Page 18 of King of Pain

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 ashe 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.