Honey Bear (Crimson Hollow #10)

Chapter One

Danny leaned on his register, watching a middle-aged guy in a uniform shirt walk past the window. “I should commit a petty crime just to feel Officer Biceps pat me down.”

The steady beep-beep-beep of his scanner punctuated the ancient power ballad crackling from overhead speakers. Two lanes down, Isaac was bagging what looked like a doomsday prepper’s soup collection for a woman with frizzy gray hair.

“County lockup isn’t a dating app.” Isaac stacked the cans with surgical precision around a carton of eggs. “Your cellmate will be some guy named Skull with prison tats and halitosis.”

“Thanks for killing the fantasy.” Danny rolled his eyes. “God forbid I escape this fluorescent purgatory for five seconds.”

Four soup cans broke free and rolled toward the edge of the belt. Isaac’s hand shot out, snatching each one mid-tumble without even looking down. “Just so we’re clear, I’m only posting bail with fantasy money. And don’t even think of asking if Skull can move in.”

“He only knocked over that liquor store to buy cat food for his five kittens. Cut Skull some slack.” Danny swiped a box of tampons and a candy bar for the next lady in line. “Credit or debit?”

“Credit.” Mrs. Blevins, with her Elvis-blue hair, rooted inside her creaky bamboo purse like she was hunting for truffles.

He passed Mrs. Blevins her receipt, watching her slow exit as her cart zigzagged with each revolution of its defective wheel.

Mid-morning light filtered through the front windows, sunrays highlighting clusters of dust drifting between the breakfast aisle and the organic cookie display offering fifty cents back with a mail-in coupon.

Pointing a lazy finger upward, Danny nailed the predictable timing of the produce misters kicking on with a serpentine hiss, releasing that petrichor scent his brain had filtered out sometime around his third month on register.

He nailed the timing of the deli counter lights flickering on then flicked his finger seconds before Hatai walked from the back to start her day making sushi.

The predicably was mind-numbing in a way that felt lobotomizing.

Danny aimed the scanner at his temple and pulled the trigger with an explosion noise, frowning when the beep sounded a little too cheerful.

“Become sentient and find out just how fast I can run,” he warned the device just as the automatic doors slid open with a whoosh.

Danny blinked once, then twice, and possibly a few hundred more times, his fingers cramping from the stranglehold on his bloodthirsty scanner.

In walked a fantasy who moved like he owned gravity itself. Six-foot-something wall of muscles, broad shoulders filling out a flannel shirt like he’d been poured into it. Dark hair, a full beard that would tickle bare skin, and arms that suggested he wrestled bears and split firewood for fun.

Danny’s brain glitched somewhere between pat me down and don’t be weird.

Then it completely malfunctioned. Stop eye-banging him!

Mountain Man grabbed a cart and headed toward produce, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just ruined Danny’s entire morning by existing.

Nope. No. Absolutely not.

He forced his gaze away, then fumbled with the receipt tape that didn’t need changing.

His pulse was running a marathon, until the scars on his back ached with phantom pain.

A harsh reminder that gorgeousness wasn’t synonymous with safety.

Brad had taught Danny that lesson for almost two years, with receipts as scars.

Mrs. Curt’s liver-spotted hand touched his wrist. “Everything okay there, sweetie?”

Danny blinked back to the present. “Yeah, just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. For the past year he’d survived on only a few hours of sleep each night, jolted awake by nightmares that left him shaken and exhausted. What he wouldn’t give for just one night of uninterrupted sleep.

He scanned her cat food and fiber supplements, double-bagging the two-liter of diet ginger ale she bought every Tuesday. Then he handed over her receipt. “Have a nice day, Mrs. C. Give Fluffernutter a scratch for me.”

She patted his arm, unfazed by the smudged kohl around his eyes or the obsidian lacquer currently covering his nails. Once she’d even suggested he try maroon eyeliner, insisting the color would make the blue in his eyes “pop.” Maybe one day. At least she was kind about it.

Unlike those who’d steer their carts toward another lane, like goth was some transmittable disease they were terrified of catching.

Yet they had no issue with the hatred infecting them.

Whatever. Their loss. The blue-haired brigade were better customers anyway.

They always had the best gossip about the pharmacist’s blatant affairs or the ongoing feud between the barber and baker.

Danny smirked at how it sounded like the title of a children’s book.

After she shuffled away, his gaze slid back toward produce. Mountain Man stood there squeezing a melon in each firm hand, committing agricultural crimes in broad daylight.

Danny nearly passed out.

Stop watching!

But his thirsty eyes were fully locked on and refused to abort.

Which was why it caught him off guard when he heard Mr. Pike’s voice right behind him.

The manager materialized from whatever circle of retail hell had spawned him, bald head gleaming under the fluorescents like an angry cue ball.

He had a face like a disappointed potato and the personality to match.

His usual cluster of pens were shoved into his collar like he was on the verge of a midlife crisis.

Isaac immediately turned his attention toward them, crossing his arms, waiting to hear what meltdown Mr. Pike was going to have this time.

“Daniel.” The corporate tone struck like a parent using your full name, and suddenly half the store was staring at him like they were rubbernecking a car crash. “We need to talk.”

A phrase capable of sending cold dread down anyone’s spine. “We do?”

“This is a workplace, not a punk rock show.” His gaze dragged over Danny in open disdain. “Company policy, Daniel. You represent the store, and we expect professionalism. Not…this.” He gestured at Danny’s hands, as if the black nails might sprout bat wings and start attacking people.

The prick was having a bad day and decided his anger needed a victim. Normally Danny’s aesthetics weren’t an issue, but today, the color of nails was a company embarrassment.

A woman with a toddler in her cart was outright staring at him like he had a moral failing. The old guy by the bread display backing her up like it was jury duty. Heat crept along Danny’s face, scorching the tips of his ears.

The spotlight had always made him uneasy. He’d never liked becoming a focal point, especially if humiliation was involved. So much for company professionalism. Mr. Pike wouldn’t know what integrity was even if it slapped him on his bald head.

“Got it, sir.” Danny shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw clenching.

“You’ll adhere to policy before your next shift, or we’ll have a conversation about your future employment here.” Mr. Pike marched off, already eyeing another employee who was texting behind the customer service counter then disappeared around the corner leading to his office.

Snatching a pack of disinfectant wipes stashed beneath his register, Danny scrubbed at his nails like the paint was a stain on his worth, but the polish gleamed defiantly against the chemical assault.

For a moment he just stared at his fingers, chest tight with anger.

How could something as harmless as nail polish matter so much to people like Mr. Pike and Brad and everyone else who’d ever tried making him invisible.

He wiped his hands on a paper towel then threw everything into the trash tucked under the conveyor belt.

Isaac appeared at his side, staring after Mr. Pike with contempt. “You want me to grab a shovel from the home goods aisle?” His gaze swung to Danny. “We just need to come up with an airtight alibi. We could pin it on the pharmacist. Call it a gift to his wife.”

There were times when Danny wasn’t sure if Isaac was joking or serious. He was loud, feisty, and loyal to a fault. But something dark peeked out from behind those amethyst eyes every now and again.

This was one of those times.

“I’m taking my break.” Translation, I’m going to go scream into a walk-in freezer before I start constructing an alibi.

“Go catch your breath.” Isaac rubbed Danny’s back in a slow, circular motion. “Take as much time as you need.”

What Danny needed was for everyone to stop staring at him like he was some kind of circus freak.

Turning on his heel, he headed toward the back, past the dairy coolers and their constant hum, past the smell of cardboard and overripe bananas from the stockroom.

His eyes stung with tears, and a burning lump formed in his throat.

You will not cry in the fucking dairy aisle. You better hold it in until—

“Hey.”

Danny came to a hard stop, like someone had yanked an emergency brake inside him.

Oh no.

Mountain Man stood two feet away, and up close, he was somehow worse. Better. Worse. Eyes the color of whiskey in lamplight. And he smelled… God, he smelled like woodsmoke and pine and something darker, earthier, like sin had a cologne line and this lumberjack was the spokesman.

Get a grip.

“Sorry to bother you.” The deep timbre in his voice held Danny’s attention hostage. “But I’ve been wandering around for ten minutes trying to find the steak that’s on sale. The signs in this place are basically useless.”

Say words. Any words. You work here. This is literally your job.

“I—it’s—the meat section is—” Danny gestured in every direction like his hand was possessed. Smooth. Real smooth. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “There’s a cooler display at the end of aisle seven. Just past the cases of soda stacked like drunk toddlers works here.”