1. Wendy #2
"Oregon traffic is a bitch," the stranger says. His tone is conversational, but his dark eyes are locked onto the taller goon with the dead, flat stare of an apex predator. The threat is silent. It screams through the room. Take one more step. I dare you.
The Syndicate men get the message. The air is too thick. The scenario is wrong. They’re middle-management thugs, not frontline soldiers. They want easy targets. They don’t want to mess with a local business owner and a brick wall from Portland.
The taller one shoves the clipboard under his jacket. He jerks his chin at his partner.
"Wrong guy," he grunts.
They turn around. They walk out. The brass bell chimes sharply as the door swings shut behind them. Through the front window, I watch them cross the street and climb into a dark gray sedan. The engine turns over. The car rolls away, disappearing down the gray, cracked pavement of Crimson Hollow.
The threat is gone. The shop is safe.
I don’t let go of his arm. He doesn’t step away.
The silence in the Vinyl Vault is deafening. The Fleetwood Mac record is still spinning on the turntable. Stevie Nicks is singing about broken chains. The amber lamplight casts shadows over the wooden bins. The dust motes dance in the air.
My hand is still locked in the crook of his elbow.
His hand is still covering mine. The heat between us is escalating.
It’s no longer a slow burn. It’s a flashover.
The steel deadbolt in my chest clicks shut, sealing the vault.
There's no going back. I’ve survived Crimson Hollow my entire adult life by trusting my instincts.
My instincts are screaming at me to run from this man.
They’re also screaming at me to never, ever let go.
I pull my hand out from under his grip. My fingers tingle. The loss of contact is physically painful. I take a half-step back. I cross my arms over my chest, building a pathetic barricade between us.
He turns to face me. The easygoing mask is gone. The quiet danger is back. He watches me with a dark, burning intensity that makes my blood run thick and hot. He’s studying my face. He’s searching for regret. He’s searching for fear.
I refuse to give him either.
"Portland, huh?" I ask. My voice is slightly breathless, but I force a smirk onto my face. Portland is my invention. Might as well test how well he wears it. "You don't look like you own a single piece of flannel."
A muscle twitches in his jaw. His gaze drops to my mouth, then tracks back up to my eyes. Something violent flares up in his stare. It strips me bare right here in the middle of the L-section.
"I run cold," he says. His voice is a low, rough rumble.
"Right." I point toward the front door. "Those were Syndicate hounds. They were running an asset check. Whatever name they had on that paper, it matched your dimensions close enough to warrant a shakedown."
"I noticed." He crosses his arms. His biceps strain against the fabric of his dark jacket. "You have a habit of throwing yourself between Syndicate muscle and strangers?"
"I have a habit of protecting my inventory," I fire back. "A shootout in the soft rock section would ruin my vintage carpet. And blood doesn't come out of cardboard sleeves. It was purely an economic decision."
He steps closer. One deliberate step. He invades my space. He towers over me. The scent of black coffee and raw masculinity wraps around my senses, suffocating my logic. I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
"Economic decision," he repeats softly. The gravel in his voice vibrates in my bones.
"Precisely." I hold my ground. I don’t back down. "So. You're welcome. Cousin."
He stares at me for a long, silent moment.
The hum of the Ignition thrums in the air between us.
It’s a physical weight. It’s pulling us together.
He knows it. I know it. Neither of us is saying the words.
We’re two strangers trapped in a dying town, tied together by a lie that feels like the truest thing I’ve ever spoken.
He slowly extends his right hand. The scarred knuckles catch the amber light.
"Tom," he says.
The name is a lie. I can taste the falsehood on the air. It doesn’t match the feral truth in his eyes. It doesn’t match the sudden, violent possessiveness radiating from his chest. He’s undercover. He’s hiding. He’s running a script.
But his hand is steady. His grip is an invitation.
I look down at his scarred palm. I look back up into his dark eyes.
He thinks he can just walk into my shop, trigger a tectonic shift in my soul, and hand me a fake name?
Please. I’ve dealt with worse than brooding, secretive giants before breakfast. But I also know a survivor when I see one.
I know a man who’s standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if I’ll push him off or pull him back.
I reach out. I place my hand in his.
His fingers close around mine. His grip is iron. It’s a promise. The heat scorches my skin all over again.
"Wendy," I say.
"I know," he answers. He doesn’t let go.
He pulls me slightly forward, just a fraction of an inch. The distance between us vanishes. The air burns. The record player reaches the end of the track. The needle hits the paper label, scratching rhythmically in the silence. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
"You saved my cover, Wendy," he murmurs. The fake name is gone from his tone. The raw truth is back.
"You're in my shop," I reply, my voice dropping to a whisper. "No one bleeds on my floorboards."
"No," he agrees, his thumb stroking the back of my knuckles. The touch is deliberate. It’s a claim. "They don't."
He holds my gaze. He‘s a ghost in a town that hates strangers. He’s a walking weapon wrapped in a dark jacket.
He’s a liar with a fake name. And he belongs to me.
The realization settles into my bones. The Syndicate thinks they own Crimson Hollow.
They think they run the streets. But they don’t run the Vinyl Vault.
And they don’t know what kind of fire they just walked past.
I gently tug my hand free. It takes real physical effort to break the connection. He lets me go, but his eyes track my every movement. He maps the lines of my face. He memorizes the shape of my mouth.
"Well, Tom from Portland," I say, stepping back toward the safety of the oak counter. "If you're going to loiter in my shop to hide from the local mob, the least you can do is buy a record. I have overhead to meet."
A slow, devastating smirk finally breaks across his face. It changes his profile. The danger softens, revealing a glimpse of the man buried underneath the performance.
"I don't have a record player," he says, following me toward the front of the store. His boots make no sound on the oak boards. He moves like a predator comfortable in his new territory.
"Then you can buy a t-shirt," I shoot back, pointing to a rack of faded band tees near the door. "Thirty bucks. Cash only. The Syndicate tracks credit card receipts through the local servers."
He pauses by the counter. He leans his forearms against the polished wood. The proximity is dangerous. The scent of black coffee washes over me again. He reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a worn leather wallet. He tosses a fifty-dollar bill onto the counter.
"Keep the change," he says. His voice is dark, smooth velvet. "Consider it rent."
I stare at the money. I stare at him.
"Rent for what?" I ask.
His dark eyes lock onto mine. The possessiveness flares up, bright and unapologetic.
"For the back room," he says. "Because I'm not leaving."