Brittany
Oaks reaches back and turns the deadbolt with two fingers, slow and deliberate, like he’s done it a thousand times.
Like it’s his door to lock. Like I’m already inside something I didn’t agree to enter.
Suddenly, I see him in a new light. Not just the sunlight coming through the front window.
He looks more dangerous in the daylight. No smoke. No music. Just him.
My head’s still pounding, my mouth dry as cotton, and I’m standing behind the counter pretending to sort through a tray of loose rings I already counted twice.
I don’t ask why he’s here.
I don’t ask why my pulse is suddenly racing.
I just watch him through my lashes as he turns around.
He ain’t in leather today. No cut. No colors. Just dark jeans, boots scuffed to hell, and a long sleeve shirt pushed up at the forearms. He looks more dangerous without the uniform, like he’s blending in on purpose.
His eyes land on me and stay there. Not hungry. Not friendly. Focused.
“You alone?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, then immediately hate that I answered so fast.
His jaw tightens. Not anger. Calculation.
“My wife was at the clubhouse last night.”
The words hit harder than they should. My hands curl into fists on the counter.
“We didn’t do anything,” I say quick. Too quick.
He gives me a look that’s almost a smile, but it ain’t kind.
“Right. I passed out. I woke up alone. I have your note. We didn’t…”
“I know.” His voice cuts in, calm and final. “This ain’t about what you did.”
He takes one step closer. Not into my space, but close enough that I can smell soap and smoke and something darker underneath it.
“It’s about what she saw.”
My throat goes dry. “What did I do?”
He clears his throat like he hates saying it. “You were all over me in a clubhouse full of men who read ownership in eye contact.”
My neck feels hot, hot and humiliating. I can remember pieces of the night, not enough to defend myself and not enough to deny it either.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“Because she saw you all over me and you showed her that note.” His gaze stays steady. “You didn’t just embarrass her. You confused her.”
The pawn shop feels smaller all of a sudden. The glass cases reflect too much of me. Too young. Too obvious. Too easy to blame.
“Did I do something wrong?” My voice comes out thin.
“No.” He says it like a hard fact. “It ain’t your fault. Bethany expects me to cheat, not to care. She asked questions and she didn’t like the answers.”
I swallow. “Is she mad we didn’t…?”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something sharper. “She’s never not mad. But to put it plain, she thinks you mean something to me.”
That should not matter.
It shouldn’t make my pulse jump the way it does.
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. Outside, a truck passes on Main and tires crunch gravel. Life in Hell, Kentucky, going on like normal while my insides start to shake.
Oaks leans one hand on the counter. Still doesn’t touch me.
“You don’t walk home alone,” he says. “You don’t close this place by yourself for a while. You don’t hang around after dark. And if anybody starts asking you questions, you don’t answer them.”
“Why?” I ask.
His eyes lift back to mine. Dark. Serious. Unflinching. “Because you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “But that don’t mean shit around here.”
My chest tightens. “Are you threatening me?”
He shakes his head once. “I’m warning you.”
Then his voice drops, softer, lower. “And I don’t repeat myself.”
He straightens and steps back. For half a second I think he might reach for me. A hand. A brush. Something to prove I didn’t imagine the chemistry between us last night, what little I can remember of it.
He doesn’t.
He unlocks the door, pulls it open, and pauses with his hand on the frame.
“You see her again,” he adds without looking back. “You come find me.”
“Why?” My voice barely holds together.
This time he glances over his shoulder. “Because I can stop her,” he says. “And you can’t.”
Then he’s gone.
The bell rings as the door swings shut, bright and cheerful like nothing just cracked open inside my chest. I stand there shaking, wanting to lock the door and knowing it wouldn’t matter either.
I don’t move. I just stare at the space he left behind, like if I focus hard enough I’ll see what this really is.
Protection.
Control.
Possession.
Or maybe just guilt.
The pawn shop feels too quiet now. The hum of the overhead lights sounds louder than it should. Outside, a semi rolls past slow, engine rumbling like distant thunder.
I finally exhale and move.
I check the front door. Lock it. I check it again.
Still locked.
I don’t know why my hands are shaking this bad.
I turn back toward the counter and notice something I swear wasn’t there before. The little bell we keep near the register is knocked sideways.
Not broken. Just moved.
I stare at it, and my stomach drops. Did I bump it earlier? Did Oaks?
I glance at the front window.
There’s a reflection in the glass. Not clear, not a face, just the suggestion of someone standing across the street.
My pulse thunders in my ears. I step closer like an idiot, heart in my throat.
The street looks empty. The feed store’s closed. The hardware place down the block has its OPEN sign flickering.
No one there.
But my skin crawls anyway.
I step back slow, and my phone buzzes so hard in my hand I nearly scream.
No Caller ID.
Again.
I stare at it. It stops, then buzzes again.
No voicemail. No text. Just that same number, like it’s got eyes.
I think about what Oaks said. If anyone starts asking you questions, you don’t answer them.
I don’t answer.
The buzzing stops.
Outside, across the street, a truck door slams.
I spin toward the sound too fast, breath catching. The truck pulls away before I can see who was inside.
Maybe this ain’t got nothing to do with him.
Maybe it’s just Hell being Hell.
But Oaks’ words echo in my head, anyway.
You don’t walk home alone.
Defiant, I go unlock the door.
Ten minutes later, the bell rings again.
A man I don’t recognize steps inside. Mid-thirties. Clean shirt. Too clean. He’s got that polite face men wear when they want you to lower your guard.
“Afternoon,” he says.
I nod. “What can I help you with?”
His eyes sweep the store slow.
He ain’t shopping.
He’s counting.
“You work here alone?” he asks casual.
My throat tightens. “No,” I lie.
He smiles.
Not friendly. Not even close.
“Owner around?”
“Back room,” I say, and I hate how my voice tries to sound normal.
He lingers too long, then nods once and leaves without buying a damn thing.
The second the door shuts, my phone buzzes again.
Same number.
I don’t answer.
But I know one thing now.
Oaks didn’t show up because he was jealous.
He showed up because something already moved.