Page 11 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

TRACK NINE

Smooth Operator

Anthony

Jen: Sooo… how’s training Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yummy going?

Me: You must have the wrong number. No one by that name.

Jen: Whatever. Answer me, smartass.

Me: It’s been fine.

Jen: Fine? That’s all I get? Fine? Anthony, I need details. Is he charming? Awkward? Serial killer vibes?

Me: He’s... confident. A little cocky.

Jen: Ooh, cocky, huh? The good kind that’s fun to mess with, like Butters? Or the bad kind that makes you want to throw a record at him?

Me: Definitely the first one.

Jen: I knew it. I could tell when I saw him. Total big dick energy. But those eyes. And did you see that ass? Because I did.

Me: Ok, nice talk, gotta go.

Jen: Oh please, anyone with eyes couldn’t miss that.

Me: Yes, he’s fit. Next subject.

Jen: Fit. Right. So, what’s he like? Besides “fit” and “cocky”?

Me: I don’t know much yet, Jen. We’ve only trained two shifts, jeez. He did tell me he’s big into ‘80s music. Some of the more obscure stuff too. So that was cool.

Jen: Aww does our little Anthony have a new friend?

Me: Very funny. Gotta run, another training shift today.

Jen: Have fun! Enjoy the view.

Me: …

It’s Chance’s third shift training with me, and it’s inventory day.

We’re the only ones on duty right now—Jen’s due in later.

In the back room, I show him how to input products into the computer, something that took an act of Congress to get Frank on board with.

He’ll never admit it, but we all know he secretly loves it now.

Once I walk Chance through how to mark vinyl and other merchandise for sale, I lead him to the pile waiting to go out on the floor and hand him a stack so we can start shelving them.

As he walks ahead of me, I catch myself checking him out.

Again. It’s become a bad habit in just a few days.

My usual defenses? Gone. Thanks a lot, Jen.

Her comments about how built he is don’t help the situation.

She’s not wrong, though. Anyone with functioning eyes can see that Chance Sullivan is…

well, a specimen. Especially from behind.

Damn it.

I force myself to look away, but it doesn’t help much.

Chance moves with an effortless confidence that’s relaxed, easygoing, and completely unbothered.

There’s no arrogance about him, which somehow makes it worse.

He’s just… him. And it’s infuriating because I can only dream of feeling that comfortable in my own skin.

I really wish he wasn’t so damn distracting. His presence pulls me in, but it also makes me a little uncomfortable. He’s got this ability to make me face things I’ve spent years trying to bury, and that scares the hell out of me.

I shove all those thoughts down, trying to stay focused as he scales one of our short ladders to put away a stack of records on a top shelf.

He’s wearing a dark gray t-shirt today. It’s snug, hugging the contours of his chest and shoulders, the short sleeves showing off his defined arms and all that ink.

His jeans, equally fitted, cling in all the right places, highlighting the powerful muscles in his thighs.

When his shirt rides up as he reaches, I catch a glimpse of his obliques and spy a large tattoo on the lower right side of his back, nearly dipping into his waistband.

Fuck.

All the oxygen in my body abandons me. The sight is too much, and I quickly look away, pretending to adjust a nearby display.

Chance hops off the ladder, catching my reaction with a knowing smirk. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind, Ant. Care to share?” he asks, one brow arched in playful curiosity.

My jaw drops, but he presses on, his tone teasing but light. “Oh, I should’ve asked, is it okay if I call you that? Don’t want you to take my head off.”

He’s taken to calling me Ant now, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t like the shortened version of ‘Antny’. Truth is, I like it a little too much.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, fumbling with a feature artist display.

“Fine, huh?” He smirks, leaning against the shelf like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You always this quiet, or just at work?”

“I talk when I have something to say,” I reply, my voice clipped.

Chance lets out a low chuckle. “Fair enough. Guess that means I’ll have to do the talking.”

He leans back further against the shelf, clearly not content with the silence between us and picks up a Rubik’s Cube, turning it over in his hands as if inspecting it.

“So, Ant,” he starts, his tone casual but full of curiosity, “your last name… Pacini ,” he says slowly, brow furrowing slightly. “Am I saying that right? Pah-chee-knee?”

I nod, trying to play it cool, but the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth—wrapped in that deep voice and slight Boston accent—has me shifting on my feet.

Is it hot in here?

“Yeah, you got it. Pah-chee-knee.”

“Sounds exotic,” he says, his grin widening. “Italian, right?”

“Yeah. One hundred percent. Third generation.” I grab another stack of inventory off the cart we brought out, trying to seem busy, but Chance doesn’t let up.

“Third generation? So, like, your grandparents were immigrants?”

“Yup. Both sides.”

He seems genuinely intrigued. “Alright, so you’re full-on Italian. Do you cook, or is that just a stereotype?”

“Yeah, I cook,” I admit, stacking the vinyl neatly. “But don’t get any ideas. I’m not feeding you.”

“Oh, come on,” he teases, leaning against the shelf. “I’m a great dinner guest. I’ll even bring dessert.” Then, with a playful smirk, he pumps his eyebrows suggestively a few times.

I shake my head, refusing to take the bait and pretend the heat creeping up my neck is from anything other than him.

“Alright, fine,” he says, switching gears. “Kathy mentioned you play football for ASU. What do your teammates call you? You’ve gotta have some kind of nickname, right?”

I pause, hesitant. The real origin of my team nickname isn’t exactly my favorite thing to share, but Chance’s grin is too smug for his own good. I know he won’t let it go.

“PacMan,” I say finally, keeping my voice even.

“PacMan?” he repeats, his grin widening. “That’s amazing. Is it just because of your last name or is there another reason?”

“Something like that,” I mutter, already regretting telling him.

“Oh—no, no, no,” he says, clearly delighted. “There’s a story here. What is it?”

“Nope. No story. Just my last name,” I tell him, hoping he won’t press any further.

I think my eyebrows are sweating.

Can eyebrows even sweat?

Chance laughs, clearly delighted by this revelation. “PacMan,” he says again, his brow furrowed. Then, to my surprise, he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not calling you that.”

I glance at him, confused, and a little relieved. “Why not? You’ve been calling me Ant all day. What’s the difference?”

“That’s exactly it,” he says, his grin softening into something almost thoughtful. “I’m guessing a lot of people call you PacMan, but I like being the only one who calls you Ant.” He shakes his head. “No, I don’t want anyone else using it.”

My chest squeezes at his words. The way he says it so casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to stake that claim. It makes my stomach flip.

“Whatever,” I manage to say, faking indifference while busying myself with inventory that doesn’t even need counting. Heat rises to my cheeks and blood flows to my cock, pressing uncomfortably against my thigh.

“Are you actually going to do any work, or are you just going to watch me all day?” I ask, while trying to conceal my very noticeable situation in the classical music section.

“Can I get paid to do the second option? Because that would be a win-win for me,” he teases back.

I tell myself I’m imagining things when he says shit like that.

The way his voice seems to dip a little lower when he speaks to me.

The way his smile lingers a moment too long.

It’s probably my overactive brain reading into things that aren’t there.

Or maybe he’s just a natural flirt. Flirts with anything that walks upright. Yes, that must be it.

As if summoned by thoughts of flirting, the jingle of the front door ushers in Jen, right on time for her afternoon shift. She stops by the counter, dropping her bag and pulling off her jacket in one fluid motion.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Moody and Broody,” she announces, her voice dripping with mock cheerfulness.

I roll my eyes as Chance smirks. “Good to see you too, Jen,” I say, picking up my clipboard.

Chance leans casually against the counter, grinning. “You’re just in time, Jen. Ant here was about to tell me his deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Ant? Is that what we’re going with now?” Jen asks, arching a brow as she looks between us. “Is this a nickname thing? Ooh does he know why they call you PacMan?”

“Don’t you dare,” I sputter, my face heating up.

Jen grins wickedly. “Noted. Anyway, how’s he doing so far?” she asks Chance, gesturing toward me.

“Promising,” Chance replies, his smirk widening. “Though he’s still warming up to me.”

“ Our Anthony … taking a while to warm up to someone? Never.” Jen teases, rolling her eyes.

Chance opens his mouth to respond, but the door jingles again, and two girls walk in, giggling and clutching iced coffees.

“Ah,” Jen says, spotting them immediately. “The freshmen seekers of retro dorm décor have arrived.”

The girls wander toward the aisle behind us, sneaking glances—probably at Chance—and whispering to each other. Jen watches them for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the scene.

“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms and cocking her head. “They’re either ogling fresh meat over here,” she pauses to point at Chance, “or both of you. And honestly? My bet’s on both your asses. And, might I add, what asses they are.”

I groan, heat rising to my face. “No, I think the new guy has some fans,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation anywhere but toward me.

Chance flicks his eyes toward the girls briefly, then turns back, completely unfazed. “Nah, Jen’s right. It’s both of us.” He pauses, his smirk widening into something almost dangerous. “But they’re not my type.”

Jen tilts her head, intrigued. “Alright, Sullivan, then what is your type?”

I glance at him nervously, my heart skipping a beat. “Yeah,” I manage, my voice cracking slightly as I attempt to sound casual. “Wha—what’s your type?”

Chance leans in slightly, his voice dripping like hot honey as his gaze locks on mine. “Why? You throwing your hat in the ring, beautiful?”

The words hit me like a freight train. My face flushes so red I’m surprised I don’t spontaneously combust. My mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a series of stammered sounds.

Jen gasps audibly, her jaw dropping as she stares at us. “Ohmigod,” she whispers, “that was so hot.”

Chance straightens up slowly, and gives Jen a quick wink before resuming his work as if he didn’t just set the entire room ablaze.

Meanwhile, I’m rooted to the spot, my ears burning, my mind racing, and—to my horror—my body betraying me in ways I’d rather not acknowledge. Again.

“Relax, Ant,” Chance says, his tone teasing but somehow reassuring at the same time. “Just trying to loosen you up.”

Jen finally snaps out of it, shaking her head and muttering under her breath, “I was not ready for that. Nope. Not at all.” She turns to me, a smirk splitting her face. “You okay over there, Pacini? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Fine,” I grumble, burying my face in the stack of records in front of me and pretending to be very, very interested in sorting them.

“Oh, this is going to befun,” Jen says, grabbing her clipboard and heading to the back. “I’ll just be in the storage room rubbing myself against something.”

“Jen!” I hiss, but she’s already laughing as she disappears behind the door.

Chance just chuckles to himself, enjoying every second of this.

The rest of the shift passes in a blur of conversations, mostly consisting of me being as awkward as humanly possible. And stolen glances. Lots of those. By the time my shift is over, I’m more than ready to go home and overthink everything in peace .