2. Kylee
two
Kylee
Iknow I've prayed to the gods up above for my little bookstore to bring in some excitement, but the last thing I ever thought would happen would be watching a random man soak the carpets inside with his blood. How can a person bleed this much?
The poor chair he's sitting in won't survive past today. No matter how much I try to clean it up, the shade of crimson will stain the wood. I'm going to have to pitch it, just the same with everything that is dirtied with this man's blood.
I'm so focused on the color red that I barely hear the pounding fist against the shop's door when it comes.
Rather, it takes the glass rattling a second time before I snap out of my trance. Hoping whoever is on the other side of the door is the one this guy warned me about, I get blood on the door when I open it, too.
The man on the other side looks pissed. He's got the promised scar across his nose, stretched close to his eye. He looks me up and down swiftly as if he's assessing a threat. His eyes linger on the red on the front of my shirt.
"Where is he?" As he demands an answer, it's hard not to jump at the bark behind his voice.
I'm already trembling as it is, so it's not like he makes it any worse. Turning on my heel, I lead him into my shop, barely noticing the guy isn't alone. He's brought someone bigger with him whose body brushes the doorway as he makes his way inside, shutting the door behind him.
Reaching the unconscious body slumped over the chair, I feel useless as the scarred guy sinks to his knees, easily yanking at clothes to see the wound that is the cause behind the stains.
I try to look away from the wound flaring on pale skin, and my gaze lands on his face instead. Unsure of his name, the only thing I can guess is Casper, according to the patch on his jacket.
The sight of him catches in my throat, momentarily overriding the panic.
I’ve never seen anyone like him. He has this striking, almost otherworldly look—hair the shade of snow, and eyes a shade of pale, icy blue I didn't know existed, fringed by thick white lashes.
Even when closed, I can't forget about the look of those eyes.
My bookstore is a crime scene, a man is actively bleeding out, and here I am, entirely breathless because he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"You kept pressure on the wound?" Scarred guy—Dante—looks up at me with furrowed brows. When I hesitantly nod, he sighs. "Thank you."
Not expecting the appreciation, I'm wordless as I nod.
I watch as Dante grabs Casper and lugs him up, making him groan and barely stand. Unsure whether to offer my help, I stir with discomfort. I don't know if there's anything I can do to make this situation any better. This whole thing feels like the definition of a worst-case scenario.
Letting my gaze fall to the ground, I stare hard at the red stain on the carpet beneath the chair. How am I even going to get this out?
A body suddenly appears in front of my eyeline in the midst of my trance.
Lifting my gaze, I realize it's the other biker who appeared with Dante.
He's huge, like a brick wall, bigger than the man with the President patch.
From the patch on his jacket, I can see they named him rather well. Tank is a very fitting.
Lips parting, there's a long list of questions I have before he pulls out his wallet. My mind immediately goes to him giving me hush money to forget all about what just happened. Instead, he pulls out a small card and offers it up.
Dumbfounded, I accept it. Looking it over, I see a cleaning company with a number listed. A cleaning company. On the other side, the name Thanatos is handwritten. While I'm staring at it, one of his thick fingers taps it.
With one step back, I realize he's planning on leaving me. Without thinking, I grab his arm to stop him.
"What about that guy? He's not going to die, is he?"
Tank stares down at my hand on his jacket. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even make a sound; he just pulls my fingers away as if peeling off a piece of stray tape. The silence stretching between us is agonizing. I wait for an explanation, a threat, a reassurance—anything.
He doesn't utter a single syllable. Just a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.
As reassuring as that is, I need to know more.
"Please, you have to give me something here." I don't know why I need to know, but after what I'd just witnessed, can I be blamed? No one wants to see a person die. "Can you at least tell me—"
"Tank." From the front of my shop, Dante calls out to him, interrupting me.
His shirt is beginning to look like mine the longer he has Casper on him.
"Let's go before we draw any more attention.
" He looks at me, and his scowl only grows.
"Keep the shop closed until this mess is cleaned up.
If anyone asks questions, you don't know anything. Got it?"
Feeling like there's only one way to answer that demand, I nod. "Got it."
Just like that, everyone in my store is gone, leaving me with no explanation whatsoever. Just a card with a guy's name on it and a crime scene at my feet. The evidence is all over.
I stare dumbfounded at the door until everything finally hits me all at once.
"What the actual fuck."
It only takes two days of having the shop closed before business is running smoothly again.
Thanatos, a surprisingly charming guy around my age, had appeared with a team who came off far too experienced for their own good. They had made the stain disappear completely, but in my head, the damage was already done.
He had left me his personal number with a smile and a wink in case something like this happened again. For both of our sakes, I hoped I'd never need to use it.
Day two was a mental recoup kind of day. After what I witnessed, I needed it.
The day of the reopening, Dante reappeared as if he were waiting for the moment to come. Rather than giving me any updates—not like it was much of my business to begin with—he dropped off money.
It wasn't hush money, judging from the way he wouldn't accept no as an answer.
Rather, he was paying for the loss of sales my shop had taken because of the closure.
I didn't know if I should feel bad because of how much was in the envelope, or thrilled that I wouldn't have to stress about making ends meet this month.
Yeah, it was hush money, alright.
Now a week has passed, and things feel like they are finally returning to normal.
I'm kneeling on the floor, stocking a new series onto the shelf, when my usual silence is interrupted.
Hearing the sound of the bell above the door ring, I free my hands and stand to welcome the customer.
Seeing a figure standing there, wrapped in leather and a motorcycle helmet, makes the words die in my throat.
Wondering if every biker who steps into my shop is going to bring trouble and chaos into my life, I notice the patch on his jacket. Just like that, my heart picks up speed.
Casper survived.
The helmet he's wearing has a visor so dark, it's impossible to confirm, but I've got a gut feeling it's him. Unsure whether to welcome him with a smile like I do any other customer who walks through the door or ask him if he's okay, I find it impossible to find the words at first.
Our staredown lasts all of five seconds before he turns, moving deeper into my shop. Facing the best-seller shelf, he puts distance between us, but my chest feels tight, making my racing heart impossible to ignore.
Remembering how to use my feet, I take one step at a time toward him. Once I'm close enough, the scent of leather and fresh air fills my lungs, clean and intoxicating. Much better than the scent of copper.
"I would not have placed you as the romance type."
His helmet tilts, and without being able to see his eyes, I can feel them burning in my direction. "More of a mystery kind of guy. Though I'll say, I'm more into listening to audiobooks than I am into reading books."
His voice is muffled by the helmet, making it hard to hear the smoothness of his voice. Leaning in to catch the words, I accidentally close the distance too much. He stiffens slightly, and my breath catches in my throat as he tilts back.
"I think you may have come to the wrong shop then, I'm afraid." Letting my eyes fall away, he relaxes, and I finally let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. "How can I help you, Casper?"
He lets out a low curse, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck just in time to notice how easily his pale skin can turn a different shade of color. "How—"
"Your jacket, Mr. Vice President." Turning away, I take a few steps, desperate to hide the sudden, burning warmth collecting at the collar of my dress.
My hands have a mind of their own, twisting and clutching the front of my outfit.
"You know, I think it's rude to keep your helmet on. Business is slow, so I can turn off—"
Turning my head, my words catch hard when I realize he's followed behind me. He hasn't made a sound, and now he's standing so close I can feel the heat radiating off his chest. It takes an effort not to slide right into his space. Instead, I’m left on weak legs that are barely keeping me upright.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable." His explanation is confusing, his tone almost... gentle. It makes my muscles feel like mush.
"More uncomfortable than the last time we saw each other?" Lifting the corner of my mouth, I try to sound brave, but my voice is a little breathier than I intend.
He turns his head back to the books, a heavy silence stretching between us. Just when I think he won't take it off, his hands lift to the sides. Noticing his knuckles have a faded pink to them, a dangerous reminder of who he is, my stomach does a dizzying flip.
Still, he's much less terrifying than Dante or Tank.
He pulls off his helmet, and for a fraction of a second, the breath is completely knocked out of my lungs. Once more, I’m reminded of how devastatingly pretty this man is.
Those otherworldly icy eyes squint ahead, fringed by thick white lashes. He winces at the light, looking suddenly vulnerable.
Before I can try to make him more comfortable, he's reaching behind him, pulling out a case. He pops a pair of sunglasses on his face, shielding those beautiful eyes, before giving a half-smile.
"Better?"
Cocking a pale brow, he shifts his weight, a little patch of pink coloring his cheekbones. Something about his appearance must make him uncomfortable, and that doesn’t sit right with me.
Shame I don’t have the guts to tell him that he’s the most attractive person to step through that door since opening day.
"Much better," I murmur, my voice dropping to a soft purr. His half-smile grows another inch, and the butterflies in my stomach officially turn into a full stampede. "So, what have I done to earn another visit? If you're not here to buy a book, and you're not wounded..."
Taking a step back in hopes of cooling down this flush forming, my heart leaps when he instinctively steps forward, closing the gap right back up.
"I came to properly apologize—" Moving his head to the side, I see the hint of his pale lashes behind the dark lenses as he looks around. "—amongst other things. You have a minute? Your shop looks..."
"Dead? No kidding." Rolling a shoulder like I don't mind, I nod over to the few tables I have set up. "While I don't mind an excuse to get off my feet, you don't owe me anything."
Gesturing for him to follow, I turn and lead the way toward the small seating area in the corner.
I slide into one of the chairs, smoothing my dress down to give my restless hands something to do.
Casper doesn’t sit immediately. He looms over the small wooden table for a fraction of a second, a lanky silhouette against the soft, sunlit shop, before finally lowering himself into the opposite chair.
The space suddenly feels entirely too small.
He sets his motorcycle helmet on the tabletop between us. Then, he rests his forearms on the wood, leaning forward slightly.
I wait for him to speak. I wait for the apology he promised, or at least the start of an explanation.
Instead, Casper just stares.
Behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, his tilted head remains perfectly still. The silence stretches, growing so thick and heavy that the ticking of the wall clock sounds like a countdown.
At first, I wonder if he’s just struggling to phrase his words—if a big, hardened biker simply doesn't know how to navigate a proper apology to a civilian bookstore owner. But as the seconds tick by and his gaze fixes unblinkingly on my face, a strange, breathless instinct stirs deep in my chest.
Something tells me he isn't searching for the right words at all.
Something tells me it's something else entirely.