Page 31 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

And I don't want him to be one either.

The bell above the front door chimes. A sharp, clear ring that shatters the quiet of the shop.

Tyler moves faster than humanly possible. One second he’s kneeling next to me, the next he’s on his feet, his body positioned between me and the door, his right hand resting casually at the small of his back where the steel of his Glock sits against his spine. His cover drops over his face. The blank, unreadable mask of "Tom."

I peer around his solid waist.

A woman stands just inside the doorway. She isn't Syndicate. She doesn't have the slick, arrogant posture of a Crimson Hollow local. She wears a canvas jacket, worn denim, and boots laced tight. Her gaze is sharp, calculating, sweeping the room in a single glance before locking onto Tyler.

Tyler’s posture shifts. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders just a fraction. His hand drops away from his spine.

"Shop's closed," Tyler says. His voice is neutral.

The woman smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes, but it isn't hostile. She walks toward the counter, her boots steady on the oak floor. She carries a glass jar in her hands. The amber liquid inside catches the weak morning light, glowing like liquid gold.

"I can read a sign," she replies. Her voice is calm, grounded. The voice of a woman who knows what it means to stand on a contested perimeter. She steps up to the oak counter and sets the jar down with a soft thud.

I stand up, brushing the dust off my jeans, and step out from behind Tyler.

The woman’s gaze shifts to me. The sharpness softens. A silent understanding passes between us. She looks at the wrecked crates, the cardboard boxes, the mess of a life under siege. Then she looks at the lethal man standing guard over me.

"I'm Susan," she says quietly.

I know that name. I don't know how I know it, but the lore of the northern ridge seeps down into Crimson Hollow through whispers and rumors. The bee farm. The contested south trail. The woman who stood her ground until the MC sent a monster to hold the line for her.

"Wendy," I reply, my voice steady.

Susan taps the lid of the glass jar. Raw clover honey. Thick and perfect. A handwritten paper label tied to the lid reads, From the women of the club. Welcome.

"From the women of the club," Susan says. Her gaze locks onto mine, delivering a message that has nothing to do with baked goods or preserves. It’s a lifeline. An iron chain thrown across the county line. "Welcome."

She turns. She doesn't look back. She walks out the door, the bell chiming a second time. The heavy glass door clicks shut, sealing the quiet back into the shop.

I stare at the jar on the counter. The golden honey.

Welcome.

Not "good luck." Not "stay safe." Welcome.

My breath shudders. I walk to the counter. I reach out and touch the cold glass. It’s real. The weight of it is real.

"She drove from the northern ridge," Tyler murmurs, stepping up close behind me. His chest brushes my back. The heat of him is immediate.

"She brought honey." I trace the edge of the lid.

"She brought an invitation." Tyler’s voice is thick. "The club knows. They know I claimed you. They’re offering the perimeter."

"Your president told you to embed. To stay deep cover. To gather intel."

"Fuck the intel." Tyler’s hands settle on my hips, unyielding. His thumbs press into the cotton of my shirt. "The mission died the second you put your hand on my arm. The only thing I’m guarding now is you. If you want to stay in Crimson Hollow, I’ll slaughter every Syndicate suit that walks down this block. If you want to leave, I’ll burn this building to the ground and carry you north."

The choice.

It hangs in the air, thick with vinyl dust and the smell of dark coffee.

I look around the shop. The faded posters on the walls. The scuffed floors where I learned to walk. The oak counter where I learned to count change. The back room where I finally surrendered the weight of my independence to the man holding my hips.

When my mother died, I kept the music playing. I kept the doors open.