3. Wendy #2
He acts like he owns the floorboards I walk on. I catch his reflection in the glass of the front door. He acts like he owns me.
I grab a stack of Led Zeppelin records and march to the front. I dump them into his lap.
He looks down at the vinyl, then up at me.
"Since you’re going to stare at me all day, you can make yourself useful," I tell him. "Alphabetize."
"I’m maintaining a visual perimeter."
"You’re loitering. Alphabetize the Zep."
He stares at me for a long, silent beat.
Then, without a word, he picks up the first record and studies the spine.
He doesn't complain. He just does it. It infuriates me how readily he submits to my ridiculous demands while simultaneously dominating the room.
He alphabetizes the stack flawlessly. He hands it back to me ten minutes later, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange.
The friction of his calluses against my skin sends a jolt of electricity up my arm.
I snatch the records back and hurry behind the counter, my face burning.
On Monday afternoon, the front door chimes. Nadia walks in, leather jacket worn at the elbows, the keys to her motorcycle clipped to her belt loop. She works for the Broken Halos—too sharp and observant for her own good. She wanders over to the counter, ignoring Tyler.
"Word on the street is the Vault has a new bouncer," Nadia says quietly, tapping her brightly painted nails on the glass. "A cousin from out of town."
"Just visiting," I reply, keeping my tone perfectly even.
Nadia smirks. She drops a five-dollar bill on the counter for a cheap cassette tape she didn't even look at. "Cute. Keep him close, Wendy. The suits are getting restless."
She leaves before I can ask what that means. Tyler watches her go, his jaw locked. He knows who she is. The tactical assessment runs behind his dark eyes.
On Monday evening, the isolation of the shop amplifies. Outside, a light rain begins to fall, slicking the pavement of Main Street and blurring the neon glow of the streetlamps. Inside, the Vault is warm, smelling of melting dust on the amplifier tubes.
I sit cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, pricing a stack of newly acquired jazz records. My mother used to sit in this spot. I trace my finger over a faded price tag written in her looping handwriting. A familiar ache tightens my chest.
Tyler steps behind the counter. The space is too small for both of us. His thigh brushes my shoulder as he reaches for the coffee carafe I set up on the corner stool.
"You're in my light," I grumble, not looking up from the records.
He doesn't move. He pours his coffee. The heat of his leg against my shoulder is a branding iron.
"You inherited this place from your mother," he says. It isn't a question. He states it as a tactical fact he’s already deduced.
I stop pricing. I look up at him. He’s staring down at me, his dark eyes focused.
"Four years ago," I say softly. "She loved these records. She knew every track, every hidden B-side. When she died... I couldn't let it go. I couldn't let them take it."
"The Syndicate."
"They buy up the empty buildings. They turn them into fronts or chop shops. The Vault is the last honest business on this block. If I leave, she disappears."
Tyler sets his coffee mug down. He crouches. The sheer size of him folding into the cramped space behind the counter is staggering. He’s eye-level with me now.
"You've been holding the line alone," he says. His voice is rough and jagged.
"I manage."
He reaches out. His callused thumb brushes the ink smudge on my cheek. The contact sends a shockwave through my system. Oxygen stops in my throat.
"You don't have to manage alone anymore," he says.
He doesn't promise to fix it. He doesn't promise it’ll be easy. He just promises his presence. He promises the immovable wall of his body between me and the street outside.
I swallow hard, forcing my eyes away from his intense stare. "You're just playing a part, Portland. Don't get invested."
His thumb traces my jawline, a slow stroke of possession. "I’m already invested, Wendy."
He stands up before I can formulate a witty comeback. He takes his coffee and resumes his post at the front window. Leaving me sitting on the floorboards, my skin burning, my chest tight with a terrifying new kind of hope.
Then Tuesday arrives.
Tuesdays are a poison pill in Crimson Hollow.
It starts in the morning. The air in town shifts.
The few pedestrians on the sidewalk walk faster, their heads down, their shoulders hunched.
The rusted cars don't linger at the four-way stop outside the shop.
By noon, the silence on the street is suffocating.
The town holds its breath, waiting for the boot to drop.
I stand behind the counter, organizing a stack of 45s.
My hands aren’t steady. I drop a sleeve.
I pick it up. I wipe down the oak counter three times in an hour.
I hate Tuesdays. I hate the compromise I make every week to keep my mother's shop open.
I hate that I participate in my own extortion just to survive.
Tyler notices. Of course he does. He misses nothing.
He watches my frantic wiping of the counter. He watches my hands shake as I sort the records. He doesn't offer empty platitudes. He doesn't tell me it’ll be okay. He just watches, his presence a silent anchor in the room.
At 2:30 p.m., Tyler steps out of the back room.
He doesn't have a record in his hands. He doesn't pretend to browse. He walks straight behind the counter and stands right beside me. His arm brushes my shoulder. The heat of him is a stark contrast to the cold dread sitting in my stomach.
"What are you doing?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"Waiting."
"For what?"
He checks his watch. 2:45 p.m. "Just waiting."
He knows. I stare at his profile. The hard line of his jaw. The focused intensity radiating off him. He knows what happens on Tuesdays at three o'clock. His intelligence gathering is flawless.
"You can't be back here," I tell him, my pulse picking up speed. "When he comes, you have to be browsing. You have to be the cousin."
"I am the cousin." He doesn't look at me. His eyes are locked on the front glass. "And I'm standing right here."
2:50 p.m.