3. Wendy #3
I reach under the counter. My fingers brush the cold metal of the cashbox. I pull out the plain white envelope. Inside is three hundred dollars. Small bills. The tax for breathing inside the Syndicate's administrative grid. It’s the cost of my mother's ghost.
I set the envelope on the oak.
Tyler looks at the white paper. A muscle works in his jaw. The temperature in the space plummets. He’s angry. Not at me. At the envelope. At the necessity of it.
2:55 p.m.
The vinyl spinning on the turntable reaches the end of the track. The needle hits the dead wax in the center, producing a rhythmic, hypnotic pop-hiss, pop-hiss, pop-hiss. Neither of us moves to lift the arm. We just listen to the static.
3:00 p.m.
The bell over the front door chimes.
The Tuesday Enforcer steps into the shop.
He isn’t one of the goons from last week. He’s leaner, sharper. He wears a tailored charcoal suit that costs more than my inventory. His black leather shoes click against the oak floorboards. He smells of expensive peppermint and cold copper. He runs the block. He collects the tribute.
The Enforcer stops ten feet from the counter. He looks at me. Then, he looks at Tyler.
The air in the room turns into broken glass.
The Enforcer’s eyes narrow. He catalogs Tyler’s size, his stance, the protective angle of his body shielding mine.
"Who's the giant?" The Enforcer asks. His voice is smooth, oily.
"My cousin," I say. My voice is steady. I channel every ounce of sass I possess to cover the frantic beat against my ribs. "Visiting from Portland."
"Portland." The Enforcer smiles. It doesn’t reach his dead eyes. "Long drive. He staying long?"
"Until he gets bored of vintage vinyl."
"Right." The Enforcer steps closer to the counter. He taps two manicured fingers against the oak. "Collection day, Wendy."
I slide the white envelope across the wood.
The Enforcer doesn't immediately take it. He’s watching Tyler. Tyler’s watching him back.
Tyler doesn’t move a single muscle. He doesn’t flex. He simply exists in the space, a monolithic threat. He’s playing the dumb cousin, but his body language is screaming a different message. Reach for her. Take one step closer. See what happens.
The Enforcer’s arrogant smirk falters, a fraction of an inch. His self-preservation instincts kick in. He recognizes a predator, even if the predator is wearing a Portland disguise.
The Enforcer snatches the envelope off the counter. He taps it against his palm.
"Have a good week, Wendy. Tell the cousin to enjoy the records."
He turns on his heel and walks out. The bell chimes. The door swings shut. The lock clicks into place.
The Enforcer walks past the front window, disappearing down the cracked sidewalk.
The shop is silent except for the pop-hiss of the turntable needle in the dead wax.
I stare at the empty space on the counter where the envelope used to be. A hollow feeling twists in my gut. Every Tuesday, they take another piece of the shop. Every Tuesday, the cage gets a little smaller.
Tyler exhales. The sound is harsh, violent. He lifts the arm of the record player, silencing the static.
He turns to me. His chest rises and falls with controlled breaths.
"You pay them every week," he states. It isn't a question.
"It's the cost of doing business in Crimson Hollow." I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly defensive. "I inherited this shop. I didn't inherit an army."
"They’re bleeding you dry."
"They’re keeping me alive!" I snap, the anger flaring to mask the helpless humiliation. "Do you think I like it? Handing over my mother's money to a man in a cheap suit? This is my sanctuary. I do what I have to do to keep the doors open."
Tyler takes a step toward me. He closes the distance between us. He towers over me, his broad chest inches from my crossed arms.
I tip my head back to meet his gaze.
His eyes have gone black. The performance is gone. There’s no "Tom from Portland" standing in front of me right now. This is the man underneath. The dangerous reality of whoever he truly is.
He reaches out. His hands bracket my hips, his long fingers gripping the edge of the oak counter on either side of me, trapping me against the wood. The heat of him surrounds me, suffocating and intoxicating at once.
"You don't pay them anymore," he commands. His voice is a low vibration that reverberates straight into my chest.
"You don't get to make that call," I shoot back, refusing to back down. "You’re playing a part. This is my real life."
"I'm making the call." He leans closer. His face is inches from mine. The smell of black coffee and sheer testosterone is overwhelming. "Next Tuesday, that suit doesn't walk out of here."
"You'll blow your cover. They'll kill you."
"Let them try."
The certainty in his tone makes the air leave my lungs. He isn't boasting. He’s stating a law of nature.
I stare up at him. The sheer possessiveness rolling off his frame is terrifying. He’s known me for a handful of days. He’s sleeping on a mattress on my floor. He’s trapped in this dead-end town right alongside me.
But looking into his eyes, the truth shifts.
He isn't caught in the cage with the Syndicate.
The Syndicate is caught in the cage with him.