Page 14 of King of Pain
She’s barely two steps out of the office when she stops short, her eyes landing on Chance. A playful smirk appears, and she takes in a quick breath, her gaze sweeping over him before settling back on his face. “Oh. Well, hi,” she says, her tone suddenly lighter… but I know better.
“Jen, this is Chance,” I say, awkwardly gesturing between them. “The new guy.”
“Chance,” she repeats, her lips curling into a smile that I’ve seen melt customers into puddles of goo. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jen.”
Chance nods, giving her a curt, but polite, smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“Interesting. Very, very interesting,” she says, her voice light and teasing. She lingers a moment longer, her eyes flicking to me before she heads toward the front door. “See you tomorrow, Anthony,” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.
I shake my head and keep walking, trying not to react to whatever that was. I don’t make it far before my phone buzzes in my hand and I make the mistake of looking down.
Jen:Smash. Hard.
That’s it. Two words. Realizing he’s close enough to see my screen, I fumble with the phone, nearly dropping it as I shove it into my back pocket. My face burns so hot I’m sure Chance can feel the temperature spike.
“You good?” he asks, looking up from an endcap display with a raised brow.
“Uh… yeah, yeah,” I say, voice cracking slightly. “Um, let’s get you familiar with the jazz section first. We’ll come back to ‘70s later.”
I move ahead quickly, determined not to let him see how red I’ve gotten. Somewhere out there, Jen is probably doubled over laughing.
I hope she falls into a pothole.
I manage to get us to the jazz section while desperately trying to compose myself. My face still feels like it’s on fire, and Chance’s presence behind me isn’t helping. He’s close enough that I catch his scent: clean and woodsy, with a subtle sharpness, almost like cedar mixed with something fresh. It’s intoxicatingin a way that makes me question if it’s cologne or just him. Either way, it’s making it hard to focus.
“You into jazz at all?” I ask, gesturing to the neatly arranged records and hoping I don’t sound as awkward as I feel.
Chance shrugs, stepping closer, his movements relaxed and easy. Now that his jacket is off, I can see he’s got full sleeve tattoos on both arms. The black hues of intricate designs crawl from his wrists up to his biceps, and run beneath the snug fit of his short sleeves. The way the ink moves with the flex of his muscles as he flips through a stack of records is... distracting.
“Not really my vibe,” he says casually, his tone light. “I can appreciate it, but I’m more into ‘80s music. Pop, rock, punk, you name it.”
That gets my attention. I glance at him, caught off guard by his answer—and by him. The tattoos, the easy confidence, the way the dark stubble on his jaw looks thick enough to rock a permanent five o'clock shadow, adding an edge to his already striking features.
And then there are those eyes. I’ve never seen a shade of blue so vivid. They’re electric. It’s like some invisible switch behind his irises flicks on neon backlighting just so he can stare straight into your soul.
“No way. Same here,” I manage, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “I mean, I grew up on all kinds of music, but the ‘80s? That’s where my heart is. What’s your go-to? Please don’t sayThriller. Everyone saysThriller.”
Chance smirks, tilting his head slightly. “Fuck no. For me, it’sThe Queen is Deadby The Smiths,Rioby Duran Duran, orSome Great Rewardby Depeche Mode. And punk? Don’t even get me started on The Ramones.”
I let out a laugh, shaking my head. “Okay, now I’m impressed. Most people stick to the safe stuff when they talk about the ‘80s,but The Smiths? The Ramones? You’re either a secret music snob or a diehard fan.”
“Maybe both,” he says with a grin, his arm flexing slightly as he adjusts the stack of albums I put in his hands from the cart waiting in the aisle for shelving. His tattoos catch my eye again, the bold lines and intricate shading sparking my curiosity. “But get me drunk enough,” he adds, his voice dropping playfully, “and I’ll sing Madonna’s entireLike a Prayeralbum cover to cover, word for word.” He leans in just a touch, as if sharing a dirty secret and says, “All you have to do is ask nicely.”
I blink, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Not at all,” he says, that damn grin still plastered on his face. “Madonna shaped pop music forever, and you know it. Everyone knows that.”
I shake my head, trying to focus on the records in front of me. “I do know it, and that’s high up on my top ten albums. You just surprise me is all.”
Chance tilts his head, his eyes narrowing playfully, locking on mine. “There’s a lot about me that might surprise you, boss man.”
Why does that sound so filthy sliding off those ridiculously full lips? And does he really have to wet his bottom lip every time he talks? I swear, if this guy turns out to be some stripper Jen hired just to fuck with me, I’m going to make her life an absolute nightmare.
“Alright, your turn,” Chance says, glancing my way. “What’s on your list?”
“Well, you already knowLike a Prayer,um… also,Rebel Yellby Billy Idol, Run-D.M.C.’sRaising Hell,and honestly,Disintegrationby The Cure,” I say, trying not to notice the way his smile widens slightly at the mention ofThe Cure.
“Solid,” he says, nodding. “Disintegrationis obviously a classic, and Billy Idol—goddamn.” He pauses, shaking his head with a small laugh before continuing. “That man just hits so hard. You surprise me too, Anthony.”
