Page 15 of King of Pain
If I wasn’t already off-balance, I am now, and I’m not sure what’s more intimidating: his passion for music, his energy, or those damn eyes.
“Gotta keep you on your toes,” I reply, chuckling as I move down the aisle, busying myself with the shelves. “So, where are you from? I’m guessing Boston, but don’t want to assume.”
“You would be right,” he says, his tone a curious mix of pride and, maybe, sadness. “Just got here a few weeks ago.”
“Big change,” I say, glancing back at him.
Clearly not wanting to expand on it, he bounces the question back at me. “How about you? Wait, let me guess. One of those corn-fed states, right?”
Blushing red for what might be the tenth time today, I reply, “Close. I’m from Marine City, Michigan. Moved here for school a few years ago. This is my last year, but I’ll likely stay here for the foreseeable future.”
“Marine City,” he repeats, thinking for a moment. “Is that near Detroit?”
“Close enough,” I reply. “It’s tiny, though. Not as exciting as Boston.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing softly.
“How are you liking it here?” I ask.
“Still deciding. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get used to the heat. Not sure what I was thinking choosing this place.”
“Hey, don’t knock Arizona,” I say, grinning. “It’s not all bad. You just have to hydrate—and maybe get yourself a car with air conditioning, biker boy.”
That earns a real laugh from him, low and warm, and it sends a jolt through me. I glance at the shelves again, hoping to seembusy, but my attention keeps drifting back to him. His tatts, his scent, the way he fills the space around him without even trying.
Later, as I’m leading him to the employee area in the back to put his stuff away, Chance asks, “So, how long have you worked here, Anthony?” He pauses before adding, “Or should I call you Tony?”
I stop dead in my tracks, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead and the back of my neck. I hear him pull up short behind to avoid running into me and I muster up the strength to speak but don’t have the physical ability to turn and face him. Frozen in place, I tell him sharply, “Please, never call me Tony.”
“Whoa, sorry, man. Didn’t mean to upset you. That’s why I asked.”
Snapping out of it and seeing the look on his face, I immediately feel terrible for my reaction. He looks genuinely concerned. Hoping to lighten the mood, I tell him, “Don’t worry about it. Sorry I was a little short with you. My dad goes by Tony. He’s a real prick.”
If only that were the whole truth.
No, I do not like being called Tony. But I’m kind of digging how he pronounces my name‘Antny’with that accent.
Chance focuses those incredible blues on me once again, gives me a megawatt smile, and says, “Well, okay then. Seems we have another thing in common—Daddy issues.”
I just stare at him. He probably thinks I’m an asshole or the future subject of a Netflix serial killer documentary.
Failing once again to avoid those eyes, I wave him toward the front of the store. “To answer your question, I’ve been working here for three years. Now, how about we go over the closing duties and get your first shift on the books, newbie?”
“Yes, sir,” Chance retorts in a tone I absolutely will not spend a single second thinking about later.
TRACK EIGHT
The Promise
Chance
The treadmill whirs beneath me, the steady hum is drowned out by the ‘80s playlist blasting through my headphones. My shirt is soaked, sticking to my back as I push through the last half mile of my five-mile run. This tiny gym will have to do until the weather cools down. I’m told there’s some great trails that avid runners frequent during the winter months.
“Come on,” I grunt under my breath, willing my legs to keep moving. Sweat drips from my forehead, stinging my eyes, but the burn in my muscles is good. Familiar. It keeps my mind from wandering too far into the guilt and doubt that’s been plaguing me since I moved here almost a month ago.
More than once, my mind drifts to my excruciatingly hot coworker. Anthony is the kind of guy who’s hard to ignore, even when he’s being a bit grumpy. He’s a few inches shorter than I am, but where most of my size and definition are in my legs and ass—thanks to years of hockey conditioning—Anthony is built like an all-around athlete: Legs, ass, chest, and arms. He’s compact muscle from head to toe, wrapped in tanned, nearly olive skin that glows under the shop lights. His dark hair looks like it started the day perfectly styled but has since been tousled by him constantly running his hands through it. His nervous energy is fucking adorable.
The man is stunning. And those beautiful lips. I’m pretty sure he’s Italian, which is my weakness. Boston has no shortage—and I’ve had my fair share. I’ll have to ask on my next shift. You know, for research purposes.
