He fishes something else from his pocket and tosses it to me. I barely manage to catch the shop keys. “They’re spares,” he says. “You can help me organize everything for the insurance adjusters when you have the time.”
I nod, fighting a grin. “You’ve got it.”
When I circle back around to the main street and duck beneath a lazily hung string of caution tape, I find that the inside of the shop isn’t much better than the day the damage was inflicted. Sighing, I toss my bag behind the counter, open the utility closet, and set to work.
Some of the books are damaged beyond salvation, but I can’t bear to throw them away. Instead, I set them aside in a careful stack near the door that soon towers over the smaller pile of books worth selling.
Broken glass litters nearly every surface, and I don’t have a chance in hell of moving any of the heavier shelves by myself. Still, it feels good to help in some way.
With diligent effort and the aid of a broom, little by little, some semblance of peace begins to rebuild itself.
“Hey.” I glance up from a dusty volume of Dickinson’s complete works to find Mr. Zhang standing before me. He’s wearing his gray bowler hat and maroon sweater. “Time to go,” he says. “You did good.” He eyes the neatly swept floors and stacks of books scattered throughout with a thoughtful shrug. “Help yourself to something to read tonight. You’ve earned it.”
Once he leaves, I stand from my crouched position beside one of the damaged shelves and stretch out the cramped muscles in my legs. Darkness casts swaths of shadows over the majority of the shop, and it almost resembles some secret stash of forgotten tomes. The mainstream novels on the central display are the dusty histories of some lost king or queen, their glossy covers ageless in the twilight.
It’s the perfect atmosphere to write, and my heart pangs for my journal. Luckily, I spy a pile of printer paper that I can make do with, so I circle around the counter for my bag on the hunt for a pen. I’ve barely touched the fabric when the bell above the door sounds, catching my attention.
“Sorry,” I say, “we’re closed.”
The intruder’s smell reaches me first—coconut—before my eyes find him slouched against the entrance. I lunge for the nearest light switch and flick it on, throwing his body in stark relief.
“I thought you’d wised up, rabbit.” There’s a rough quality to his voice that rides my spine in an unsettling thrill. Amusement? “Yet here you are, still hopping around.”
“You’re trespassing,” I croak, still toeing the threshold of the dingy back room where we keep new books along with outdated computer equipment and a few plastic trash bags full of broken glass waiting to be taken to the dump.
“I’m protecting my investment,” he replies on a sigh. “Zhang’s debt didn’t magically pay itself. For all intents and purposes, I own this place.”
I frown in confusion. Is he implying he covered the tab himself?
Without explaining, he steps inside and props the door open with his knee. Then he slaps something onto the topmost half of it above the welcome sign.
“What are you doing?” I skirt the counter and creep forward as close as I dare. On top of the peeling emerald paint is a small circular red sticker. It’s surprisingly detailed with a black fire-breathing dragon in the center.
“I’m keeping my word,” he says, letting the door slam shut. But he’s on the wrong side of it, spinning around to face me. His mouth twists into something that could be a smile, but it just illuminates the dark circles lurking underneath his eyes. “Don’t look so surprised, bunny,” he chides. “This place is still under my protection. And I expect it to earn back every penny.” He runs a hand through his hair, turning to the nearest lopsided bookshelf. “I also expect the workers here to do their fucking jobs.”
As I watch, he crosses to the fallen shelf and lifts it easily, attempting to slot it back into place. He grunts, his forearms straining with the effort, but eventually, he assembles it properly.
Then he crosses to a stack of salvaged books.
It’s almost surreal to watch him place them haphazardly onto the shelf in the wrong positions. There’s no method to his madness, and when he arranges a popular romance novel next to a critically acclaimed thriller, pride can no longer keep me silent.
“That goes over here,” I blurt out before moving the book to its correct spot on the other side of the shop.
Either he doesn’t hear me, or he doesn’t really care, seeing as how he never stops his careless stacking. I don’t know why I find myself following in his wake to either tweak the placement or to stare in shock when he manages to place something in the right spot.
Soon, one stack becomes several. He reassembles more shelving units, and eventually, we’ve restocked the rest of the undamaged merchandise.
“Why are you here?” I direct the question from over my shoulder, hoping he won’t answer.
Because he’ll leave.
“I’m asking you the same question.”
“I work here.”
“For how long? All things considered, I own this shop now, rabbit. I prefer my employees to have more spine.”
With a sigh, I turn to face him. The shadows paint his skin, turning him into a patchwork creation of darkness and light. My eyes don’t know which part of him to settle on first—or how to interpret this man who’s made up of so many contradicting hues of ivory, silver, and ebony.
In the end, I pick his hair, as the pure, harmless black seems to be the least threatening element to focus on.
“Ask me what you really want to know,” he demands. His voice catches me off guard. It’s too guttural, his breath searing the nape of my neck as I turn my attention to the opposite end of the room. Anywhere but him. “Ask it.”
“You said I owe you a debt,” I croak. “What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?” He takes a step closer, but there’s a dangerous edge to his tone—a demand he hasn’t uttered out loud—yet.
I lick my lips, desperate to stall. Combat him. Anything. “I think you want to annoy me. What are you, some kind of criminal?”
I look back just in time to catch his eyes narrowing—it’s not the question he expected. Nonetheless, he has an answer ready. “Maybe I am, rabbit. But that wouldn’t scare you, would it? No…” He leans in, his nostrils flaring as if he can smell the truth on my skin. “You love knowing that I’m some dirty little fiend you can sneer down your nose at. It makes it easier to play with fire if you know you’ll get burned.”
I turn away, hissing through my teeth. “You don’t know me—”
“Don’t have to. It’s written all over that pretty face,” he interjects. “You can never hide who you really are for long, Hannah.”
I glance back to find his eyes on my name tag pinned to my sweater. It’s the first time he’s actually called me by my real name, but his voice catches over the syllables, distorting the pronunciation. Harmless Hannah transforms into something else. Something guttural and dangerous.
“But judging from the shit you wear, that’s all you’re good at doing. Hiding.”
I self-consciously finger the hem of my sweater. It’s even thicker than my bunny one. “So now you’re a criminal and a fashion expert.”