Page 13 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Foolin’

Anthony

The killer riffs of Heart play overhead, a motivating soundtrack for an afternoon of busy work. I swear, Nancy Wilson shredding on an electric guitar just hits different. And don’t even get me started on Ann’s voice.

I look toward the counter to check on things and catch Chance lingering near the register. His attention is fixed on the stack of flyers by the till, the bold lettering promoting next weekend’sVino & Vinylevent.

“I keep meaning to ask, what’s this all about?” he says, holding up the flyer.

“Vino & Vinyl?” I ask, moving a stack of records to the next shelf.

“Yeah, what is it?” he presses, turning the flyer over.

“It’s a thing we do every month,” I explain, keeping my tone casual. “Local wineries set up shop here, and people come to sample wine and browse records. We bring in a few food vendors too. It’s kind of become a big deal on Mill Ave.”

Chance nods—clearly interested. “That’s a fantastic idea. Whose brainchild was it?”

Fuck. I hesitate, hoping he’ll drop it, but of course, he doesn’t.

“Come on, Ant,” he says, leaning against the counter with that damn smirk. “Don’t leave me hanging. This is all you, isn’t it?”

I open my mouth to deflect, but Frank’s voice carries from the other end of the shop. “Yes, that’d be all Anthony.”

I shoot Frank a glare as he and Kathy stroll over, each holding a cup of coffee.

“Anthony came up with the whole thing,” Kathy says proudly. “He pitched it to us shortly after he started working here a few years ago—it’s been a hit ever since.”

“Modest little genius,” Frank adds with a chuckle.

I groan, feeling the heat rise to my face. “It’s not a big deal. It was just an idea.”

“‘Not a big deal?’” Kathy repeats, her voice rising in mock outrage. “Anthony, it’s the reason we’re finally a profitable operation. You gave people a reason to come in here, whether to rediscover their love for vinyl—or to realize the shop exists in the first place.”

“Exactly,” Frank agrees, setting his coffee down on the counter. “Hell, we’ve even got regulars who plan around it.”

Chance looks at me, his grin widening. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Ant? Color me impressed.”

“It’s really not that impressive,” I mutter, suddenly very interested in the Abba record in front of me.

Kathy laughs and pats me on the shoulder. “You’re too modest for your own good.”

“Or just embarrassed,” Jen pipes up as she joins the conversation, dropping her bag behind the counter. “Seriously, Pacini, just take the damn compliment for once.”

“Yeah, Pacini,” Frank says with a wink. “Take the compliment.”

I groan again as they all laugh, clearly enjoying my discomfort. They don’t know the depth behind it. How could they? It’s not like I’ve ever told anyone… anything.

I’m saved by Jen plopping the shipment of new inventory trade albums on the counter. Chance leans against the counter, flipping through the shipment. His forearms flex and his tattoos move like a living work of art. He glances up, a crooked grin on his face.

“Alright, team,” he announces, his tone casual but insistent.

“If any of you ever come across The Queen Is Dead —and I mean the 1986 promo with the alternate cover—do me a solid and set it aside. I don’t care what the price is.

I’ll pay whatever we’d charge a customer.

I know it will kill my savings, but that’s my one. The one.”

I stop mid-shelving and look over at him. “That’s your holy grail, eh?”

Chance nods, his expression earnest now. “Damn right. It’s impossible to find. The promo with the alternate cover is like a myth at this point, but I’ve been searching for years. Just putting it out there in case the vinyl gods ever decide to bless this shop.”

Jen snorts from her spot behind the counter. “Wow, Sullivan, didn’t peg you as a Morrissey guy.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “I’m a Smiths guy. Big difference.”

There’s a spark of passion in his voice that catches me off guard, a glimpse of the person behind the confidence. I take out my phone and pull up the Notes app.

“Well ok then,” Jen says, rolling her eyes. “We’ll keep an eye out for your unicorn when the trades come in.”

Chance gives her a mock salute before going back to his stack. I linger for a second longer than I should, watching him, before shaking it off and returning to my shelf.

An hour later, Frank, Kathy, and Jen leave for the day, leaving Chance and me to handle the rest of the shift. The shop is quieter now, just a few customers browsing in the back.

The jingle of the doorbell pulls me out of my thoughts.

My stomach drops the moment I see him—the priest from the other night. His black cassock, the stark white clerical collar, the slight tilt of his head as he surveys the shop. There’s no mistaking him.

I freeze, my heart pounding so hard it sounds like it’s echoing in my ears.

Why is he here?

Chance is in the back sections, and I can hear him humming along to whatever track is playing on the store speakers. I consider calling out to him, but my throat is too constricted to project my voice that far. It’s just me up here. Fuck.

Steeling myself, I force a shaky breath and step out from behind the counter, my feet feeling like lead. “Hi, welcome. Can I help you find something?” My voice comes out thin, almost unrecognizable to my own ears.

The priest doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. The movement makes me flinch, and I grip the edge of the counter behind me, my palms slick with sweat. He notices. I know he notices because his lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile.

“I’m looking for a few records,” he says finally, his voice low and calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes my skin crawl. “Do you have‘Don’t Speak’by No Doubt on vinyl?”

I blink, caught off guard by the request. “Uh… that’s… that’s a single. Yes, I think we have the single EP on vinyl,” I stammer. “I can grab that for you. Any others?”

“Yes,” the priest says, his eyes fixed on me. It feels like he’s dissecting every twitch of my face. “How about‘Somebody’s Watching Me’by Rockwell, also, ‘The Sound of Silence’—the Simon and Garfunkel version.”

My hands are shaking now. His tone and the titles suddenly feel deliberate, like they’re intended to mean something. I nod quickly, trying to keep my voice steady. I’m overreacting. “Y-yeah, I think we have those too. I’ll grab it. Anything else?”

I glance toward the back of the store, searching for Chance. He’s still there, crouched by a sale shelf, rearranging the new lava lamp display. The sight of him grounds me, just a little.

“Yes,” the priest says, his tone sharper now. “How about‘Killing in the Name’…”

I suck in a sharp breath, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut. My vision blurs at the edges, and I feel myself teetering on the brink of panic. The priest’s gaze pierces through me, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for me to break.

My legs threaten to give out, my chest constricts as the air seems to thin. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but stand there, frozen in fear.

“Ant!” Chance’s voice cuts through the fog, urgent and close.

I glance up just as Chance is striding toward the front of the store, his brows furrowed in concern. His presence is like a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge.

The priest, however, doesn’t wait. He sees Chance approaching, folds the paper and slides it back into his pocket. Without another word, he turns and strides out of the shop, the doorbell jingling behind him.

“Ant, are you okay?” Chance is next to me now, his hand on my shoulder.

I jump a little at his touch, then nod stiffly, even though I’m anything but okay.

“What the fuck? What just happened?” he asks, his voice low and steady, like he’s trying not to spook me further.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. My eyes are glued to the door, half-expecting the creep to walk back in.

Chance follows my gaze, his expression darkening. “Who was that?”

“N-no one,” I manage to choke out, though my voice barely rises above a whisper. “Just… just a customer.”

Chance doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he grabs the stool from behind the counter and gently guides me onto it. “Sit down,” he says firmly.

I do as he says, my hands gripping the seat as I try to steady my breathing.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, crouching down to meet my eyes. “Ant, talk to me. What’s going on, Beautiful?”

I shake my head again, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the words from spilling out. I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone. That’s the whole point.

Chance’s hand rests softly on my knee, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles. “Okay,” he says after a long pause. “You don’t have to tell me right now. But I’m here, okay?”

I nod, my heart pounding for an entirely different reason now. His words, his touch, his presence are the only things keeping me from falling apart completely in this moment.

But as much as I want to believe him, the shadow of the priest’s presence lingers, and I know this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

An hour later, after we’ve locked the doors for closing duties, I’m still stuck in my own head, the heavy vibe I’m radiating casting a shadow over the shop.

Chance, probably sick of my shit, grabs a stack of new inventory and heads to the pop section.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he methodically shelves each album in the stack.

When he finishes, he stops in the middle of the aisle, his gaze fixed on me. I can feel his eyes on me. I always do. I glance up, and it’s immediately clear he’s up to no good. His eyes are practically sparkling with mischief.

Before I can say anything, he bolts across the shop at full speed, darting into the vinyl singles section like a man on a mission. He rifles through the 45s frantically, finds the one he’s looking for, and yanks it out. Holding it down by his knees so I can’t see, he shouts dramatically,