Page 39 of King of Pain
“‘Just our coworker,’” she repeats, mimicking my voice with an exaggerated pout. “Please. You two have been glued at the hip since he started. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
I chuckle, focusing on sorting records to avoid her gaze. “We’ve hung out a couple of times. It’s not a big deal.”
Jen slams her hand on the counter, making me jump. “Not a big deal? Anthony, you don’t ‘hang out’ with anyone. You’re like a cryptid. Mysterious, brooding, and spotted only on rare occasions. But now Mr. Yummy shows up, and suddenly you’re social?”
I groan. “Can you not call him that?”
“What? Yummy?” she says, feigning innocence. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to pretend our little Irish bad boy isn’t magically delicious? Because I can’t lie, Anthony. It’s against my religion.”
I sigh, setting down a record and turning to face her. “First off, you don’t believe in religion. Secondly, Chance is a cool guy. That’s all.”
Jen’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans in closer. “Sure, sure. But you’re not fooling me. I’ve seen how you are with him.”
I glare at her, but she barrels on, unbothered. “I’m just saying, if you need a wing-woman, I’m here for you. Also, you better not replace me.”
“Replace you?” I laugh. “What are you talking about?”
“Him, obviously!” She gestures dramatically toward the back of the shop where Chance is shelving albums. “It’s only been a few weeks and you’re already becoming BFFs. Next thing I know, he’ll be your emergency contact, and I’ll be lucky to get a Christmas card every year.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, trying—and failing—to hide a smile.
Jennifer crosses her arms, smirking.
“Ridiculous and observant. I’m just saying, it’s okay if you’re having some unholy thoughts about our new friend over there. I’m sure he’s been the reason many straight men have paused to ponder if their coin has two sides, if you know what I mean.”
I know she’s just teasing me, but her words hit too close to home.
“I’m not… It’s not like that.”
“Mmhmm,” she hums, clearly unconvinced. She steps closer, standing next to me now. “Look, I’m not trying to push you into a big epiphany or whatever. But if you ever wanna talk about how yummy he is, I’m here. No judgment.”
“Stop calling him that!” I whisper-shout as Mr. Thighs himself emerges from the back, carrying a stack of records. Hisshirt rides up slightly as he shifts the stack in his arms for a better grip, revealing a sliver of his lower obliques and that faint trail of hair leading downward. Fucking hell. The man really needs longer t-shirts. I look away quickly, hoping Jen doesn’t notice.
She does.
“Told you. Yummy,” she whispers, and I elbow her in the ribs, earning a cackle.
“What’s so funny?” Chance asks, smiling and glancing between us as he adjusts the stack in his arms, once again revealing skin. Christ.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Jen’s just being Jen.”
“Ah,” he says, as if that explains everything. And honestly, it does.
The shop is still steady, the rhythm of customers providing a constant background hum as Chance leans casually against the counter. He’s been bantering with Jen for the better part of the hour while I stock some new arrivals. It’s comfortable—distractingly comfortable. Jen thrives on drawing people out, and I’m sure Chance has no idea what he’s in for.
“All I’m saying,” Jen starts, hands on her hips, “is that you’ve got a vibe. And the vibe is making our customers come back, so keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.”
Chance smirks, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “What can I say? I aim to please.”
Jen arches a brow, clearly gearing up. “Alright, out with it. You’ve flirted with everything that walks since the day you got here. Tell me to fuck off if I’m out of line, but, like, we needto know which hot customers to push on you. So, what is it—men, women, flirty but only attracted when there’s a connection regardless of gender, a little of everything?”
I freeze in the middle of shelving a record. Did she really just ask that? I look over at Chance, half-expecting him to laugh it off, but instead, his playful smirk falters. He looks down at the floor, his hand brushing through his dark hair before he exhales sharply.
“Screw it,” he says, standing up straighter. “I came to Arizona to be my true self. I’ve never actually said it out loud to anyone. My mom basically told me she knew as she lovingly pushed me to get out of Boston. The person I was in a situationship with obviously knew, and my hookups obviously knew, but I’ve never actually said it out loud.”
He looks up, his expression softer and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen it. “I’m one-hundred-percent gay. Not exactly something people openly admit in the world I come from. Though, trust me, there’s no shortage of guys who like dick—they’re just better at keeping it quiet. Ask the apps.”
The air in the shop shifts. I feel it settle over me like a weighted blanket, suffocating and grounding all at once. Chance Sullivan, who oozes confidence and charm like it’s second nature, is standing here looking vulnerable and… relieved.
