3. Eddy

Chapter three

Eddy

T he shop owner was super cool, but sure as hell did not look like a bookstore owner. No, he was cute, or rather handsome, with his thick brown hair brushed off his forehead, short and wavy, and a thin beard and mustache, both dark. Not to mention those dreamy bedroom eyes, broad shoulders that filled out a snug black T-shirt, and ohmygawd tight jeans hugging his thighs led down to a hefty pair of biker boots. The motorcycle out front had to belong to him. I barely stopped myself from drooling.

But I did. And I stuck my hand out in greeting. "I'm Eddy. Eddy Queen."

Mr. Bookstore owner smiled and shook my hand. I was so blinded by that gorgeous grin that I almost missed his name. "Brock Thrasher."

Someone so exceedingly cool and put together like Brock Thrasher would never be interested in me. Not that it mattered. I need a little help, not a romp in the sack. "This is your place?" I asked, glancing around. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary store. I had to save my ass before I could think of anything else. Maybe this Brock guy could help, but should I get him involved in my issues? I didn't want anyone else in danger, but I knew I needed help.

"It is. We have some fresh cinnamon buns in the back and coffee brewing if you'd like." He said something else about books, but I was too busy wandering around nervously touching things and trailing my fingers down the spine of this book and that one.

Did he say coffee? "Uh…please. Coffee?" Although I should avoid the caffeine, I adored coffee and was jonesing for it. I hoped Brock Thrasher here made a decent cup.

"This way." He thumbed over his shoulder and made his way down the center aisle. Shelf upon shelf of books lay on either side of it in somewhat of a maze. "So, why do you need to hang out?" he asked as he circled the coffee bar.

I stared down into the case at all the sticky buns. They looked delicious but food loaded with sugar was another thing I didn't really need now. But what did I need? And what should I tell him? How much could I say? "It's complicated."

He slid a cup in front of me and poured coffee in. It smelled divine, heavenly roasted. "There's fixin's there." He pointed to a tray with sugar packets in all the standard colors and non-dairy creamer. "Or I can get oat milk, or I think I have some French Vanilla liquid stuff…" Brock smiled again. His teeth were gleaming white and straight, and his cheeks dimpled, but the spark in his eyes held my attention. They seemed kind but mischievous.

Yep, he ticked every one of my boxes.

Maybe I go with the truth? "No creamer. Please, I need help. Someone is trying to kill me. Maybe." Was that too much? Too fast?

"What? You should go to the police. I can call them or take you over to the station."

"No, I don't trust them. They'll turn me over…" How the hell did I explain this without Brock thinking I was crazy. Or maybe I was.

"What? What do you mean? Why?" He lost his happy face and replaced it with a scowly one.

"It-It's Greg. I think. And the police won't believe me. Or they'll turn me over to him, and that's probably just as bad right now."

Brock bobbed back and forth, looking past me and toward the front of the store. "Come on." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did. He went into the back storeroom where, along with boxes stacked against the walls, there was a cluttered desk and an extra chair. "I don't know what's going on, but let's just breathe. You're here. You're safe. Let's take it one step at a time. Okay?"

I sat in the chair in the small office space and clasped my hands together to keep them from dancing everywhere. I wasn't sure how safe I was, but I did need some time to calm down and think.

"Better?" he asked, and I nodded, taking a deep breath. "Now who is Greg?"

"My brother."

Brock's eyes widened. "What? Your brother? Why—?"

"Now you see why the police won't believe me?"

"You really think your brother is trying to kill you?"

"Maybe?" I didn't want to think that, but glaring things stood out that pointed to that. "Either him or his husband, Kurt. Trying to kill me or get my game info." Actually, it was more likely Kurt, but Greg was blind to everything going on. "Or both."

Brock didn't flinch at that description. But that didn't mean he was gay or that he'd want me if he was. And why the hell was I thinking about that anyway? My life was in danger here.

"Okay. Okay, I'll take you to my place. No one will find you. Stay here a minute, and I'll get my bike, bring it around back, and close the shop. Okay?"

"O-Okay. Thank you." I agreed but didn't think I could trust him. Brock seemed nice enough, but he didn't even know me. I watched him go out the front door and lock it. He got on that big bike parked in the front. I assumed to come around to the back like he said.

But what if someone saw me come in? What if Greg or his asshole husband were watching me? Following me? Which is what I feared and why I ducked into the store to start with. I rushed to the front and peered up and down the street. Was anyone out there hunting me? Could it be someone besides Kurt and Greg?

It looked like a typical small town with little shoppes lining the main street, and little trees planted in front of the cute sidewalk. All quaint and sweet and completely different than anything I was used to. The big city was a cement and metal machine compared to this. Sacramento was nice, and my apartment overlooked the water, but this place? Was this somewhere I could get used to? The quiet. The peace.

Adorable as this place was, there were still nooks and crannies where someone could hide. They could be peeking out of that alley down the street, and I'd never know it. No. It wasn't safe. Nowhere was safe. Brock wasn't safe, and despite what he said, I didn't think he could help me. Not when Greg and Kurt knew me so well.

There wasn't anywhere I would be safe.