Chaos and Control(56)

“You guys need help finding something?” I ask.

“Actually, yes,” a tall guy with shaggy brown hair answers. He gives me a once-over—the kind that’s supposed to be inviting—but it just makes me feel dirty. “We’re looking for some eighties music for a throwback party we’re having tonight.”

“You want hair bands, punk, or pop?” They look at each other and shrug. “Come, boys. Let me take you to school.”

I lead them over to the second aisle and skim through the stacks. When I see a record they need, I pull it out and flip it over my shoulder.

“You’ll need this.” I pass them the quintessential eighties pop album, Michael Jackson’s Thriller. “And this.” Journey’s Greatest Hits follows. “And definitely this.” I hand them Poison’s Look What the Cat Dragged In, along with a few more necessary records.

When I’m done, I turn to find them divvying up the stack. Three of the guys head toward the front to pay, while Shaggy Hair lingers behind. He gives me a goofy grin, and I know what’s coming next.

“You seem like a down girl. You want to come to our party tonight? We could continue my music education.”

I grin, but shake my head. “Sorry. I have to work tonight.”

“Oh,” he says glancing toward the front of the store. “Are you guys open late?”

“Not here,” I clarify. “I’m a bartender at The Haystack.”

“Oh,” he repeats. “That’s too bad. Maybe another time. Thanks for the help.”

The guy jogs away to catch up with his friends, and I busy myself with straightening the stacks. I can feel him before I see him. Preston’s presence is not subtle.

“Hello, Preston-who-eavesdrops-on-conversations,” I say without turning to face him.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need any help.” His deep, possessive voice sends chills racing across the back of my neck. Every inch of my body is aware of his nearness.

“I know music, and I know this job.”

“I didn’t mean help with music,” he clarifies.

The door chimes, and I know our customers have left. I spin to find him only a few inches away. His intense eyes challenge my easygoing attitude.

“I know boys, too. I can handle them.”

“You seem like a down girl,” he says, mocking Shaggy Hair.

I’m about to respond to this when we’re interrupted.

“Wren!” Bennie yells. She’s speed walking down the middle aisle, waving something. She lowers her voice when she gets closer. “Wren, this came for you.” Her face is worried, and she’s panting. “It’s from him, isn’t it?”

“From who?” Preston asks.

I take the envelope from her and look at my name and address scrawled on the front. It is from Dylan. The contents are bulky and strange between my fingers. I hold it at arm’s length, unsure if I even want to open it. But I know I have to. Even with my pulse pounding and the panic in my head, I’m aware of Bennie’s and Preston’s eyes on me.

I turn my back to them and clutch the envelope to my chest. Squeezing my eyes shut, I find the strength to tear it open. I turn the envelope over and out slides a necklace. The charm lands in my hand, and I recognize it immediately.

“Here, baby. I got you something,” Dylan said. His voice was sweet. It was the voice he used after he had gotten violent. I think it was supposed to soothe me, but it only reminded me of the bruises left on my arms.

I didn’t look at him, but stared out the kitchen window. I abandoned the dirty dishes and my hands sat idle in the soapy water.

“Baby.” I didn’t respond. Instead, I blinked away tears before he could see them.

“Wren.”

Dylan’s body pressed into my back, and his hand appeared in front of me. Dangling from his fingers was a necklace. The charm was a bird in a cage.

“You like it?” he asked.

I nodded my head.

“Good. That’s you, baby. My little bird.”

Dylan draped the necklace around my neck and fastened it. His thick, rough fingers traced the line of the chain until his hand was wrapped lightly around my throat.

“My little bird in her cage. She won’t fly away.”

“He gave me this,” I say, turning to show Bennie. “I left it behind when I ran.”

“Ran?” Preston asks. There is an urgency to his question.

“It’s a birdcage,” Bennie says.

“A wren. Locked away,” I clarify.

Fear sinks through me, pulling me down to the floor. I drop the envelope and pull my knees against my chest. The pendant sits heavy in my grip, the edges cutting into my palm. I stare at the empty envelope, trying to decipher his message. I want to believe that he is just returning a gift, but I know better. This is a warning.

“What did you run from?” Preston asks, his voice louder and more demanding now.

I look up to find Preston’s beautiful face contorted. His brows are low over each eye, a deep V appearing between them. The muscles of his sharp jaw twitch. I open my mouth, but can’t find the words.

Internal noise makes it hard to concentrate. My pulse is pounding like thunder in my ears. Memories of bruised ribs and Dylan’s violent hands around my throat threaten to bring up my lunch. Bennie gives me a sympathetic look and turns to Preston. She tells him everything, all my dirty secrets. I should be angry with her for doing it, but I feel nothing but relief.