10. Tyler
Tyler
The brass deadbolt slides into place with a definitive, metallic crack.
The sound rings through the hollow shell of the Vinyl Vault.
The streetlights from the Crimson Hollow main drag bleed through the front display window, casting long, warped shadows across the scratched floorboards.
I reach up and tap the plastic sign hanging in the door.
It has read CLOSED against the glass since dawn—the Vault never opened today.
The sharp plastic clatter is the only other sound in the room, cutting through the warm dust hanging in the air.
We packed the shop into cardboard boxes.
The barricades of her life are stacked by the back door, sealed with packing tape.
The record bins are empty. The display racks are stripped bare.
The soul of her mother’s legacy is boxed up, ready to be hauled back over the county line to Pine Valley. The physical trap is dismantled.
The only light left in the room comes from the amber glass lamp sitting on the oak counter in the back.
Wendy leans against that counter. The same solid block of wood where she stood for many years, carrying the suffocating weight of this dying town on her shoulders. The same counter where she counted out extortion money for the Tuesday Enforcer while the Silver Serpent Syndicate slowly bled her dry.
The vintage turntable behind her is still spinning.
The needle tracks through the final grooves of a Fleetwood Mac record.
The B-side. The same vinyl that was playing the very first afternoon I walked into this shop and she grabbed my arm in the soft rock aisle, claiming a total stranger to save my life.
I stare at her across the empty floor.
The ghost of my deep cover is dead.
For four long years, my existence was a filing cabinet of fabricated identities. A phantom skin I put on and zipped up to the chin, hiding the hollow rot underneath. The club needed intel. I became the operative. A man erased by his own mission.
But the fated strike didn’t care about covers. The lock-engagement tore straight through the lies in the millisecond Wendy’s fingers wrapped around my elbow. She didn’t flinch when the Syndicate goons cornered me. She claimed me. She gave me my real name.
Tyler.
Standing in the amber light, looking at the messy dark hair spilling over her shoulders and the fierce, exhausted defiance in her stance, the last scrap of "Tom" burns away into ash.
The operative is gone. The man standing in the shadows of the locked shop is just Tyler.
Her lethal protector. Her mate. The man who will slaughter anyone who tries to cage her ever again.
I step away from the front door.
My work boots hit the old oak floorboards. The wood groans under my weight. The sound is loud, deliberate, territorial. I’m not sneaking around the edges of her life anymore. I’m not playing the harmless civilian. I’m taking up all the space in the room.
I walk down the center aisle, passing the stacks of packed boxes. The smell of old paper sleeves, warm vinyl dust, and raw cedar fills my lungs. The scent is mixed with her fragrance. A faint, natural sweetness that hits the base of my brain and spikes my testosterone into a spiral.
Mine. My woman. My reality.
She watches me approach. The amber lamplight catches the gold flecks in her irises.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly under her vintage cotton t-shirt.
She doesn’t back away. She holds her ground against the oak counter, her hands gripping the scratched edge.
She’s so fiercely independent, so stubbornly brave, but the tension radiating from her body tells the truth.
She’s undone by the bond pulling us together.
I stop one inch from her body.
The heat radiating off her skin hits my chest. I look down at her hands gripping the wood. The wood she bled for. The wood she starved for. The altar of her isolation.
I sweep my arm across the top of the counter.
The amber lamp, a stack of blank inventory ledgers, and a jar of pens go flying.
The glass lamp shatters against the back wall.
The ledgers hit the floorboards with a series of dull thuds.
The pens scatter into the dark corners. The bulb pops, extinguishing the warm light.
The only illumination left is the pale, cold moonlight cutting through the front window and the tiny red indicator light on the vintage turntable amplifier.
The shattered glass settles on the floorboards. The dust hangs in the moonlight cutting through the front window. Wendy's pulse hammers visibly in the side of her throat. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull back. She tightens her grip on the edge of the oak.
She’s watched me carry boxes. She’s watched me sleep in her back room. She’s watched me bleed for her in real time. Now she watches me clear the altar of her isolation in one violent sweep, and the only thing in her eyes is the same certainty I see in mine.
Wendy gasps, her lips parting in shock at the sudden violence.
I grab her waist. My hands span the curve of her hips, my thumbs digging into her stomach.
I lift her off her feet.
She weighs nothing to me. The raw adrenaline pounding through my veins makes the motion brutal and effortless. I set her down hard on top of the cleared oak counter. Her boots dangle over the edge. I step forward, parting her knees with my thighs, wedging my frame between her legs.
"You’re done standing behind this counter," I tell her. My voice is a gravelly wreck. The smooth, practiced cadence of my undercover persona is erased. This is the raw grit of my actual voice. "You’re done defending this wood. You’re done carrying the weight of the Syndicate. You belong to me now."
Her hands fly up, gripping my wide shoulders. Her fingers dig into the thick cotton of my black t-shirt. "Tyler."
Hearing my real name on her lips sends a vicious jolt of hunger through my groin. My cock goes painfully hard inside my jeans. The thick, aching length of it presses against the metal zipper, demanding immediate release. Demanding possession.
"Say it again," I command.
"Tyler," she whispers, the sass completely stripped away, leaving only the raw, fated truth between us.
I reach for the hem of her vintage t-shirt. I fist the worn fabric in both hands and yank it up over her head. The collar catches briefly on her nose before I toss the shirt blindly over my shoulder. It lands somewhere in the darkness of the empty shop.
Her chest heaves in the pale moonlight. She wears a plain black cotton bra. I don’t bother with the clasp. I grab the center gore of the fabric and rip it apart. The cheap stitches snap with a tearing sound. I pull the ruined straps down her arms and throw the scraps of fabric to the floor.
Her tits spill out, bare and gorgeous in the shadows.
The cold air of the shop hardens her nipples into tight, sensitive peaks.
I cup her flesh in my large, calloused palms. The contrast of my rough skin against her softness is maddening.
I squeeze her breasts, pushing them together, dropping my head to drag my open mouth across the swollen peaks.
I suck the sensitive flesh right into my mouth, biting down lightly with my teeth.
Wendy arches her spine, throwing her head back. A wet moan escapes her throat, bouncing off the brick walls of the empty Vinyl Vault.
"You’re mine," I growl against her skin, my hot breath washing over her wet nipple. "Every inch of this body belongs to me. Not the shop. Not the town. Me."
I move my hands down to the button of her jeans. I pop the metal stud open. I grab the brass zipper and drag it down. The teeth grind against each other. I hook my hands into the waistband of her jeans and her cotton panties all at once.
"Lift," I command.
She obeys instantly, planting her hands on the oak counter behind her and lifting her hips.
I yank the denim and the cotton down her long legs in one violent, continuous motion.
The clothes pool around her ankles. I grab her boots, stripping them off her feet along with her socks and the tangled denim. Everything goes onto the floorboards.
She’s completely bare on the cold, hard wood of the counter.
The musky scent of her arousal fills the tight space between us. It hits the back of my throat, rich and intoxicating, erasing the smell of the old paper sleeves and the cedar dust. It’s the scent of a female primed for her mate.
I push her knees wider apart. My chest hovers over her body. I slide my right hand down her flat stomach, tracing the dip of her navel, moving down into the dark curls between her thighs.
My thick fingers brush against her pussy lips. They’re already swollen, parting easily under my rough touch. The sheer volume of wetness coating her folds is staggering. She’s leaking slick, the viscous fluid dripping down to the oak counter beneath her.
I slide two fingers into her wetness.
The tight, scorching heat of her walls instantly grips my digits. The suction is merciless. I push my fingers in to the second knuckle, stretching her slick opening. Wendy lets out a sharp cry, her head thrashing against the wood.
"Fuck," I grit out, grinding my teeth together as the sensation threatens to snap my control. "You’re so fucking wet for me."
I pump my two fingers in and out of her pussy.
The wet, obscene squelch of her slick clinging to my skin echoes over the music.
The Fleetwood Mac track is winding down, the guitar solo fading out, but I’m focused on the rhythm of my fingers driving into her tight hole.
I curl my digits upward, hooking against the swollen, textured ridge of her upper wall.
Her hips buck off the counter. Her nails dig violently into the wood behind her.
I shift my hand, bringing my thick thumb up to rest on her swollen clit. The sensitive nub is hard and throbbing beneath the slick folds. I press down hard, trapping her clit against her pubic bone, and begin to grind my thumb in tight, relentless circles.