9. Wendy #2
"Wendy," I reply, my voice steady.
Susan taps the lid of the glass jar. Raw clover honey. Thick and perfect. A handwritten paper label tied to the lid reads, From the women of the club. Welcome.
"From the women of the club," Susan says. Her gaze locks onto mine, delivering a message that has nothing to do with baked goods or preserves. It’s a lifeline. An iron chain thrown across the county line. "Welcome."
She turns. She doesn't look back. She walks out the door, the bell chiming a second time. The heavy glass door clicks shut, sealing the quiet back into the shop.
I stare at the jar on the counter. The golden honey.
Welcome.
Not "good luck." Not "stay safe." Welcome.
My breath shudders. I walk to the counter. I reach out and touch the cold glass. It’s real. The weight of it is real.
"She drove from the northern ridge," Tyler murmurs, stepping up close behind me. His chest brushes my back. The heat of him is immediate.
"She brought honey." I trace the edge of the lid.
"She brought an invitation." Tyler’s voice is thick. "The club knows. They know I claimed you. They’re offering the perimeter."
"Your president told you to embed. To stay deep cover. To gather intel."
"Fuck the intel." Tyler’s hands settle on my hips, unyielding. His thumbs press into the cotton of my shirt. "The mission died the second you put your hand on my arm. The only thing I’m guarding now is you. If you want to stay in Crimson Hollow, I’ll slaughter every Syndicate suit that walks down this block.
If you want to leave, I’ll burn this building to the ground and carry you north. "
The choice.
It hangs in the air, thick with vinyl dust and the smell of dark coffee.
I look around the shop. The faded posters on the walls. The scuffed floors where I learned to walk. The oak counter where I learned to count change. The back room where I finally surrendered the weight of my independence to the man holding my hips.
When my mother died, I kept the music playing. I kept the doors open.
But the music isn't the building. The legacy isn't the physical address. The Syndicate wants the dirt beneath my feet, and I’ve been slowly dying to keep it from them.
I turn in Tyler’s arms. I look up at his face. The sharp line of his jaw. The dark need in his eyes. He’s waiting for my command. The lethal weapon, fully primed, submitted to my word.
"Grab the packing tape from the back room," I say quietly.
Tyler’s brow furrows. "Tape?"
"For the boxes." I step out of his hold, moving toward the back corner of the shop. My spine is straight. The suffocating pressure in my chest—the pressure that has lived there for years—vanishes. "We aren't fixing the crates. We are packing them."
Tyler goes perfectly still. "Wendy."
"They want the Vault?" A sharp grin pulls at my mouth.
The sass, the fire, the certainty of who I am comes flooding back into my veins.
"Let them have the empty shell. Let them have the rotting wood and the bad plumbing.
I'm taking the music. I'm taking the inventory.
I'm taking the soul of this place, and I’m leaving them a hollow corpse. "
Tyler’s chest expands on a jagged inhale. The dark obsession in his eyes flares into something blinding.
"You're calling the extraction." His voice is rough.
"I'm repositioning." I walk past the ruined rock section, past the scattered jazz sleeves, straight to the far corner. To the stack of reinforced cardboard boxes I use for shipping rare finds. "I’m not a victim, Tyler. I’m not a ghost haunting my mother's grave.
And you aren't a ghost playing fake names in a dead town. "
I grab the top box. I drag it to the center of the room. The sound of the cardboard scraping against the oak floor is loud. Final.
"Help me pack," I order him.
Tyler doesn't hesitate. He moves with that terrifying grace, grabbing a roll of packing tape from the counter drawer. The sharp rip of the adhesive echoes in the quiet shop.
We work for hours. The morning sun climbs higher, heating the front windows, casting long rectangles of light across the floorboards.
The labor is grueling. Sorting. Taping. Stacking.
Every box taped shut is a brick removed from the wall of my cage.
Every crate emptied is a breath of fresh air filling my lungs.
Tyler handles the lifting. He stacks the fifty-pound boxes near the back door, one after another, his black t-shirt clinging to his chest, damp with sweat. He doesn't complain. He doesn't ask questions. He simply executes my commands, building the foundation of our escape.
By mid-afternoon, the main floor is stripped bare.
The wooden crates are empty. The posters are rolled in tubes. The oak counter is cleared of everything except the register and the jar of honey. The shop looks cavernous. Echoing. Dead.
It doesn't hurt. That’s the most shocking part. Looking at the bare walls, I don't feel the sharp sting of grief. I feel the terrifying rush of the future.
I walk to the corner near the beaded curtain.
One box remains.
It isn't a shipping box. It’s a vintage, reinforced milk crate. My mother’s private collection. The untouchables. The records she kept behind the counter, the ones she played when the shop was closed and it was just the two of us dancing on the oak floorboards.
I drop to my knees in front of it. My fingers tremble as I trace the edge of the plastic crate. This is the core. The center of the legacy.
Tyler stops working. He walks across the empty floorboards, his boots echoing in the hollow room. He drops to one knee beside me. He doesn't crowd me. He simply anchors me with his presence, the heat of his shoulder pressing against mine.
"The last box out of Crimson Hollow," I murmur.
"Take your time." Tyler’s voice is steady and low.
I reach into the crate. I flip through the thick, heavy sleeves. The worn edges. The faded ink. Every single spine tells a story. Every single artist is a memory. I pull out a 1970s pressing of Fleetwood Mac. The cover is battered. The vinyl inside is pristine.
I look at the record. Then I look at Tyler.
He watches me with unblinking intensity. He knows what this moment means. He knows I’m not just packing cardboard. I’m packing my soul. I’m cutting the tether to the past and handing the rope to him.
I don't put the record in the shipping box.
I stand up, holding the worn cardboard sleeve against my chest. Tyler rises with me, towering over me in the empty shop.
I pick a record from the last box out of Crimson Hollow. I know what I’m choosing.
"Take the rest of the crate to the back door," I tell him. My voice is quiet. Final.
Tyler lifts the crate with one hand. He sets it by the exit, joining the stack of packed inventory. The reality of my life, boxed up and ready for transport.
I walk through the beaded curtain into the back room.
The mattress is still on the floor. The surveillance dossier is still shoved into a messy pile near the wall. The thrifted lamp casts a warm, amber glow over the small space. It’s cramped. It smells of dust and our combined heat. It’s the only safe place left.
Tyler follows me inside. He drops the beaded curtain, sealing us in the warm, dim light.
I walk to the milk crate holding the turntable. I slide the black vinyl out of the battered sleeve. The weight of the record is familiar. Perfect. I set it on the platter. I lift the needle. I drop it onto the outer groove.
The soft, rhythmic static fills the tiny room. A second later, the low, melodic bassline of the B-side begins to play. The same song that was playing yesterday. The song that will play until we finally lock the doors for good.
I turn around.
Tyler stands in the center of the room. The deep-cover operative. The enforcer. The ghost. The man who holds two deaths in his hands and twenty more in his past, looking at me like I’m the only reason he still draws breath.
"No more covers," I say over the music.
"Never again." Tyler steps forward. The space between us vanishes.
He wraps his arms around my waist, lifting me off the floor.
My boots dangle in the air as he buries his face in the crook of my neck.
He breathes me in, a ragged, desperate inhale that sounds like a man finding water after a decade in the desert.
I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. I bury my hands in his dark hair. I hold on, anchoring myself to the man who burned his own identity to keep me safe.
The building is empty. The legacy is packed in cardboard. The Syndicate can have the rotting floorboards and the broken glass.
I made my choice. I’m taking the music, and I’m keeping the monster.