Page 7 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)
Take My Breath Away
Chance
The stupidly bright Arizona sun blasts through the thin curtains of my bedroom.
Fuck, no wonder people that live here are so active. Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes, and take a moment to ground myself.
Today’s the day—my first shift at a real job.
A flicker of nerves run through me, but I push it aside. If I let myself sit with the anxiety too long, it will turn into something bigger, and I don’t have time for that.
I throw on a pair of gym shorts and a hoodie, lace up my running shoes, and head to the apartment gym. The mornings here are too fucking hot to run outside this time of year. The air is thick and unforgiving even before the sun fully rises.
The gym is small but functional. Just a few treadmills, some free weights, and a couple of machines lined up against the mirrored walls. It’s empty right now, the rattle of the air conditioner the only sound as I step onto a treadmill and start my warm-up.
My heart pounds harder with each stride, the familiar burn in my legs building until it drowns out everything else. Running clears my head in a way nothing else can. It provides a rhythm I can control, a rare constant in the chaos that’s been my life.
I push myself harder, increasing the speed until the sweat dripping down my back makes the hoodie cling to my skin.
I slow my pace to a jog when my chest heaves, and my mind feels quieter.
The treadmill beeps as I come to a stop, my hands gripping the rails as I catch my breath.
There, that should get your head in the right mindset for today, I think to myself.
Back at the apartment, I grab a protein shake from the fridge and settle at the small table by the window. The apartment is small but modern, with clean lines and just enough space for me.
The walls are painted a crisp white, and the floors are a faux-wood laminate that catches the sunlight streaming in through the sliding glass door. It leads to a tiny balcony, barely big enough for a chair, but it’s the perfect spot for morning coffee.
The kitchen, though small, has stainless steel appliances and sleek counters that make it feel more expensive than it is. There’s a single barstool tucked under the counter that doubles as a dining area until I get a table.
The living room is sparse, furnished with a basic gray sofa, a matching overstuffed chair, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
Aside from my bed, they’re the only things I’ve acquired so far.
I need steady paychecks coming in before I will feel comfortable making any more large purchases.
The Doves would set me up and pay for everything if I asked, but that would defeat the purpose.
The only personal touch is a stack of books on the coffee table, my sneakers by the door, and the photo of my club hockey team hanging on the wall in the living room.
The rent is manageable—thanks to the savings I squirreled away running jobs for The Doves.
Six months paid upfront means I don’t have to stress about bills while I figure shit out.
I chose Arizona because it’s far enough from home to start over but affordable enough that I can make a real go of it. The heat takes some getting used to, obviously, but it’s different from the stifling atmosphere of my life in Boston. This is a clean slate.
Grabbing my laptop, I pull up the community college website and navigate to the course schedule.
I’ve been avoiding this since I got here, but I promised myself I’d make an honest effort to start over.
A fresh start means more than just escaping my past—it means finding myself, setting goals, and pursuing things I never had the courage to before.
The course catalog is overwhelming. Business, Marketing, Communications, English.
They’re all practical options, but none of them spark anything in me.
I keep scrolling, and a section for art and design catches my eye.
General education classes are a given, but maybe I could mix in something creative.
I’ve dabbled with drawing, painting, and experimented with design programs on my laptop, and I think I might be good at it.
Back in Boston, I never let myself believe it was worth exploring, let alone showing anyone, but here? Here, I could try. Maybe even thrive.
By early afternoon, the heat has crept in, and I’m standing in front of the mirror, deciding what to wear. I don’t want to overthink it, but it’s my first real job and my first real chance to meet people outside of the only world I’ve ever known.
My hand lingers on a long-sleeve shirt hanging in the closet, but the thought of riding my motorcycle in this heat makes me grimace.
I still wear my jacket when I’m on the bike, even though I’ve noticed a lot of people here don’t bother.
Road rash isn’t worth the risk, especially when this ink cost a small fortune.
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 a symbol 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.