Dark Obsession (Crimson Hollow #9)

Chapter One

Myron waved a crumpled paper in front of Nick’s face, blocking his view of the TV. “What the hell, Nick? The electric bill’s doubled since last month.”

Nick shifted on the couch, Dorito dust clinging to his fingertips. “You mind? I can’t see around your skinny butt.”

“That’s the point.” Myron danced left and right as Nick tried to peer around him, the paper crinkling in his white-knuckled grip.

Nick sighed. Taking in a roommate had seemed like his only option after everything went sideways with Jamie.

Poor guy nearly got killed by his psycho ex, William, and now he was shacked up with his new boyfriend while Nick was stuck here with Mr. Budget Police.

At least Sloane had covered Jamie’s half until Nick found someone new. That support was gone now.

He sat up and tossed his half-eaten bag of chips onto the coffee table. “Fine. I’ll handle it.”

Myron dropped down next to him, patting Nick on his knee, a warm smile on his face.

His eyes were the color of warm chocolate, and his unruly blond hair was just long enough to touch his shoulders.

Myron was a very handsome man without even putting any effort into his looks.

Too bad he wasn’t Nick’s type. Although they would never make it as lovers, the guy was turning out to be a good friend.

“That’s what you said last month, hon. It’s time you got a job. My grocery store paycheck can’t float us both. We need your income too.”

Nick slumped deeper into the couch, wiggling his fingers until Myron surrendered the bill. He’d lost his job at the diner right around the time Jamie had been attacked, which had been four months ago. Jobs were scarce in Crimson Hollow, and landing that gig had been pure luck.

Then the episodes started hitting more frequently. Three days without calling in or showing up for work had sealed his fate.

Myron rose from the couch, his expression firm but not unkind. “Start looking today. Frothy Pine needs waiters since they expanded last year. Business is good there. The pay should be decent.”

Nick smiled at Myron’s attempt to be stern, but his stomach knotted at the thought of working at a bar. The smell of whiskey on Reggie’s breath. The sound of his stepmother crying after discovering lipstick on his collar again. The bruises Nick had learned to hide.

He could picture his stepdad dropping his wedding ring into his pocket before sliding his hand up some woman’s skirt.

But bills didn’t pay themselves.

“That face isn’t helping your job prospects,” Myron said, backing toward the kitchen. “You’ve got this. The world keeps spinning even when we think it’s stalled out.”

With the way his luck had been running lately, Nick wouldn’t be surprised if the job was already filled by the time he reached Frothy Pine.

Resigned to working at a bar, Nick took a quick shower, flipped off his reflection in the mirror—hello there, eye bags from hell—and headed out the door.

He was tempted to drive, but his jeans had recently staged a rebellion against his waistline.

Five pounds. Five. Freaking. Pounds. The betrayal of it all! His pants now required a little shimmy-dance to button.

His once-reliable hummingbird metabolism had apparently filed for divorce, leaving him and his skinny jeans in a bitter custody battle over his thighs.

He jogged down the steps of the apartment building and began to walk through Crimson Hollow, inhaling the fresh mountain air and pine from the surrounding forest.

He nodded at passing residents who flashed those small-town smiles that said “howdy, neighbor” without the awkward obligation of actual conversation. Crimson Hollow was the kind of place where people left homemade pies on windowsills and actually knew their mailman’s birthday.

A far cry from the neighborhood where he’d grown up, where the closest thing to community spirit was everyone pretending not to hear each other’s arguments through paper-thin walls.

This town practically oozed Norman Rockwell vibes, all picket fences and PTA meetings.

Nick snorted at the thought. His version of “raising a family” currently consisted of keeping his houseplant Gerald alive for three consecutive weeks. A personal record he celebrated with far too much enthusiasm.

And his most successful relationship was with the pizza delivery guy who no longer needed his address.

Rounding the corner, Nick spotted Frothy Pine with its brown awning dancing in the warm breeze.

Inside, a wall of sound hit him like a physical force. This wasn’t the quaint small-town pub he’d imagined. Bodies packed the tables while conversations fought to survive over what might’ve been Pearl Jam or Led Zeppelin. It was impossible to tell through the distortion.

The bar stretched along the left wall, a massive slab of oak bearing the battle scars of countless spilled drinks.

Behind it stood a mountain of a man with a lumberjack beard, tossing liquor bottles like it was second nature.

His smile flashed like a lighthouse beam as he sent another pint sliding perfectly into a waiting hand.

Nick approached the counter, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the liquor bottles lined up like soldiers. A familiar cramping sensation twisted his insides as the bartender worked his way closer.

Not now. Please. He pressed his palm against his abdomen, silently negotiating with his body to cooperate.

“What can I get you?” Mountain Man asked when he stopped in front of Nick.

“Actually, I’m here about a job.” Nick forced brightness into his voice, the kind he’d perfected over years of deflecting. “Heard you might be hiring?”

The bartender’s expression shifted, becoming more assessing. He set down the glass he’d been polishing and extended a hand across the bar. “Ash. Owner here.”

His grip was firm but not crushing when Nick shook it. Ash’s eyes were an unusual shade of gray-blue, the color of storm clouds rolling in across the mountains. Something about them felt steady. Grounded.

“Nick,” he managed, pulling his hand back. His palm had gone clammy.

“You got restaurant experience?” Ash asked, already moving to grab a rag and wipe down the already-clean bar.

“Diner for two years. Breakfast, lunch, dinner rushes. I can handle the chaos.” Nick gestured vaguely at the packed tables.

A cluster of bikers in leather occupied a corner booth, their jackets creaking as they leaned back with beers sweating on the table in front of them.

One of them laughed—a bark of genuine amusement that cut through the ambient noise.

Regular customers occupied the scattered high-tops, nursing beers and appetizers that smelled like garlic and fried things. The air itself seemed thick with it—grease and hops and something wild underneath, like pine needles crushed underfoot.

His nose twitched at the combination.

“Why’d you leave the diner?” Ash didn’t look up from his wiping, but the question carried genuine curiosity rather than suspicion.

Nick’s chest tightened. The episodes. The three-day blackouts where his body just decided to check out and leave his brain behind. The way his hands had started shaking during his last shift at the diner, forcing him to set down an entire tray of eggs Benedict.

“Personal reasons,” Nick said, keeping his tone light. “I’m reliable. Well, mostly reliable. Okay, I can be reliable if given the opportunity to prove it.”

Smooth. Real smooth. He was definitely nailing this interview.

Ash’s mouth curved upward, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “That’s the most honest job pitch I’ve heard all month. Most people lie and claim they’ve never called in sick.”

“I prefer to set expectations low,” Nick said. “That way everything else is a pleasant surprise.”

“Philosophy and honesty. I like it.” Ash gestured toward the back. “Come on. Let’s talk in my office.”

He gestured for Nick to follow, moving around the bar with the ease of someone who’d walked this path a thousand times. They passed through the kitchen—a blast of heat and the sizzle of something on the grill—and down a narrow hallway.

The office was exactly what Nick needed and didn’t expect.

Soft cream walls absorbed the bass thump from the bar, reducing it to a distant heartbeat.

Three potted ferns crowded the windowsill, their fronds stretching toward venetian blinds that filtered the afternoon light into gentle stripes.

A jade plant with coin-shaped leaves occupied the corner of a polished oak desk, its surface neat except for the plant and a manila folder.

A pocket of calm. An actual sanctuary inside a bar.

“Sit,” Ash said, settling into the leather chair behind the desk. He pulled the manila folder closer. “I need someone three nights a week minimum. Weekends preferred. Pay’s twelve an hour plus tips, which tend to be generous. We get a good crowd here.”

Nick sank into the chair across from him, his palms still damp. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Ash slid the folder across the desk. “Fill these out. Standard stuff. Tax forms, availability, emergency contact. Nothing invasive.”

The paperwork trembled slightly as Nick took it. A pen appeared, offered silently. He uncapped it and started writing, each letter a small act of concentration.

His name. His address. His phone number.

By the time he reached the emergency contact section, nausea was creeping up his throat. The room tilted slightly, the ferns blurring at the edges of his vision. Nick set the pen down carefully, pressed his palm flat against his stomach.

Breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

The office tilted again. Sweat pricked his hairline despite the cool temperature.

“You okay?” Ash’s voice came from very far away.

“Fine,” Nick lied, gripping the edge of the desk. “Just skipped breakfast.”