Page 3 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Video Killed the Radio Star

Anthony

Devil Records is an eclectic mix of vinyl and cassettes, old wood floors, and nostalgic decor. The store is a long, narrow space tucked between a remodeled pub and a vintage clothing shop off Mill Avenue in Tempe, a bustling little city primarily inhabited by college students.

The walls are lined with shelves that bow slightly under the weight of albums and tapes spanning decades.

Concert posters of music legends—Tina Turner, Springsteen, Madonna—cover the walls, curling at the edges and faded from years of exposure to the sun streaming in the front windows.

A neon sign reading Devil Records flickers above the cash register, bathing the counter in a retro red glow.

It’s quiet today. The soft crackle of the vinyl feels like the shop’s heartbeat: steady, soothing, and alive.

I’ve got Rumors spinning on the turntable that’s connected to the shop’s speakers.

I’m sure my coworkers are tired of hearing Fleetwood Mac every shift I work, but it’s the album that got me hooked on classic rock and pop.

While my heart belongs to ‘80s music, this album calms my mind in a way no other can. In my opinion, “Dreams” might be the greatest pop song ever written. Frank, one of the shop’s owners, loves to argue otherwise.

He insists there are too many masterpieces to crown just one.

He’s probably right, but at this point, I keep defending my choice just to give the old hippie something to debate.

I’m halfway through reorganizing the classic rock section when the chaos that is my coworker—and best friend—Jen, cuts through the silence like a cymbal crash.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she says, leaning against the end of the shelf with a smirk.

“I’m assuming you’re talking to me and not having a flashback to whoever you lured into your web last night.” I say, not even bothering to look up. “Either way, the list of things I do wrong is extensive. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Jen laughs. It’s a sharp, bright sound that matches her energy.

Her auburn hair is tied back in a messy bun, a pencil sticking out of it at an odd angle.

She’s wearing a black concert tee—The Clash today—paired with ripped jeans and combat boots.

Everything about her screams unintentionally cool.

She knows it but couldn’t care less at the same time.

“Alphabetizing albums is a crime,” she says, crossing her arms.

This should be fun.

“Uh, it’s how people tend to look for things in bookstores and music shops,” I shoot back. “How do you think anyone is going to find what they’re looking for?”

“I think you just don’t want to do it the right way because it’s harder,” she counters, arching an eyebrow.

“And what is the right way, Jen?”

“Everybody knows you organize it by who you’d like to fuck. It’s harder, Anthony. For instance… do I want Bono or Blondie up front?”

“Don’t you mean Debbie Harry?” I ask.

“No. The whole band. But Debbie does get first dibs.”

I snicker at her ridiculousness. “Is this your way of volunteering to do this for me?”

“Not a chance,” she grins, snagging a vinyl from my stack and examining it. “Ooh, Concrete Blonde. Nice!” Then she spins around, walking backward while flipping me double birds.

Frank’s voice chirps from the back office: “Anthony. Jen. Get in here.”

We exchange a look, and Jen groans. “What do you think Frank misplaced this time?”

“Could be anything,” I say, leaving the stack and following her toward the office.

Frank and Kathy are standing behind the desk, going through a tall pile of paperwork that looks like it’s been there since the 70s.

Frank is tall and broad-shouldered, his graying hair pulled back into a ponytail that’s both practical and ridiculous.

He’s wearing his usual uniform: a Hawaiian shirt with his old man cargo shorts and the whole socks-with-sandals combo.

Kathy, on the other hand, is the picture of hippie chic—long, flowy skirts, layered necklaces, and hair that seems to have a life of its own. Her round glasses perch on her nose as she peers at a clipboard.

“I can’t find that invoice anywhere,” Frank says, waving us in.

“Gee, I can’t imagine why,” Jen says flatly.

“I tried to tell him,” Kathy chimes in, not looking up from her clipboard.

Jen sighs dramatically. “Frank, I can have all that input and organized into the computer system for you in no time and you’ll never be looking for things again. Well, not paperwork at least.”

Frank waves her off, distracted. “Fine, I’ll think about it. But first, we’ve got a couple things to go over. When’s the nextVino & Vinylnight?”

This gets Kathy’s attention. She perks up, bracelets jingling as she clutches the clipboard to her chest. “Ooh, what vendors are coming? People keep asking. And by people, I mean me. I love V&V!”

“First Friday of next month,” I say. “We’ve got the same food truck as last time—the pasta one run by the chef that won Truck Wars on FoodTV. I also confirmed with the wine vendor this morning. They’re bringing a new cabernet they’re excited about.”

“Ooh, fancy,” Kathy says, clasping her hands.

“ You’re fancy,” Frank teases, winking at her.

“That’s why you married me.”

Jen groans. “Please stop flirting. Exposure is not a condition of our employment. I checked.”

“Speaking of employment,” Frank says, flipping through a folder, “we’ve got a new hire starting tomorrow. You’ll need to train him, Anthony.”

I frown. “Me? Why not Jen?”

“Because Jennifer once told a customer that while all vinyl is timeless, not all fashion is,” Kathy says, looking up over the rim of her glasses.

“She was rude and wearing a fanny pack,” Jen retorts, shrugging.

Frank shakes his head. “Anyway, his name is…” He flips through the folder again, squinting at the paper.

“What is it?” Kathy teases with a smirk, clearly aware of the name but enjoying the sight of her husband bumbling around.

“Carter, no, Charles. Chase?” Frank pauses, then snaps his fingers. “Chance! That’s it. Chance something. Starts with an ‘S.’”

“Chance Sullivan,” Kathy says, exasperated.

“That’s what I said,” Frank says, grinning.

Kathy reaches over, grabs the folder from him and hands it to me. “You’re impossible, husband.” She shakes her head, but her eyes can’t hide her fond amusement.

Frank crosses his arms. “Anyway, you guys will like him, I think. Nice Irish boy from the East Coast. He should fit right in here.”

Jen leans into my side as we’re walking out of the office and whispers, “I don’t know, Chance sounds like a fucking hot name, maybe he should fit right in me.”

I push her into the poster display.

The rest of the shift passes in a blur of banter, organizing, and customers who seem to have a sixth sense for showing up five minutes before closing. By the time the last person leaves, the shop is quiet again, the neon sign flickering in the dim light.

“You ready for your new trainee?” Jen asks as she flips the Open sign to Closed.

“Thrilled,” I deadpan, stacking the last of the featured vinyl for V&V night on the counter so I can prepare the special display.

She grins, tossing her bag over her shoulder just as Kathy and Frank shuffle to the front to leave for the night. “Good luck. Try not to scare him off on his first shift. I need to take more days off this semester.”

“No promises,” I mutter, watching as she and Kathy head for the door.

Frank lingers, adjusting the display in the front window. “Don’t stay too late,” he says, pointing at me.

“Never do,” I reply, even though we both know I’ll be here for at least another hour.

As the door closes behind him, I let out a breath, the shop falling into silence.

The record on the player skips, a soft pop disturbing the air. I walk over and lift the needle, setting it back gently onto the last song. My favorite on this album. The music picks up again, steady and familiar, and for a moment, everything feels right.

That doesn’t last long.

At first, it’s nothing more than movement out of the corner of my eye, a figure passing by the window. My heart skips a beat when I recognize the black cassock and white collar.

A priest.

The sight alone is enough to send a jolt through me, my breath catching as memories claw their way to the surface.

The cloying scent of incense. The dim glow of candlelight. The low murmur of prayers whispered in a voice that promised safeness but never was.

I grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as I try to ground myself.

It’s just a regular priest—not one of them.

He’s not here for you.

But then he stops. He’s standing directly in front of the shop now, his right side to the window. My pulse quickens, a steady drumbeat in my ears as I watch him from behind the counter.

Keep walking, I think, silently willing him to move.

Instead, he slowly and deliberately pivots his head toward the window, his face partially obscured in the shadows cast by the awning. Now he’s looking in.

Directly at me.

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. My throat closes, like the air in the room has turned to smoke.

My mind races, every rational thought drowned out by the roar of panic.

Does he know me?

Did someone send him

Did Frank lock the door?

I can’t breathe.

Without thinking, I duck down, sliding onto the floor behind the counter and press my back against the shelves. My hands are shaking, slick with sweat, as I clamp them over my knees and try to steady my breathing. I barely hear the music coming from the speakers through the ringing in my ears.

This isn’t happening.

It has nothing to do with them.

It’s your fucking mind.

I repeat the words like a mantra, but they refuse to stick. The memories continue to press in from all sides: bathrooms where I hid, pews where I sat wondering why the people singing around me wouldn’t help, hands that lingered too long, threats whispered on whiskey breath.

I close my eyes, my chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.

Minutes pass, or maybe it’s seconds—I can’t tell. All I know is the weight of the fear pressing down on me, the sound of my own heartbeat drowning out everything else.

When I finally gather the courage to look, I peek over the top of the counter.

The window is empty.

The priest is gone.

I sit another few moments, legs feeling like jelly, before slowly pulling myself to my feet. My hands grip the shelf for balance as I scan the shop, half-expecting him to be inside, waiting.

But there’s no one.

Just the repetitive crackle-hum of a record left spinning after the last track has ended, and the quiet creaks of the old building.

I force myself to move, heading back to the counter on unsteady legs. The shop feels colder now, the shadows darker.

“It was nothing,” I whisper to myself, the words hollow in my ears.

I feel a mix of relief and foolishness, yet the fear remains, gnawing at the edges of my mind, refusing to let go.