Snapshot
By Steampunk . Chuckster
Summary: Photojournalist Sarah Walker has spent her short and acclaimed career walking the tightrope of societal norms and an inherent yearning for adventure. When her duty to making appearances for her career puts her in Bartowski Electrics CEO Chuck Bartowski's path, their very different worlds collide. Will she discover there is more adventure to him than meets the eye? Charah AU based on Hitchcock's Rear Window.
A/N: I am doing my best to write, edit, and publish. Unfortunately, I had a personal set-back with my job. Our shop has to find a new home really quickly after we were discriminated against by our landlords and had our lease terminated, giving no time at all to get out and find a new place. We're trying anyway but oof. I've been very stressed and tired with literally no respite (thanks so much 2023) so it's a minor miracle I had the energy and time to get this one up. Hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I do not own CHUCK and I'm making exactly $0 from this story. Per usual.
"This is good work, kid. I'll make sure to let some of the fellas at Bixby's know about ye's."
Salvatore Banks wiggled an envelope in the air between them.
"I'll tell 'em to look for the Poindexter teenager."
"I ain't a teenager," she said gruffly, shaking her head as she snatched the envelope. "But thanks. I welcome the references, but don't go tellin' coppers who took those photos if ye's get caught, hear me? Already got enough of 'em on my heels for other shit." She adjusted the collar on her sports jacket.
"Ey. Salvatore Banks don't get caught. You'd do well ta remember dat, kid." And he reached over to thump the top of the fedora she wore hard, making her grimace. But then he waved his fingers. "Now get outta here. Make good choices wit' dat dough, sweet h'aht."
Sarah gave him her back curl of her lips and left them behind, adjusting the glasses she wore, reaching in under her jacket to slip her pay—cash only—into the inner pocket, feeling it thump deliciously against her suspenders and tightly bound breasts underneath as she escaped.
She kept her head down as she climbed onto the trolley, ignoring the itching of the wig she wore, her long blond locks bound up underneath it, morphing her pretty features into a mean mug, crossing her arms over the evidence of her biological womanhood just in case the bindings weren't doing their job altogether.
And she didn't stop until she got into the alleyway outside of her apartment building, taking the hat and the wig off, shoving them into the bag she'd stashed behind some wooden fencing someone had tossed there. She fluffed her hair a bit, then pulled it back into a buoyant ponytail, buttoned the suit jacket, and slipped the glasses into the bag too. Then she took a rag and wiped her face a little.
Worse came to worst, she'd just look like the usual "tomboy" she'd been labeled as all her life—stupidly, she hated the term—having come back from an excursion with her camera.
Nobody would know she'd just masqueraded as a young man who was good at casing joints with his camera for a buck.
She didn't stop until she was behind the locked door of her apartment. She stashed the money in the safe behind the clothes in her closet, and stripped down, gingerly untying and uncoiling the bandages from around her chest, letting her full breasts breathe, free and glorious in their natural state. She rubbed them a little with a wince, all that time with them bound close to her ribcage making them ache, and she went to climb into a bathtub.
If Banks was serious about recommending her to his pals, she'd get a lot of work in the coming days and weeks. And that may tide her over until she could get a real job. She needed that adventure damn it. Her bones ached with it.
And ever since Paris three months ago, the adventure well seemed to run pretty dry.
Plenty of other wells were running dry, too. Not that it was a major feature in her existence, but she hadn't been striking it hot with the fellas either. Every date she went on fell flat—well, the few she'd had time for. Men flirting, asking her for drinks, for dinner, and she stopped them from coming up to hers, hadn't wanted to follow them up to theirs. She simply hadn't wanted any of them. Not even for a fun roll in the sheets.
And it wasn't that she didn't want to have sex. She'd welcome that with open arms. The men just hadn't done enough for her. Why jump into bed with someone if they didn't spark something delicious inside of her? What was the point? She wasn't doing it just to do it. She told herself a long time ago, it wasn't worth it.
That was… Well… Most of it wasn't worth it.
Until about three months ago.
If all sex was like that, the world would be a very different sort of a place. She smirked to herself, shutting her eyes, and she thought back to Paris. The hours and hours and hours of mental footage, the ghost of his touch still so prevalent in her body's memory. She could still feel him when she thought back to those hours in Paris.
His lips against her skin, his long fingers wrapped around her hips, those soft curling locks of his tickling her belly when he sank down under the covers. Was anything ever gonna feel that good again? Probably not.
And then she shook herself. It wasn't helping her to think like that. Closing herself off to the thought that there were other opportunities out there. It had only been three months. She needed to give herself a chance, give other men a chance. She needed to go back to living her life.
Maybe if the adventure came back, if some of these damn magazines would give her a damn call.
She was a photojournalist without a mission.
Once she got a mission, everything would fall back into place and she could keep going.
And maybe stop dwelling.
She would check her P.O. Box tomorrow afternoon, and maybe she would find a request there. Someone Banks sent her way. She'd check the day after too, and the day after that. At least she could pay her bills.
Maybe someday she'd get to a point where she could pay them without having to cross-dress or wear disguises to get these back alley jobs. But that day didn't look like it was all that close on the horizon.
Not until she was able to sell more of her work.
When her name got big enough, her face plastered on enough magazines and papers, it would get harder and harder to get away with the disguises. More of these thugs would recognize her even with the glasses, the bound breasts, mean downturned tilt of her mouth. But she wouldn't have to take those jobs anymore. She'd be rollin' in the dough by then.
Until then, she had to wait, soaking her bones in the hot bath water, and…in spite of herself…dreaming about Paris, and him, getting lost in the memory of his laughter, his touch, his taste. Was it unhealthy? Sure. She'd never see him again, she was sure. Obsessing over a fella she wasn't seeing again was certainly unhealthy.
But it was addicting—the strange mixture of deep, deep happiness and the dull thud of melancholy all at once.
So she dwelled on him. Thought about him.
His last words to her. My Dorothea Lange.
The sweet man.
And as she rolled her head to the side, she spotted something through her open door, out in the living room. She beamed at it, pulled herself up out of the tub, tugged the plug out to drain the water, dried off, wrapped herself up in her robe, and wandered out towards what she'd seen from the tub.
She had tunnel vision until she stopped in front of it, stooped down, and put her hand on the wooden frame. She bit her lip, letting her fingers run over the B, and then the E. And then her fingers slid down to press the button to turn it on, and she reached up to adjust the antenna a bit, before she moved to sit on her coffee table, watching as an animated word scrawled in cursive across the screen.
"Bobbi piiiiiin curl permanent," the man's voice narrated.
And then another, handsome dark-haired gentleman appeared in front of a curtain and held up the box of Bobbi pins. He started singing with his jaunty piano accompaniment, grinning away.
For a softly feminine permanent wave
Give yourself a Bobbi, the pin curl way
You'll go bob bob bobbin' along
With your Bobbi, your Bobbi…your Bobbi!
He grinned as an audience clapped, and Sarah stood up, moving around the coffee table to plop onto the couch, pulling her legs up to curl under her body, watching mindlessly as the program resumed, not quite caring what was going on onscreen, only that it was in color, and that the large expense this color television ended up being for her personally was worth every penny.
Especially when the salesman at the department store had tried so hard to sell the more expensive brands to her. The Bartowski Electric color TV was the least expensive and the most desirable one for her.
Clearly others had tried to profit off of the craze Bartowski Electric started, and were making inferior more expensive gaudier versions only fools preferred to the less pricey and better product Chuck's company put out.
And maybe it was personal bias.
But it was the reason she'd gone to the department store in the first place. This specific TV.
Sarah Walker spent much too long sitting in front of that television, even as hunger settled in the pit of her stomach, as she got lost in thoughts of him, wondering if he thought of her, if he sometimes wondered about her, if he caught himself pondering about whether or not she did what she said she'd do and went out and bought one of his TV sets.
She sat there in front of the TV smiling like an idiot, not because of the slapstick antics on the TV screen, but because of the man who's imaginative engineering mind made it possible for her to watch this from the comfort of her living room in full color.
}o{
"No. That isn't enough."
"What do you mean it isn't enough? You trying to get your TV into some Eskimo's igloo in the freezing tundra, Bartowski? It isn't gonna happen."
Chuck rolled his eyes, knowing Samuel Christenssen wasn't going to listen to him, knowing the man was just closed minded enough to make progression in B.E. that much harder. But he had to appease patrons as best he could while staying the course. So he'd have to find some sort of compromise.
"Maybe someday they'll get electricity in that part of the world and we can get them their color TVs. If they want them. But that isn't what I'm talking about. I'm talking about B.E. becoming something greater than just TV sets, Sam." This wasn't going to go well but he had to try. "I'm talking improving lives."
"TVs improve lives."
"More than that, though. Using our power and influence to make sure children have food to eat and clean drinking water."
"Ooooh Jesus. Well okay, Pope Pius the Whatever-Number-th." Chuck made a face, shaking his head. "You go ahead and get all the kids in Africa their food and water, as long as I never see a dime taken outta my pocket, I don't really care. There. Is that the answer you're looking for?"
"I was looking for an answer that meant you care about starving kids and kids dying from unsafe drinking water, but if you're giving me a green light, I'll take that."
"Fine. You have a green light. But I'm tellin' you now, kid. Watch this new direction carefully. I'm not the only one who feels like this. If I'm investing in B.E.'s stock, I need to see increases. Or sayonara. Got it?"
"Got it."
Chuck really did 'get it', he found he just didn't care. There were other investors out there if Christenssen pulled out. Investors who did care about kids eating.
"A'right, well… I have to head home or the wife will crack me over the head with a hot baking pan. If I'm late one more time this week, she'll start to suspect something. Wily old woman."
The younger man really didn't want to know, so he said goodbye and hung up. Working with less than ethical men was wearing on him. But compromising like this, taking investments from men like that, meant he could do more good with Bartowski Electric's platform, their power, riches, and influence.
And as long as Sam Christenssen and his ilk let him do that while pumping money towards him, then…good. He'd be the conduit of good deeds. They simply didn't know exactly which good deeds they'd be doing. It'd work out.
He climbed up from his office desk and grabbed the sleeves of his shirt, unrolling them, deciding not to bother buttoning them as he shrugged his suit jacket on. He pressed the button to his buzzer. "Miguel? Still here?"
"I am, jefe," came his assistant's voice.
"Damn it, man, go home."
Miguel chuckled. "I'm trying to make heads and tails of this mess you handed me this morning. You need to stop taking meetings without going through me. You know you double-booked yourself three times in one month? You have a meeting with the mayor and the foster center on the same day, at the same time. I need to call the foster center and—"
"Move the mayor. They're doing an awards ceremony at the foster center. I can't move it. I gotta see them get their awards."
Miguel clicked his tongue. "Boss, you're crazy. But I admire the loco. I'll try the mayor's office to see if they can reschedule."
"Thanks, but do it tomorrow. Go home. It's late."
"Jefeeeeeee," his assistant whined. "So much work to do."
"It can be done tomorrow. I'll help you. We'll work on it together."
"Pffft. Around everything else you're doing tomorrow, eh? You know how many meetings you have?"
"Is it a lot?"
"Sí. It's a lot."
"Shit." Miguel barked out a laugh. "We'll move some of 'em."
"So you can help me fix your schedule?"
"Sure!" He shrugged as if his assistant could see him.
"Loco. I'm telling you."
Chuckling, the CEO grabbed his briefcase, shoving papers into it. "Go home, Mr. Zavala. If you don't, I'll dock your pay."
"Oh, sure. Sure you will."
"Where did I go wrong that you talk like that to me?" he teased.
"Oye! I'm going home, I'm going home."
Chuck laughed, grabbing his coat and hat on the way out to see Miguel shrugging on his own coat, grabbing his hat as well. "Listen, I hate to be pushy, but are Ruby, her tías, and abuela making tamales again anytime soon? I know it's hard work, I know. I'm not greedy, I promise. I just… I dream about them."
"I'll tell Ruby," Miguel laughed. "But she'll shake her finger at you for it."
"Don't tell her then! I don't want a Ruby Zavala finger-shake directed at me. I'll feel it even if I'm not there to see it."
"Sí, you will."
They walked out together. "Boss?"
"Yeah, Miguel? If it's about a pay raise, fine, twist my arm, you got it."
"No, no," his assistant chuckled, stepping into the elevator beside him and pressing the button to take them down to the lobby floor. "You just seem…No sé, a little… How you say it in English?"
"Say it in Spanish."
"Mi madre would say, erm… indispuesto? Sí. That. Under the weather."
"Oh. I'm fine. Just got a check-up, in fact. Fit as a fiddle. Maybe need to get a bit more exercise, but nobody normal can be Devon Woodcomb."
Miguel snorted. "Claro. But I meant… Well, mamá, she used it not like…not like your body, you know? Not under the weather like you are sick." He did a few fake little coughs. "Not like this. More like…sick in the heart. You've seemed indispuesto in the heart. A heavy…alma." Chuck raised an eyebrow. "Your soul. It's heavy. I've been wanting to bring it up and ask but…don't want to overstep. You're a good boss. You treat me good, Señor B. And I care."
Chuck reached up to scratch the back of his head, his chest filling with warmth, and he turned to smile at his assistant. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."
"You're better to me than most of my amigos, Jefe. You look out for me, I look out for you. Ojo por ojo." He nudged Chuck's arm. "My firstborn son is only a few years younger than you, Jefe. I have a hard time not seeing the similarities. If I'm not being too…uh, atrevito."
"Atrevito?"
Miguel pursed his lips in thought. "Insolent, forward…?"
Smiling, he nodded. "I appreciate that, Miguel. No estás, erm, atrevido, Señor. You're my amigo too." He clapped him on the shoulder. And frankly, over the last two years since he was able to afford an assistant and hired Miguel on the spot when he came to apply, Miguel had become more of a father to him than his actual father had been, especially those last six or so years before he finally left for good. How good, he supposed he'd never know, no matter what the police had told him and Ellie. "I'm fine, though. Maybe not getting enough sleep."
"Pues. You never get enough sleep." Chuck sent him a disgruntled look and he snorted, holding up his hands. "Am I wrong?"
"No," Chuck admitted begrudgingly. "Listen, I'm—It's just that I…" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Okay, fine. Truth?"
"I can handle the truth."
The elevator doors opened and they stepped off, walking shoulder to shoulder. As shoulder to shoulder as they could walk, at least, Miguel Zavala was almost a foot shorter than the younger man.
"I met someone."
"Noooooo." He slapped him on the back, making Chuck stagger a little. There was that past of Miguel's of being a prize boxer coming back into play. Ouch. "Una muchacha! Good for you, Jefe! Bonita? She pretty?"
"Oh ho. Is she pretty…" He whistled low and earned a snicker from his assistant. "Nobody more beautiful in the world. And I've seen pretty girls before."
"Oye, I know. I seen them too. Very long legs, always heading in your direction." He whistled back.
Chuck made a face. "Miguel Zavala, you are a married man with children and everything."
"What! I'm not saying I want them for me! Don't talk like that so loud, you'll get Ruby showing up out of the shadows and she'll murder me. And I wouldn't deserve it, amigo, I'm very faithful to my wife. I love her."
"I know, I know," Chuck said with a laugh. "I'm teasing."
"You better be. Dios mio. Eh, but you met someone. That's no reason for you to be indispuest—Oooohhh." It must've dawned on him then as they waved to security and walked out of the front door of B.E.'s downtown LA headquarters. "Boss, it went south, didn't it? Is she crazy?"
Chuck laughed again, even though his heart ached. "No, she's actually very level-headed. And brilliant and talented. And a lot of other things. But we agreed not to…get in each other's way. It just wouldn't have worked, Miguel. She's got this jet-setting adventurous lifestyle, and I'm a workaholic."
"So take a vacation! Hijoooo, you make me crazy." Miguel took him by the shoulders and gave him a little shake as they walked to their parking lot next to the building. "Carlito," he said, the nickname he gave him when they were having heart to hearts like this. "Step away from the work all the time. Take this woman in your arms. Who cares about any of the rest of it? If you love her, you move the earth to be with her, man."
"Whoa whoa whoa." Chuck held up his hands and chuckled, blushing. "Who said the word 'love'? I know I didn't. It was this really beautiful, very…ahem, well…we had a good time together. I didn't say anything about loving anybody."
"Mm. Okay, sure. Not with your mouth you didn't."
"Hey. Speaking of bocas, shut yours."
That made Miguel laugh. "Boss, I'm serious. You find the perfect woman, you decide she'll get in your way, and you walk away from her? Loco! I'm telling you!"
"Hey, it wasn't just me. We agreed, both of us. She has a career too. I'd get in her way more than she'd get in mine, but I understand where she's coming from and…anyway, that was a couple months ago now. Not even worth dwelling over."
"Ey?! How many months is a couple?" They stopped next to Miguel's sky blue Buick.
"Three. Or so."
Miguel clapped his hands to his face and groaned, dragging them down, distorting his handsome features a bit as he leaned back against his door. "Carlito, noooo. You're still this sad where I notice it all this time three months later? And you think you did the right thing? I've had las aventuras amorosa, before Ruby of course. When it was just a…what do you call them in English? Love affairs…"
"A fling?"
"Sí. These flings, they take me a few days, a week or maybe two, and pfft." He swiped his hand through the air. "Done. No more bad feelings. She's gone. Out of my head. If you're still thinking about her and inconsolable," he pronounced in Spanish, "three months later? Pues. Find her. Tell her you were wrong. Make love to her. Take her to meet my family and have her eat Ruby's chili con carne with homemade tortillas. She will be yours forever." He shook his hand in the air next to his face and chuckled, smirking.
Chuck laughed. "I can't do that. I don't know how to find her. She's…all over the world. Right now, as we speak, she's probably in some far off country being an adventuress." Quelling a revolution with her camera, no doubt.
"Eh, you're right. You'd slow her down, muchacho."
Chuck gave his assistant a glare, chuckling and shaking his head. "You're joking but you aren't wrong."
"Nooo, nooo. Change is good, Jefe. It's good. You are stuck on your routine, work work work all the time. Nothing else but work. If you go anywhere it's because you have a meeting. Work. More work. You want to be with an adventure woman, learn to adventure. I found Ruby, she was like lightning. Me? I'm a simple man. Boring. I wanted to sit on the beach outside Acapulco. She wanted to go dancing, and more dancing, and stay out 'til the sun came up. Dios mio, she made me tired. Know what I did?"
"What'd you do?"
"I learned to dance. I trained myself to go to sleep later. I stayed awake 'til the sun came up. Wasn't hard when I was with that woman all night." He whistled, making Chuck laugh.
"I get what you're saying, but running this company requires me to work this hard and not take vacations. I don't have time to go on adventures."
"Ey, you think what I was doing wasn't important? Winning prize fights and going to tech school at night?" Chuck widened his eyes, trying to backtrack, but Miguel just laughed it off. "I'm pulling your leg, Jefe. I didn't make color TVs. Anyway, if it's the right woman, just being in the same room as her is an adventure." He slapped Chuck's arm then. "But I'm old now, so I want to go home and go to sleep. Not up 'til sunrise anymore."
Chuck laughed. "That's fair. Thank you, amigo. I appreciate your advice."
"I'm an old man. I've lived a lot more life than you. I'm full of advice."
"Old. Right. Sure you are." Snorting, he walked past Miguel's car and made his way to his own. "Goodnight. See ya in the morning?"
"Boss! It's Friday! I was joking earlier about the meetings tomorrow!"
Chuck stopped, blinked, and laughed, throwing his arms up. "Welp! See you Monday!"
"Ay yay yay pobrecito."
Climbing into his car, he drove out of the parking lot and made his way home. But his mind wasn't clear as he drove. He was distracted, not by Miguel's advice, really. But by his own memories. Memories that had stayed at the forefront of his mind for the last three months now. He thought they'd fade at least a little, but they hadn't. They were still as fresh as they'd been the next morning when he woke up alone, after going to sleep alone. Wondering if he'd made a huge mistake, if he should find her room and show up at her door, beg her to reconsider the whole plan. Why shouldn't they at least try? Because what if they didn't get in each other's way?
He'd decided not to.
He wanted Sarah Walker to have her last memory of him to be their farewell at his door. Not an awkward, desperate begging man debasing them both, going back on hours' worth of discussion and decision making.
But that luminous vision of her sitting up next to him in bed, the sheets trapped under her arms modestly, her blond hair spilling over her shoulders in shining waves, laughter in her face as she shook her broken camera and widened her eyes at the rattling sound that came from inside of it…it was still so vivid in his mind's eye. He was glad. He wanted it to stay vivid forever, even if it did hurt to know he'd likely never see her again. Except in the magazines.
He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd looked for more photographs she'd taken. He'd searched through magazines on the stands at the side of the LA sidewalks. He hadn't found anything she'd done as of yet, and he wondered if she'd taken a break from it perhaps. Or he simply had no way of knowing which magazine her work would end up in, or how to find it, and had therefore missed her being published.
Miguel was right about one thing, though.
The fact that Chuck was still melancholy about a woman he'd only known for twenty four hours—three months ago—probably wasn't good. He hadn't known he'd get so stuck on her. He thought after a little while, he'd grow to live with the decision they'd made, move on even if he did remember her fondly.
He hadn't moved on. And the decision felt a little less like the right thing now. It felt rash now that he thought back, the way they'd both decided they'd get in one another's way, that their lives weren't compatible, their lifestyles weren't compatible.
His money. Her volatile schedule, how it sent her traveling all over the place. His reputation, but mostly hers since that would be the one getting the most attention and scorn if they stepped wrong.
There was nothing he could do about it now, but even in its futility…he thought about her so much and so often that it might be a tad bit unhealthy. Ellie had even ushered him onto a double date with her and Devon, inviting an anesthesiologist friend of hers to be his date. It hadn't worked out. He'd gotten a call in the middle of dinner and he'd taken it. And then he'd gotten a second and third call, about the same thing. And when Ellie tried to help him out, insisting it was an emergency, he'd cluelessly insisted it wasn't an emergency at all, but gosh, you just had to stay ahead of these things otherwise you'd lose your footing.
Suffice to say, he'd gotten a kiss at the end of the night, but no phone calls thereafter. And Ellie had brushed off his apology as if it was fine, but he knew his sister and she'd been peeved underneath it all. She was trying for him, and he wasn't trying back.
He hadn't told her about Sarah.
He'd only told Miguel now.
Maybe it was the fact that Ellie Bartowski had a habit of telling him the truth, no matter how frustrating or brutal it might be. And he knew he'd get a less gentle version of what Miguel had given him tonight in the B.E. headquarters parking lot.
What?! She was that great and you threw her away for some potential problem she might pose maybe in the future?!
Or something like: How is any of this 'for the best' when you're still this depressed three months later, Chuck? THINK ABOUT IT.
But he wasn't depressed. He was still functioning perfectly well, doing what needed to be done to run the company. And things were on the up and up. Bartowski Electric was doing really well, better every week. He wasn't depressed at all.
Well, all right, he was a little depressed.
And his sister would see right through him, especially if they were having a conversation about Sarah Walker.
He wondered if Ellie knew who Sarah Walker was. She always had her eye on the arts, on fashion, the latest trends, news stories. Would she know an up and coming artist, a photojournalist who was starting to make waves?
Chuck took a detour to peek at his flagship Bartowski Electronics department store that would be three years old next week. They were having a three year anniversary sale starting Wednesday. As it was now, nearing midnight, the storefront was dark, the sign turned, the rows of televisions, record players, and accessories cloaked in shadow inside. The parking lot beside it was empty save for one dark car. He didn't pay the one car any mind, and he kept driving, not stopping until he arrived at his condo, pulling into a parking spot, ready for a bath and his bed.
And hopefully peace from the plaguing thoughts of the blond photojournalist, the precision of the look she gave him from behind her camera, which was different from the precision of the look she gave him in the throes of passion.
Dear God…
He would be thinking about her all night. And again in the morning when he woke up.
It would be his curse.
}o{
It had taken a few days for one of Salvatore Banks's pals to show up in her P.O. Box. And it was perfect timing, too, as her car needed a tune up and she needed money to get it done.
They needed her to case a department store for them.
All they'd given was an address. When she met them last night, Larry Eberle and his bandits surveyed the "young man" in glasses critically at first, but because of Banks's recommendation, they paid him half of his fee up front, letting him go to work.
Nobody had told Sarah what this place they'd be hitting was, who ran it, or why they were targeting it. None of that mattered to her. She just wanted to do the job, get the money, and get the hell out of there.
What they did with her recon photographs was up to them.
She'd have enough to get her car tuned up… and now she was walking down the street in the broad daylight, for all intents and purposes looking like a handsome young man in his early twenties strolling along with a camera bag hanging from his shoulder, a briefcase in his other hand.
Her intention was to go into the department store to buy something, walk around the place, look for security guards, or any other security measures they might have in place. What sort of an alarm system did they have? She needed to take pictures, too, but she didn't think it was safe to do it in the middle of the day.
Some shop worker would spot her and that would seem pretty damned suspicious.
So today she would just use her eyes.
And use her eyes she did.
That was how she first saw the large blocky letters over the entrance of the address she'd been given by Eberle the other night. Right over the doors of the department store.
Sarah Walker halted, her heart shooting into her throat. She stared at the sign, the way the sun shone off it, and she was assailed by memories. The sound of his laughter, her name in her ear as she touched him, the weight of him against her, the mattress beneath her, silken sheets running along her skin…
She expelled a rough breath, putting a hand to her heart.
No.
God, there went this job.
As she neared the entrance, she looked up at that name that was mounted over the door.
BARTOWSKI ELECTRIC, EST. 1950
She wasn't taking the job. She'd return that up-front fee they'd paid her and she'd run in the other direction. Because she wasn't helping these men hurt this man, someone she'd not only met and gotten to know at least somewhat. They'd… No. Not him. Not his company. This must by the B.E. flagship. They were hitting the flagship?
God.
They were nuts.
They were probably intending to sell the TVs they stole on the black market. It would bring them a pretty penny. She knew how much her color TV had cost her and it had been a sizable chunk out of her nearly nonexistent savings. She'd had to have it, though. One thousand dollars' worth of had to have it. Sure, it was more than her car had been. Sure, only certain programs had actually been broadcast in color so far.
She still felt like such a fool for it. But it was her way of staying close to him maybe. A thank you for those twenty-four hours of her life she'd never forget. A thank you he wouldn't hear.
She sure as hell wasn't going to be thanking him by helping a bunch of bandits ransack his flagship store. She'd avoided harming him by walking away that night in Paris after they came to their decision not to pursue a relationship. And now she would do it again, though in a much more tangible way.
Something bumped into her left shoulder and a grumpy, well-dressed middle aged man turned with an offended, "Excuse me, young man!" over his shoulder, huffily stomping off as Sarah glared after him.
"Rich bastard," she grumbled.
And then she turned her gaze back to the store.
Charles Bartowski was rich, too.
This was only one of what was probably two hundred or more stores across the U.S. now that bore his name. And with the way the prices of his TV sets were dropping, more and more households were finding the means to put them in their family rooms. More and more production companies were figuring out how to film and broadcast in color.
She didn't know how Chuck was justifying it, lowering his prices while other companies were inflating theirs, but he was doing it anyway. She'd read an article about it in the Wall Street Journal just the other day. He had the big economic heads scratching said heads over it.
Charles Bartowski was rich, but he wasn't a bastard.
He was a good man.
And whether or not he could afford to take a hit to his flagship store, she wasn't going to be a part of it.
He might personally be able to afford it, but his employees might not.
She pushed her way into the store, avoiding eye contact with the door man, pretending she didn't hear the greeting.
Sarah bought her television from the Montgomery Ward department store a few blocks away from her apartment because she'd seen it in the window. Missing Chuck something fierce had sent her through those doors, and she'd thrown her last paycheck at the endeavor.
She'd never stepped foot in a Bartowski Electric storefront before that moment as she wandered around it in awe. Televisions were mounted on shelves, switched on to a baseball game, some had news programs, others had musical variety programs. The movement on each of the screens was almost overwhelming taken altogether like this.
Unlike the retail side jobs she'd worked throughout her teen years and in her early twenties to get by, the people who bustled around the place hanging up signs and speaking to customers looked…fulfilled. Like they were enjoying what they were doing. They seemed…happy.
She didn't case the joint like she was supposed to. She had no intention of following through with that. All she had to do was figure out her next course of action. She only knew what she wasn't doing.
But that didn't mean she wasn't incredibly curious about this place, about the atmosphere, the workers… all of it. Because everything that happened here had manifested from Charles Bartowski's mind. It was a reflection of him, as the company's CEO and founder.
The line weaving through the stanchions at the cash register told her that whatever he passed down through the ranks of his company, it was making it into his storefronts, and it was successful.
"Hello, sir. Welcome to Bartowski Electric. Anything I can help you find?"
She spun on her heel, nearly forgetting the disguise she wore she was so surprised by the way the young man snuck up on her.
Typical salesman, wasn't it? They moved like damn jungle cats.
He waited patiently, his hands folded behind his back, a friendly and sincere look on his face. She took in his dark, carefully parted hair and his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Apparently Chuck didn't mind sales clerks who weren't cleanly shaven the way retail jobs she'd worked in the past had. An old boyfriend of hers had been fired from the sales floor because he'd refused to shave.
"Erm, is-is something wrong, Sir? If there's anything I can help with, I'm the district manager. If anyone can help, it's me." His smile was a bit more tentative now.
Sarah cleared her throat, deepening her voice a bit. "No, no. Everything is peachy. See, I-I didn't hear you approaching. Startled me."
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I'm taking dancing lessons and I suppose it's made me lighter on my feet," he joked.
Sarah bit her cheek to keep from laughing as he did a bit of a two-step, one hand pressed to his lower belly, the other reaching out with a clipboard grasped between his fingers.
"It's quite all right. I think I'd like to just look around the place, see if I like anything."
"Oh feel free! Any questions, just ask for Morgan." He poked himself in the chest with his thumb. "That's me."
"I will. Thank you—Wait, you know what?" she asked on second thought before he could hurry off to help someone else. He raised his eyebrows and came back, folding his hands again. "I do have a question. I hope you don't mind me asking."
"Nothing's out of bounds, Sir. Ask away." The district manager grinned.
Nothing? Really?
Raising her eyebrows, Sarah adjusted the strap of her camera bag. "How do you like working for this company?" The shorter man furrowed his brow, obviously not expecting that question. Sarah searched for a way to refine her question to make it seem less out of left field. "See, I'm on the search for a job. And I know you'll say what you have to say as a representative of Bartowski Electric, but just…you know, man to man… Is this a good company to work for?"
There was a flash of amusement in the district manager's face then as he leaned in and lowered his voice. "Man to man, there's nowhere better. And I've worked a few odd jobs in my day. Starting wages are one-seventy-five." Sarah jolted a bit and he laughed. "Yes, just to give you an idea. And there's room to move up the ladder. Benefits include healthcare, dental care. Family leave if your missus is expecting. You get paid vacation. And paid sick days."
"E-even sales clerks? These fellas and-and ladies out here selling TV sets? They get all that too?"
"They do." There was a certain pride in the way he answered, standing up straighter and lifting his chin, almost like it was a personal pride. "Cleaning crews and custodial staff get the same benefits as well. Anybody who works in the company, no matter at what level. That's not even counting commission."
"You seem…proud," she said slowly.
"I ought to be." The pride in his face increased tenfold, his beard twitching happily. "None of this would be here without my best pal in the whole world." She tilted her head in question. "My best friend is the Charles Bartowski, CEO and founder."
Oh.
Oh.
She had to get out of here. This was Chuck's best friend? This short bearded fellow? He'd made his best friend district manager of the greater Los Angeles area. Nepotism. But…then again, this guy seemed like a good manager. A good person. He was Chuck's best friend; there was no way he could be anything less than a good person.
Unless he was just boasting and he wasn't really Chuck's best friend.
But if he was, she needed to get away from him. Immediately.
This was much, much too close to the man himself.
"Oh! Wow! Wowie. That is…great. He seems like a great man." Where was the nearest exit?
"The best man ever to live." Maybe that was biased, but she couldn't disagree with Morgan. She smiled a little at him. "Look, fella. If you're looking for a job, you can't do better. Go up to the cash register and grab an application." He waved his hand through the air then, shaking his head. "Hold on, what am I doing? Come along with me, I'll get you one."
Sarah followed behind him, smirking at the way Morgan encouraged every employee he strolled past, thumping them on the shoulder, pointing and exclaiming, "Hey, great work, Dolly!" Or "Saw you sold our last Fifty-One, Roger! All right!" And then there was the "That's the spirit!" he tossed at the worker wiping down the glass windows.
He went behind the counter and emerged again with a piece of paper, handing it off. "There you are! And what's your name again?"
"R-Ricky."
"Ricky! Nice to meet ya, Ricky." He stuck his hand out and Sarah took it, squeezing it immediately. Morgan pulled his hand away and shook it. "Oof. Quite a grip! I like it! Hope to see you on the pile of applicants soon, Ricky."
"Thanks. Yeah. I'll…be back. Nice to meet you, sir."
Sarah made a beeline for the exit, starting to sweat now that the reality of this situation was landing square on her head.
She'd been hired to case out the flagship store of the Bartowski Electric company, Chuck's company, and she'd just met his best friend, stood in front of him, had been close enough to him that he'd been able to study her features. Sure, he thought she was a young man with glasses and bushy brown hair, but this was still a close shave. So to speak.
Though she also had seen just how Chuck ran this company, the way she'd almost been able to feel him in the store. His energy, his kindness, his hard work. In the genuine smiles of his workers, the laughter of the kids sales clerks spoke to, the candy machines in the corner, the electric toys in the window. And in Morgan, his best friend, LA area's district manager for the B.E. company.
What did she do now?
God, what did she do now?
Because just walking away from this job, while a given in this situation, wasn't going to be enough. She couldn't do this.
She couldn't walk away and know they'd hire someone else to case the store, or they'd do it themselves. She'd pick up a paper and see a headline like: BARTOWSKI ELECTRIC FLAGSHIP STORE IN DOWNTOWN LA RANSACKED. Police say thousands of dollars' worth of product stolen in a smash and grab in the middle of the night. Charles Bartowski, CEO of the company, said in a statement that the store will be closed until further notice for repairs.
How could she live with herself if she allowed this to happen to the people who worked there? It'd happen under Morgan's watch. He'd probably take responsibility, and the store manager there too. Ultimately though, Chuck would take it on his own shoulders.
She couldn't let this happen to him, or to his employees. To his friends.
But what could she do?
How did she stop this?
The ball was already rolling and it was picking up steam. And God, what little she'd seen of the place, casing it in spite of knowing she wasn't taking the job, the security was practically nonexistent save for locks on the door and a rudimentary alarm system. And the one guard at the door by the greeter.
Chuck was in trouble.
B.E. was in danger.
And she didn't know what to do about it.
A/N: Well shit am I right?
Thanks for reading! Please review!
-SC
