Catching Flynn (Crimson Hollow #17)

Chapter Ten

CATCHING FLYNN

LYNN HAGEN

Chapter One

“I should’ve never agreed to meet with him,” Flynn muttered as he glanced out the front window of Dusty Spine bookstore. “Who meets their half-brother for the first time at their job?”

Apparently, people who had zero concept of personal boundaries, that’s who. Or maybe just idiots. Flynn was leaning toward idiots, considering he’d said yes in the first place.

Against every survival instinct screaming at him to fake a medical emergency—appendicitis seemed believable. Heart attack was even more plausible since his ticker was already in full-blown rehearsal—he stayed rooted behind the counter.

Around him, dust motes drifted through beams of morning light that cut across the bookstore in golden slashes.

Old paper and leather binding mixed with the faint vanilla scent of aged pages, a smell that usually calmed him but today just made his stomach twist tighter.

Books lined every available surface—floor-to-ceiling shelves along three walls, stacks on the counter, precarious towers near the register that threatened to topple if anyone so much as sneezed wrong.

His boss’s idea of organization was “wherever it fits,” which meant Flynn spent half his shifts hunting down titles' customers swore they’d seen “right over there” last week.

Romance novels were nestled between pregnancy books and toddler sleep training, as if the bookstore were providing a step-by-step roadmap for a life sentence.

Taxidermy books were propping up a wobbly shelf leg. The cookbook section had somehow migrated to the back corner near the bathroom, which seemed like a health code violation waiting to happen.

Still, the chaos felt familiar. Safe, even. Unlike whatever fresh disaster was about to walk through that door any minute now.

“Excuse me!” A woman who looked in her early thirties but dressed like she never left her teens waved at him. “Where are your self-help books of the naughty variety?”

Flynn faltered on his way to her, praying like hell this didn’t turn into a “naughty” conversation.

He wasn’t a prude, but he also wasn’t talking about sex to a…

well, a woman. Not just a woman, but one who, despite her fashion tragedy, looked like a mom.

He was weirdly good at spotting one from a hundred paces away.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t carry adult books.” He forced himself to smile instead of hiding out with the cookbooks until she was gone.

“But this is a bookstore.” She waved her hand around like she was scattering the dust motes around. “There has to be at least one.”

End me, preferably via space rock.

“Ma’am, I assure you, we do not carry self-gratification books,” he replied in a high-pitched, panicked squeak just as someone walked into the store on the ass-end of his reply. “Brows around. Holler if you need me.”

Preferably within the next five seconds before the middle-aged tween gave him a legitimate medical condition. Could you actually die of mortification?

You would’ve kicked the bucket when you were ten if that was possible. The image of his mom showing up on parent night in white go-go boots and smelling like her perfume carried notes of Jack Daniels would be forever burned like blisters into his memory.

“Well, what would you call them?” She blinked expectantly at him.

“Chicken Soup for the Soul!” His volume kept squeaking into higher decibels. If he didn’t get rid of her, windows would shatter.

She met his tone. “Well maybe you should try it!”

I work here. I have to stay. I cannot legally evaporate.

Glancing over his shoulder, Flynn felt his soul leave his body. Zack stood there, watching the exchange with an amused smirk.

You had only one shot at first impressions, and Flynn had used his yelling about erotic books to a lady who seemed slightly unhinged.

Whipping his head back round, Flynn voice reached maximum squeak volume. “We have cookbooks!”

I’m just gonna fall on the floor, fake my heart attack, so when I really do die of mortification, I’ll already be in the emergency room.

Should he clutch chest or just drop? Was there a way to make it look convincing but not too convincing? Were you allowed to have an ambulance on standby?

Wait. If Flynn fainted right now, everyone would think it was because of the self-gratification comment.

You will not faint.

You have lost fainting as an option.

Remain upright.

Remain conscious.

Never recover.

Spinning to face his next crisis, he finally faced Zack.

“Hi. Welcome to…this is not a good first impression.” His hand fluttered like it was trying to escape the disastrous moment.

“So. That’s…a customer. We have those. They come in.

Sometimes they leave. Sometimes they suck out your soul.

Mine floated past you a few minutes ago. ”

I need to lie down on the floor and become a part of the linoleum.

“If you’re looking for books, we do have those.” Flynn crossed, then uncrossed his arms, unsure where to put them. “Regular ones. Very non-gratifying. I mean books can be, just not the naughty ones. Not that I’m against those kind and oh god, I can’t shut up.”

Zack’s smirk widened. Flynn’s brain derailed.

“If we carried something naughty, like “Honeymooning with Your Hand” there would be a line out the door. Do you know how many horny men live in this town?” Flynn had no idea but was willing to conduct a survey.

Seriously, Crimson Hollow had so many, you’d think there was a gorgeous factory tucked somewhere in the mountains.

They were equipped with shiny motorcycles, pearly-white teeth, and the uncanny ability to see right through Flynn as they passed him on the street.

“How many and can you introduce me to one?” The middle-aged tween leaned in.

Jesus. “I’m not a thirst dealer,” Flynn said. “I’m a paperback pimp. We slut in a different way.”

Zack’s lips parted, eyebrows hiked.

Shut down shop. Burn the building. Live off the grid.

“You’re Zack. Of course you are. Look, if you’ve changed your mind about meeting me, completely understand. I can be a bit much.”

“You’re fine.” Zack was being chill, even smiling, like he was entertained by the scene.

“I said paperback pimp out loud,” Flynn said. “I deserve whatever happens next.”

Flynn wanted to start his day over, possibly by staying in bed and faking some obscure disease. This was not going how he thought it would. How he’d hoped it would.

“Seriously, it’s cool,” Zack said.

“I said Honeymooning with Your Hand out loud. I’d meant to say hamster.

No! Handyman.” Flynn gave up trying to buffer his words.

He’d already ruined whatever chance he had with Zack, regardless of what the guy said.

“I’ll own the thirst pimp. Which I’m not, but I do slut in a different way.

Hi, I’m Flynn. Secret one-night stand child. Sorry your dad is dead.”

Complete silence. Not awkward. Not tense. Complete system failure. Flynn’s brain had flatlined, spiritually deceased.

The shocked look on Zack’s face morphed into a grin. “We’re gonna be best friends.”

“Fabulous. Maybe we can exchange childhood stories where you tell me what my cheating dad was like since I never met him. Oh! By the way, I have a stalker. Is that gonna be an issue?”

Flynn walked toward the counter, so done with his morning already. He’d screwed this up every way a person could. No use pretending Zack would actually want to be friends.

“Did you say stalker?” Zack stared incredulously at Flynn.

“Yeah. S. T. A. L. K. E. R.” Like a deranged elementary school teacher hosting an anxiety seminar. “The leaves-love-notes-with-pasted-block-letter kind. Not the wanna-put-you-in-a-cage kind. I think. We haven’t officially met yet, so a cage might be in my future.”

The woman gasped. “A real-life stalker?”

Honestly, Flynn had forgotten about her. “No, an imaginary one. Why are you still here?”

“This is more interesting than grocery shopping.” Her fingers were strangling her purse straps. “Tell us about your stalker.”

He wasn’t going to discuss his possible demise with someone he didn’t even know. Flynn needed to get her out of there. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one morning.

“Great! Grab me some wine while you’re there…and cheese.” He tapped his chin, as if in deep thought. “If you wait a sec, I can give you a list.”

She walked out, slamming the door shut behind her.

“That was, um, a skit we were rehearsing called Slut Hand.”

Stop talking! Abort! Step away from the shovel before you hit Earth’s core, you moron.

This is exactly why you don’t have friends.

You just let your crazy hang all out. Shut.

Up. Now. Is she really getting wine or fleeing the scene?

Is it too late to fake a heart attack? Why is Zack staring at me like that?

“You’re the coolest guy I’ve ever met. Do you really have a stalker or was it a part of that fake-ass skit?”

“Define ‘cool.’ Because if you mean socially functional, then no. If you mean… memorable? Unfortunately, yes.”

Stop. Answering. Questions.

“Yes. I have a stalker. No, it’s not part of the—” Flynn paused “—critically acclaimed production of Slut Hand.” He glanced at the door. “Which, for the record, is no longer running.”

Why are you clarifying a fake play?

Flynn shrugged. “He—or she—uses cut-out letters. Very retro. Serial killer chic. Could just be someone with access to scissors and too much time. I’m choosing optimism.” He looked at Zack like Please don’t leave. Actually, maybe do leave. I don’t know what I want.

“So. You’re my half-brother. I’ve heard… legally documented things about you.”

There was no version of this where Flynn recovered.

There was only, committed. Keep committing. Never stop committing. And possibly being committed.

“You’re totally not witnessing a real-time meltdown. I’m just having a bad Thursday.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Zack pointed out.