Page 6 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

"I didn't hire a handyman, Tom."

The fake name grates against my spine. I hate it in her mouth. I hate the lie. I want to rip the deep-cover operative mask off. I want to slam both hands down on the oak counter, lean over the wood, and tell her my real name. I want to tell her she belongs to a man named Tyler. I want to claim her so loud the eastern ridge hears it.

But I can’t. The cover is the only armor she has right now. If the Syndicate knows I’m a Broken Halos prospect, they’ll execute her in the street for harboring a club spy. The lie is a shield. I have to wear it.

"You didn't hire anyone," I say. I move until my thighs are brushing the edge of the counter. She’s two feet away. The amber light catches the fierce, intelligent spark in her eyes. "But I'm here. And I'm not leaving."

She stares at me. She doesn’t back down. The sass is right there on the edge of her tongue, but she swallows it. She feels it too. The magnetic drag pulling us together. The gravity of the room is focused on the microscopic space between my chest and her hands.

Before she can respond, the bell over the front door chimes.

A sharp, metallic ring that shatters the tension.

My combat instincts flare instantly. My posture shifts. The deep-cover register engages automatically, smoothing out the dangerous edges of my frame, turning me back into Tom the drifter. But the protector doesn’t retreat.

An older man in a faded denim jacket shuffles into the shop. A civilian. He heads straight for the jazz section near the front window, oblivious to the charged atmosphere surrounding the register.

I step around the side of the counter. I move into her personal space.

I let my calloused hand land on the small of her back.

The contact is electric. A surge of heat burns through my palm, through the fabric of her vintage shirt, searing into my blood. She gasps softly. Her spine arches into my touch. She doesn’t pull away.

It’s territorial. It’s a public claim. It fits within the parameters of the cover story. Cousins. Family. Proximity.

But there’s nothing familial about the way my fingers flex against the curve of her lower spine. I press my thumb against the delicate ridge of bone. A silent command. Mine.

She looks up at me. Her pupils are blown wide, eclipsing the color of her irises. The pulse at the base of her throat beats in frantic, erratic time with the scratching needle of the turntable.

"Can I help you find something?" she calls out to the old man, her voice steady despite the fact that my hand is branding her skin.

"Just looking, Wendy," the man calls back, flipping through the crates.

Wendy.

The name echoes in my head. Wendy and Tyler. The Ignition hums a low, vicious frequency in my chest.

I keep my hand resting on the small of her back. I stand beside her, projecting an aura of stillness. I’m reading the street through the glass. I’m tracking the old man’s movements in the reflection of the display case. I’m cataloging the scent of her skin—faded vanilla, warm paper, and the sharp ozone smell of vintage electronics.

The Syndicate lieutenant thinks he owns this town. He thinks he can run his extortion rackets and his enforcers through these streets without consequence. He thinks he can put a target on the back of the woman standing next to me.

He’s wrong.

The Broken Halos sent a ghost into Crimson Hollow to gather intelligence. But the ghost just found his soul. And now the Syndicate has a blood-mad prospect living in the center of their territory.

I brush my thumb along her spine one more time. She shivers. The movement sends a fresh wave of adrenaline crashing through my system.

Let the enforcers come back. Let the Tuesday collector show his face. I’ll burn their corporatized empire to the ground, brick by bloody brick, to keep her safe.

She’s inside the trap with me.

And I’m never letting her go.

3

Wendy

The callused weight of his palm burns through the thin cotton of my vintage band tee. He doesn't squeeze. He doesn't flex. He simply rests his hand flat against the base of my spine, staking a geographical claim right in front of old Mr. Doolan, who just shuffled in looking for a used jazz pressing.