Page 7 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

Heat radiates from his skin, sinking into my vertebrae. It anchors me to the floorboards.

Mr. Doolan sets a cracked sleeve of John Coltrane on the oak counter. I ring it up. The ancient cash register dings, the mechanical sound unnaturally loud in the narrow shop. The time, the stranger standing behind me—this "Tom from Portland"—radiates silent menace. He blocks out the ambient light from the front window. His black coffee scent overtakes the familiar smell of old paper sleeves and warm dust that usually comforts me.

One warm palm on my spine and he expects me to melt into a puddle behind the counter. As if. I run a business in the middle of a Syndicate-controlled ghost town. I stare down mobsters and junkies without smudging my eyeliner. A brooding giant with a coffee addiction is not going to make me lose my mind.

Except, the sheer gravity of him is doing that. My skin is practically vibrating under his touch. Every nerve ending I possess is hyper-focused on the dimensions of his palm against my lower back.

Mr. Doolan counts out change. He slides the coins across the wood. I scoop them into the drawer, hand him the paper bag, and offer a polite smile.

"Enjoy the Coltrane, Mr. Doolan."

"Always do, Wendy. Always do."

The old man turns and shuffles out. The door closes. The brass bell chimes overhead.

I turn around.

Tyler drops his hand, but he doesn't step back. We’re trapped in the narrow space between the register and the back wall.

"You can holster the meat hook now, Portland," I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest.

He doesn't smile. His eyes—dark, intense, tracking every micro-expression on my face—drop to my mouth, then flick back up. "Cover requires contact."

"The customer was eighty years old and legally blind. He wasn't cross-referencing your DNA to see if we share a family tree."

"Syndicate goons have eyes everywhere. You made me your family. Now we act like it."

"Cousins don't stand that close."

"We do."

His voice is a low rumble that rattles my ribs. I refuse to take a step back, even though his chest is inches from my nose. He’s a wall of muscle and stillness.

"If you’re going to stay in my shop," I point a finger at the center of his chest, "you’re going to learn how to browse. Go pretend to care about the soft rock section."

He stares at my pointing finger. Then he shifts his gaze back to my eyes. He steps around me, his arm brushing my shoulder, and moves out to the main floor.

The afternoon stretches into evening. He doesn't leave the shop. Not even for a second. He spends four straight hours browsing the same three crates near the front window. He’s a terrible actor when it comes to the vinyl. He slides the sleeves out, staring at the grooves as if reading a foreign language. But his physical presence is a masterclass in area denial. Nobody else walks into the shop. The few locals who glance through the glass take one look at the sheer width of his shoulders and keep walking.

Dusk bleeds the light out of Crimson Hollow. The streetlamps flicker on, casting long, dirty shadows across the cracked pavement of Main Street.

I reach past him and flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED. The deadbolt slides home with a metallic thud.

I turn off the overhead fluorescent tubes. Only the amber counter lamp remains, casting a honeyed glow over the rows of records. The vintage turntable behind the counter is spinning a soft acoustic B-side. The crackle of the needle fills the silence.

"You're staying," I say. It isn't a question.

"I'm staying."

I march past him, pushing through the beaded curtain that separates the shop floor from the back room. The plastic beads clack together. He follows right on my heels, ducking his head to clear the low doorframe.

I gesture to the space. It’s small. Cramped. A single mattress rests on a low wooden frame pushed against the far wall. A thrifted lamp with a yellowed shade sits on a crate next to it. Another milk crate holds a secondary record player and a stack of my personal rejects—the B-sides, the scratched masterpieces I play after hours. Cardboard boxes of unsorted estate-sale vinyl cover the 1920s oak flooring. The smell of old paper and warm vinyl dust is thick in the air.

"If you're really going to squat here, this is the VIP suite," I tell him, flipping on the thrifted lamp. "No windows. Solid walls. Safe."

He surveys the room. His gaze catalogs the exits, the sightlines, the structural integrity of the walls. He studies the dust patterns on the floorboards. He memorizes the space in less than ten seconds. Then he looks at the mattress.

"Where do you sleep?"