Page 9 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

The claustrophobia of the Vinyl Vault should drive me insane. My routine used to be solitary. For years, it was just me, the records, and the ghosts. Now, every square inch of the shop is saturated with him.

When I sort the estate sale boxes, he’s there. He sits on a stool near the front window, his long legs stretched out, his dark eyes tracking every vehicle that passes on Main Street. He tracks me, too. The weight of his stare presses against my skin when I climb the stepstool to reshelve the blues section. My neck heats under the scrutiny.

He acts like he owns the floorboards I walk on. I catch his reflection in the glass of the front door. He acts like he owns me.

I grab a stack of Led Zeppelin records and march to the front. I dump them into his lap.

He looks down at the vinyl, then up at me.

"Since you’re going to stare at me all day, you can make yourself useful," I tell him. "Alphabetize."

"I’m maintaining a visual perimeter."

"You’re loitering. Alphabetize the Zep."

He stares at me for a long, silent beat. Then, without a word, he picks up the first record and studies the spine. He doesn't complain. He just does it. It infuriates me how readily he submits to my ridiculous demands while simultaneously dominating the room. He alphabetizes the stack flawlessly. He hands it back to me ten minutes later, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange. The friction of his calluses against my skin sends a jolt of electricity up my arm. I snatch the records back and hurry behind the counter, my face burning.

On Monday afternoon, the front door chimes. Nadia walks in, leather jacket worn at the elbows, the keys to her motorcycle clipped to her belt loop. She works for the Broken Halos—too sharp and observant for her own good. She wanders over to the counter, ignoring Tyler.

"Word on the street is the Vault has a new bouncer," Nadia says quietly, tapping her brightly painted nails on the glass. "A cousin from out of town."

"Just visiting," I reply, keeping my tone perfectly even.

Nadia smirks. She drops a five-dollar bill on the counter for a cheap cassette tape she didn't even look at. "Cute. Keep him close, Wendy. The suits are getting restless."

She leaves before I can ask what that means. Tyler watches her go, his jaw locked. He knows who she is. The tactical assessment runs behind his dark eyes.

On Monday evening, the isolation of the shop amplifies. Outside, a light rain begins to fall, slicking the pavement of Main Street and blurring the neon glow of the streetlamps. Inside, the Vault is warm, smelling of melting dust on the amplifier tubes.

I sit cross-legged on the floor behind the counter, pricing a stack of newly acquired jazz records. My mother used to sit in this spot. I trace my finger over a faded price tag written in her looping handwriting. A familiar ache tightens my chest.

Tyler steps behind the counter. The space is too small for both of us. His thigh brushes my shoulder as he reaches for the coffee carafe I set up on the corner stool.

"You're in my light," I grumble, not looking up from the records.

He doesn't move. He pours his coffee. The heat of his leg against my shoulder is a branding iron.

"You inherited this place from your mother," he says. It isn't a question. He states it as a tactical fact he’s already deduced.

I stop pricing. I look up at him. He’s staring down at me, his dark eyes focused.

"Four years ago," I say softly. "She loved these records. She knew every track, every hidden B-side. When she died... I couldn't let it go. I couldn't let them take it."

"The Syndicate."

"They buy up the empty buildings. They turn them into fronts or chop shops. The Vault is the last honest business on this block. If I leave, she disappears."

Tyler sets his coffee mug down. He crouches. The sheer size of him folding into the cramped space behind the counter is staggering. He’s eye-level with me now.

"You've been holding the line alone," he says. His voice is rough and jagged.

"I manage."

He reaches out. His callused thumb brushes the ink smudge on my cheek. The contact sends a shockwave through my system. Oxygen stops in my throat.

"You don't have to manage alone anymore," he says.

He doesn't promise to fix it. He doesn't promise it’ll be easy. He just promises his presence. He promises the immovable wall of his body between me and the street outside.