Page 13 of King of Pain
I settle on a black tee and jeans, keeping it simple—nothing that screams try-hard.
I’d worn long sleeves to my interview, figuring it was safer to keep my tattoos under wraps, but now I’m kicking myself for not asking Kathy if there’s some sort of unofficial dress code. It’s a vintage record shop, though. If any job is going to be cool with inked-up arms, it’s this one.
After a quick shower, I pause at the full-length mirror on my bathroom door and look at the dove tattoo running down the lower right side of my back to just above my waistline. It’s asymbol of loyalty I pledged, not just to The Doves, but to anyone I felt needed protecting.
I tug on a pair of tight jeans and the black t-shirt and rake a hand through my hair, debating whether to style it. I settle on rubbing a bit of gel through it haphazardly, going for that “just fucked” look. Grabbing my leather jacket, I sling my backpack over my shoulder, snatch up my helmet, and head out the door. The afternoon air is an actual fucking oven as I make my way to my bike. By the time I swing my leg over and start the engine, I’ve almost convinced myself this was the right decision. Almost.
The ride toDevil Recordsis smooth, the engine purring beneath my thighs as I weave through the light afternoon traffic. The wind rushes past, carrying the scent of sunbaked asphalt.
I luck out, snagging a parking spot right in front of the shop. The weathered sign and slightly crooked neon lettering give it a charm that stands out from the other storefronts lining Mill Avenue. It has a kind of rugged authenticity that makes me feel hopeful I’ve found the right place for me.
I hop off my bike, lock the steering column, and take a deep breath before walking to the door. My palms feel clammy, and I wipe them against my jeans, willing myself to relax.
It’s just a job,I remind myself.You’ve faced far worse than this.
The bell above the door jingles as I push it open, and the first thing I see is a guy standing behind the counter, his back to me as he sorts through a stack of vinyl records. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a build that screams athlete. His dark hair is short but thick. It looks like he’s been running his hands through it. When he turns around, his eyes meet mine… and it takes my breath away.
He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
TRACK SEVEN
Electric Blue
Anthony
About an hour into my shift, the bell above the door jingles. It’s a bright, cheerful sound that feels a little out of place in the dim and appropriately dusty vintage record shop. I turn from the stack of vinyl I’m sorting for V&V, expecting to see one of our usual customers: a scruffy collector hunting for obscure jazz records or a college kid looking for something “ironic” to decorate their dorm. It’s neither.
Mayday! Mayday!
Must. Avert. Eyes.
“Hey,” his deep, gravelly voice rumbles as he strolls in, casual as if he owns the place. He’s tall, easily three inches taller than my six feet, with broad shoulders and an effortlessly cool stride.
His jet-black hair is short and slightly messy, like he rolled out of bed and decided to ruin everyone’s day by being devastatingly attractive. A worn leather jacket clings to his frame, but it’s his jeans that demand attention. They’re perfectly fitted, hugging his thick thighs and solid calves in a way that’s almost criminal. The denim is worn in all the right places, faded just enough to suggest they’ve seen countless rides on the motorcycle now parked outside the shop.
He carries his helmet loosely in one hand as his eyes land on me. “You must be Anthony,” he says, his voice shaking me out of my thoughts as he extends a hand. “I’m Chance Sullivan, the new guy.”
Fuck-fuck-fuck.
Is that a Boston accent? Fuuuck.
I don’t know what I was expecting when Frank and Kathy told me I was training a new hire. Maybe a nerdy freshman or a music major who spends all their free time scribbling lyrics. Whatever it was, it most definitely wasn’t this. Now he’s standing there blinking at me like he just needs an excuse to use his mile-long lashes.
Or maybe he doesn’t know what to do since it’s his first day, Anthony.
I step out from behind the counter. “Uh, hey. Kathy and Frank mentioned they hired someone. I guess I’ll show you around,” I say, trying—and failing—not to get caught up in the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Turning quickly, I throw my thumb over my shoulder, “Toss your jacket, helmet, and bag behind the counter and follow me. We’ll put your stuff in the back later when I show you how to log hours.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that,” he replies.
I wait, staring at the floor as I hear the rustle of his jacket and the soft thud of his things being set down. Once he’s ready, I wave him over and lead the way toward the 70s rock section, where I plan to start taking him row by row through the shop.
As we make our way, the office door swings open, and a familiar voice cuts through the low hum of a Pixies track playing.
“Anthony,” Jen calls, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’m heading out.”
“God, please no—”
