Page 8 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Electric Blue

Anthony

About an hour into my shift, the bell above the door jingles.

It’s a bright, cheerful sound that feels a little out of place in the dim and appropriately dusty vintage record shop.

I turn from the stack of vinyl I’m sorting for V&V, expecting to see one of our usual customers: a scruffy collector hunting for obscure jazz records or a college kid looking for something “ironic” to decorate their dorm. It’s neither.

Mayday! Mayday!

Must. Avert. Eyes.

“Hey,” his deep, gravelly voice rumbles as he strolls in, casual as if he owns the place. He’s tall, easily three inches taller than my six feet, with broad shoulders and an effortlessly cool stride.

His jet-black hair is short and slightly messy, like he rolled out of bed and decided to ruin everyone’s day by being devastatingly attractive.

A worn leather jacket clings to his frame, but it’s his jeans that demand attention.

They’re perfectly fitted, hugging his thick thighs and solid calves in a way that’s almost criminal.

The denim is worn in all the right places, faded just enough to suggest they’ve seen countless rides on the motorcycle now parked outside the shop.

He carries his helmet loosely in one hand as his eyes land on me. “You must be Anthony,” he says, his voice shaking me out of my thoughts as he extends a hand. “I’m Chance Sullivan, the new guy.”

Fuck-fuck-fuck.

Is that a Boston accent? Fuuuck.

I don’t know what I was expecting when Frank and Kathy told me I was training a new hire.

Maybe a nerdy freshman or a music major who spends all their free time scribbling lyrics.

Whatever it was, it most definitely wasn’t this.

Now he’s standing there blinking at me like he just needs an excuse to use his mile-long lashes.

Or maybe he doesn’t know what to do since it’s his first day, Anthony.

I step out from behind the counter. “Uh, hey. Kathy and Frank mentioned they hired someone. I guess I’ll show you around,” I say, trying—and failing—not to get caught up in the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Turning quickly, I throw my thumb over my shoulder, “Toss your jacket, helmet, and bag behind the counter and follow me. We’ll put your stuff in the back later when I show you how to log hours.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” he replies.

I wait, staring at the floor as I hear the rustle of his jacket and the soft thud of his things being set down. Once he’s ready, I wave him over and lead the way toward the 70s rock section, where I plan to start taking him row by row through the shop.

As we make our way, the office door swings open, and a familiar voice cuts through the low hum of a Pixies track playing.

“Anthony,” Jen calls, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’m heading out.”

“God, please no—”

She’s barely two steps out of the office when she stops short, her eyes landing on Chance. A playful smirk appears, and she takes in a quick breath, her gaze sweeping over him before settling back on his face. “Oh. Well, hi,” she says, her tone suddenly lighter… but I know better.

“Jen, this is Chance,” I say, awkwardly gesturing between them. “The new guy.”

“Chance,” she repeats, her lips curling into a smile that I’ve seen melt customers into puddles of goo. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jen.”

Chance nods, giving her a curt, but polite, smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Interesting. Very, very interesting,” she says, her voice light and teasing. She lingers a moment longer, her eyes flicking to me before she heads toward the front door. “See you tomorrow, Anthony,” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.

I shake my head and keep walking, trying not to react to whatever that was. I don’t make it far before my phone buzzes in my hand and I make the mistake of looking down.

Jen: Smash. Hard.

That’s it. Two words. Realizing he’s close enough to see my screen, I fumble with the phone, nearly dropping it as I shove it into my back pocket. My face burns so hot I’m sure Chance can feel the temperature spike.

“You good?” he asks, looking up from an endcap display with a raised brow.

“Uh… yeah, yeah,” I say, voice cracking slightly. “Um, let’s get you familiar with the jazz section first. We’ll come back to ‘70s later.”

I move ahead quickly, determined not to let him see how red I’ve gotten. Somewhere out there, Jen is probably doubled over laughing.

I hope she falls into a pothole.

I manage to get us to the jazz section while desperately trying to compose myself.

My face still feels like it’s on fire, and Chance’s presence behind me isn’t helping.

He’s close enough that I catch his scent: clean and woodsy, with a subtle sharpness, almost like cedar mixed with something fresh.

It’s intoxicating in a way that makes me question if it’s cologne or just him.

Either way, it’s making it hard to focus.

“You into jazz at all?” I ask, gesturing to the neatly arranged records and hoping I don’t sound as awkward as I feel.

Chance shrugs, stepping closer, his movements relaxed and easy.

Now that his jacket is off, I can see he’s got full sleeve tattoos on both arms. The black hues of intricate designs crawl from his wrists up to his biceps, and run beneath the snug fit of his short sleeves.

The way the ink moves with the flex of his muscles as he flips through a stack of records is. .. distracting.

“Not really my vibe,” he says casually, his tone light. “I can appreciate it, but I’m more into ‘80s music. Pop, rock, punk, you name it.”

That gets my attention. I glance at him, caught off guard by his answer—and by him. The tattoos, the easy confidence, the way the dark stubble on his jaw looks thick enough to rock a permanent five o'clock shadow, adding an edge to his already striking features.

And then there are those eyes. I’ve never seen a shade of blue so vivid. They’re electric. It’s like some invisible switch behind his irises flicks on neon backlighting just so he can stare straight into your soul.

“No way. Same here,” I manage, swallowing over the lump in my throat. “I mean, I grew up on all kinds of music, but the ‘80s? That’s where my heart is. What’s your go-to? Please don’t say Thriller . Everyone says Thriller .”

Chance smirks, tilting his head slightly. “Fuck no. For me, it’s The Queen is Dead by The Smiths, Rio by Duran Duran, or Some Great Reward by Depeche Mode. And punk? Don’t even get me started on The Ramones.”

I let out a laugh, shaking my head. “Okay, now I’m impressed. Most people stick to the safe stuff when they talk about the ‘80s, but The Smiths? The Ramones? You’re either a secret music snob or a diehard fan.”

“Maybe both,” he says with a grin, his arm flexing slightly as he adjusts the stack of albums I put in his hands from the cart waiting in the aisle for shelving.

His tattoos catch my eye again, the bold lines and intricate shading sparking my curiosity.

“But get me drunk enough,” he adds, his voice dropping playfully, “and I’ll sing Madonna’s entire Like a Prayer album cover to cover, word for word.

” He leans in just a touch, as if sharing a dirty secret and says, “All you have to do is ask nicely.”

I blink, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Not at all,” he says, that damn grin still plastered on his face. “Madonna shaped pop music forever, and you know it. Everyone knows that.”

I shake my head, trying to focus on the records in front of me. “I do know it, and that’s high up on my top ten albums. You just surprise me is all.”

Chance tilts his head, his eyes narrowing playfully, locking on mine. “There’s a lot about me that might surprise you, boss man.”

Why does that sound so filthy sliding off those ridiculously full lips? And does he really have to wet his bottom lip every time he talks? I swear, if this guy turns out to be some stripper Jen hired just to fuck with me, I’m going to make her life an absolute nightmare.

“Alright, your turn,” Chance says, glancing my way. “What’s on your list?”

“Well, you already know Like a Prayer, um… also, Rebel Yell by Billy Idol, Run-D.M.C.’s Raising Hell, and honestly, Disintegration by The Cure,” I say, trying not to notice the way his smile widens slightly at the mention ofThe Cure.

“Solid,” he says, nodding. “ Disintegration is obviously a classic, and Billy Idol—goddamn.” He pauses, shaking his head with a small laugh before continuing. “That man just hits so hard. You surprise me too, Anthony.”

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 seem busy, 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.