve the alcohol again.

"He's a bully," said Chris, "And you really don't get it unless you're there. He's the boss from hell."

Wyatt grimaced. "Sorry, man," he said in sympathy.

"Yeah," Chris said, grumbling again. He still hadn't moved his arm from over his eyes.

"Wyatt?" Melinda called, coming down the steps, "Wyatt? What happened with the band? Dane kept telling me it was all you."

"Traitor," muttered Wyatt under his breath.

"Oh, hey, Chris," Melinda said, stopping at the bottom of the steps and waving towards her younger brother. "I didn't know you'd be here," she said.

"I'm considering becoming an afternoon drinker," said Chris.

"Not with this alcohol," said Wyatt quickly, "It just came in. You can go buy your beer at the gas station with the ne'er do wells." He gestured towards the door.

Chris removed his arm long enough to glare the obligatory daggers at his brother; then he resumed his pose.

Melinda walked to the bar and hopped onto the nearest stool. "So, the band?" she asked.

"So," said Wyatt, "Turns out the Ne'er Do Wells aren't a rock band. They're a polka-rock band."

"Ok, I don't know where to start with that," said Melinda confused, "But I'll go with the 'ne'er do well' thing. Seems a little harsh."

"No," said Wyatt, "That was really their name: The Ne'er Do Wells. And they really are over at the gas station, Chris, if you want to join them. They're not just accordion enthusiasts; they're really big into motorcycles too. I promise, they have beer."

Chris groaned in response.

"What's up with you, Chris?" Melinda asked, starting to feel concerned.

"His boss is a bully and Chris is disillusioned with his dream job," said Wyatt.

Chris sat up. "Got it in one," he said, giving Wyatt a military salute.

"Yeah, well, my boss is normal enough, but I'm not thrilled with work either right now," said Melinda, commiserating.

"And I still don't get it," said Wyatt, "You're both doing what you love. Why wouldn't you be happy with it?"

Chris sighed. "It's fantastic," he said.

"But, in the day to day, it's…" said Melinda.

"Exhausting?" suggested Chris.

"Exactly!" said Melinda, "More so, because you actually care about what you're doing."

"Exactly!" said Chris.

"Ok," said Wyatt, drawing out the word, "Well, can you two chit-chat about this later? Mel, we have to find a band."

"Yeah," said Melinda, "Before 9 PM tonight." She paused. "Was the polka-rock really that bad?" she asked, hoping against hope.

Wyatt nodded emphatically. "Unfortunately," he said.

"Ok," said Melinda. Her rational side slipped into place like a well-worn coat settling on her shoulders. As one of the Twice Blessed, she had learned early to avoid panicking in a crisis; whether fighting demons, or trying to find P3's entertainment.

"Well, we're not lost," she said, "We can always play house music as a last resort."

"But, if we do that too often, we're going to lose people in the long run," said Wyatt.

"Sometimes people like reliability," said Melinda hopefully.

"Too much reliability is too much of a good thing," Wyatt said.

Melinda put her head in her hands again, trying to think.

"The Torros!" she said suddenly, "I know they just got back into town."

Wyatt brightened. "You think they would do it?" he asked.

"We'd have to up the pay a bit for the short notice," said Melinda, "Can we afford that?"

Wyatt pulled his tablet from under the bar and opened P3's ledger, quickly crunching numbers.

"We can give 25% more than usual," he said, "More than that, and we'll be in the red this month."

"Good enough," said Melinda, "I'll call them. See what I can do." She pulled out her phone and hit one of the speed dial numbers.

"Hi, Sam?" she said, "It's Melinda Halliwell. Yep, from P3. I'm good! What about you?" She got up from her stool and walked towards the storeroom. Chris finally left his couch and walked towards the bar.

"Think they'll play?" he asked.

"They will if they're free," said Wyatt, feeling as though he'd lost a weight from around his neck. "The Torros have come through a few times for P3," he said. He smiled at his younger brother. "Your boss is really that bad?" he asked.

"Whatever you're imagining, he's probably worse," said Chris.

"Well, I was imagining Brinus," said Wyatt, naming a demon they had fought a few months before. "So your boss must be awful," he said. "Ugly too," he added as an afterthought.

Chris laughed. Brinus had been a demon with the head of an octopus and a tendency towards sucking human brains out through their mouths. He thought of Rickson turning purple and of Jensen blissfully unaware that he was about to be demolished. "Actually, you're not too far off," he said glumly.

"They'll do it!" shouted Melinda excitedly, coming into the main room again, "The Torros will play tonight and tomorrow. We have a band for the weekend!"

"Yes!" shouted Wyatt.

Chris had to grin at his excited siblings.

"Well, they better be good tonight," he said, "Because I really need a break."

Melinda ruffled his hair. Unlike whenever Wyatt tried, Chris allowed her to do so. "Want us to rough him up?" she teased.

"No," said Chris, "I just want to forget that he exists." He straightened. "Ok, I'm ready to go back," he said, resolutely, steeling himself.

"Me too," said Melinda.

"Back to your dream jobs?" Wyatt teased, "Woe is you?"

Melinda rolled her eyes. "Back to my fantastic wonderful job that I love so much," she said. "Is that better?" she asked.

"Much," said Wyatt.

"Well, don't expect it from me," said Chris, "I still want to vanquish Rickson." He and Melinda turned towards the stairs to walk out of P3 and back to their cars.

"Hey!" Wyatt called after them, "Doesn't anyone want to hear me complain? I haven't come up with something to complain about yet!"

Melinda shook her head and kept walking; Chris ignored him altogether.

Wyatt grumbled incoherently and put his tablet away. At least they had booked a band; that was something. The Halliwells were winning somewhere today.