Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(65)

So I look away, making myself very busy putting my checkbook away when she gets back in the car.

“Okay. Well. He was very moved,” she says.

“Good.”

We sail away from the curb on the perfect suspension of the Mercedes I’m paying for. Nobody says anything for a few minutes.

“Why do you do that?” Becky asks finally. “You’re super cynical. And then you give large sums of money to strangers. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sure it does. I have an unhealthy relationship with money. When I didn’t have any, I was always embarrassed about it. And now that I have a bunch, that embarrasses me, too.”

“That’s kind of pathological.”

I won’t argue that point.

We pull up at Becky’s a few minutes later. “Goodnight, honey,” she says. “Sleep well and dream of hockey players.”

“You too, sugar. Sleep well and dream of waiters with dark, soulful eyes.”

“He was a looker,” comes a mumble from the front seat.

My gaze locks with Becky’s, and both of us nearly burst out laughing. Who knew Mr. Muscles had a thing for waiters? Who knew he had opinions at all?

She gives me a little wave and leaves. The car pulls away again, and I squint at the back of my driver’s thick neck, wondering if I imagined that comment. “Mr. M, you don’t usually offer your opinion. I’m startled.”

“Nobody wants my opinion. I gotta tell you something, though. Bad news.”

“Okay?” And I have a bad feeling that I know what he’s going to say.

He glances at me briefly in the rearview mirror. “We got another napkin tonight.”

“Ugh. From where? Who says?”

“That’s the weird thing. I’m sitting there at the bar eating the world’s most overpriced tacos. I get this text from Mr. Wilde.”

That’s the guy who owns the security company. “And?”

“It’s a photo of a cocktail napkin he just pulled out of an envelope. And it’s exactly like the one under my soda at the bar.”

“From…Cactus?”

“Yeah.”

Chills run down the back of my neck. “But we were just there. Whoever sent it to my P.O. box would have to have sent it before tonight.”

“Right. Yesterday at the latest. When did you make this dinner plan?”

“Um…” I close my eyes and try to think. “Last week, I guess. Becky and I read about it in Time Out, maybe? We decided to try it. I told her to make a reservation.”

“Do you remember where you had this conversation?”

“Well, we were in the guitar shop. Or leaving it. But we mentioned it a few times since then. And…” My mind clicks through the possibilities. “Restaurants aren’t private. Maybe someone saw the reservation.”

“Was it in your name?”

“Maybe? It’s new and trendy. Becky might have dropped my name to get that table.”

“Then we can’t do that anymore,” he says immediately.

“So I guess I’m never eating out?”

“Use Becky’s name.”

“But…!” If I finish this sentence, I’m going to sound like the diva I always claim not to be. The truth, though? Sometimes it’s useful to be Delilah Spark. I don’t have to plan ahead. No restaurant will ever turn me away. “Right. Okay,” I say glumly. Those napkins freak me out. “What did this one say?”

“‘Have a margarita with me.’”

“I never order mixed drinks,” I point out. “See? This guy doesn’t know me.”

“Well, I hope you’re right about that,” Mr. M says. “I really do.”





Silas





“I’m not usually so easily excited. But this could be a big deal,” Delilah tells me.

“Yeah? That’s great, baby. Tell me more.” I’m walking through the lobby of the Bruisers headquarters, my phone pressed to my ear, my gym bag on my shoulder. When I push open the door, it’s like stepping into the tropics. Brooklyn in August is pretty brutal. Good thing I’m about to get on a plane to California.

“You’re probably busy, though. I could tell you tonight.”

She’s right, because in nine or ten hours, we’ll be together. Finally. “Tell me now. I’m walking home. Besides—tonight I’ll have other things on my mind. Rawrrrr,” I growl.

The effect is awfully silly, and she laughs. “Okay, fine. Remember when I told you that my contract with the jerk was strange? There are loopholes that Charla is trying to exploit.”

“Of course I remember. That’s why I named your new band.”

“Right, smart-ass. But the Sparkle Puppies are now on a permanent hiatus. Because the other loophole is for movie soundtracks. I can write for film without breaking my contract. So that’s what my genius of a manager found me. A savagely cool film gig.”

“What kind of film?”

“It’s based on a true story about the first woman to fly in combat. There’s a female writer, a female director, and a female production team. It’s going to be so amazing. Charla is trying to attach me to this project. It would be six new songs. There’s no guarantee I’ll get it, though.”