Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(19)

I had gone by the bookstore after following Karen Li to the coffee shop, and by the time I got home it was past six. I had to hurry. I jumped in the shower, took a few extra minutes to wash my hair and shave my legs. I threw together an antipasto plate in between blow-drying my hair into an auburn sheen. Artichoke hearts, olives, salami, cheeses. I left my hair down. Put on my favorite jeans and a thin cashmere sweater that hung loosely off one shoulder, a pair of simple silver pendants in my ears. I added a little blush to offset the naturally pale skin that had always driven me crazy as a kid, when a good beach tan was the only thing I wanted. The phone rang and I felt a moment of disappointment that it would be Ethan, calling to cancel.

I picked up, blow-dryer still running in one hand. “Yeah?”

“Is this Nikki Griffin?”

I flicked the blow-dryer off. “Who is this?” Definitely not Ethan. A slurred, unfamiliar voice. Some drunk guy, maybe, accidentally hitting the wrong number.

Except he was looking for me. By name.

“You met with a man named Greggory Gunn recently.”

I set the dryer down. “Who is this?”

“He talked to you about an employee. You should know there is more to the situation.”

“There usually is.” I was focused on the voice as much as the words. Not quite a slur. A strange, unnatural bass. A voice that didn’t sound quite human. I looked at the caller ID. Nothing except the word PRIVATE. “If you have something to say, then say it,” I prompted.

There was a dial tone. I put the phone down slowly. Wondering why a strange man using a voice changer was calling me about a tech company, and what it meant.

Through the kitchen window, I saw Ethan bicycle up to my building. He wore a helmet and backpack and that same corduroy jacket from the diner. A bouquet of flowers sprouted out of his backpack. When he leaned to lock his bike to the gate, the flowers fell onto the ground. I had to smile as his lips moved in a silent flurry of curses through the glass. He buzzed and I rang him in, hearing footsteps on the stairs as I opened the door. “Look who showed up.”

“Hello! These are for you.” He thrust the rumpled bouquet toward me. Irises, courtesy of Trader Joe’s. He leaned in and I thought he was going to try to kiss me, but instead he gave me an awkward half hug and stepped back quickly as though worried I’d take offense. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had brought me flowers. I couldn’t find a vase. I put the flowers in a decanter instead. Close enough. “What would you like to drink?” I asked.

“What are you having?”

“Martini.”

“You know something weird? I’m not sure if I’ve ever had a martini before. I thought people only drank them in John Cheever stories.”

“Well,” I said, “we can’t fix all the world’s problems. But we can fix this one.”

I mixed us a couple of martinis. “I thought they were supposed to have vodka,” he commented.

I skewered olives on a toothpick. Three, because one wasn’t enough and two were bad luck. “If you want this to work, don’t ever say that again.” I handed him his drink. “Gin. Cheers.”

He sipped cautiously, then smiled. “That’s kind of awesome.” He took another sip. “Usually my friends tell me to find a six-pack and a bottle opener.”

“Maybe you need new friends.”

He was walking around, curious. “Record player … no television … you weren’t kidding about the technology thing.” He stopped by a bookshelf. “Who’s this guy? In the picture?”

I glanced over. “That’s my brother. Brandon.”

The two of us. Years ago. We stood together on Mount Tam, the California landscape spread out gloriously below. The blue of the Bay, the green of thousands of acres of trees. The two of us in sweat-stained tank tops, grinning like we’d just summited Everest. My brother’s eyes clear and bright.

“And this one—your parents? It’s a nice picture.”

I bit my lip. Took a big swallow of my drink. “Thanks.” I didn’t need to turn around to see the picture he meant. The four of us. Standing on the beach in Bolinas. The ocean behind us. My brother five or six, me nine or ten. My mother blond, willowy, tall, tanned, wearing a bikini top and cut-off jean shorts. My dad’s long black hair touched with gray, bearded, bare-chested, wearing a ridiculous polka-dot bathing suit. The four of us. Together.

“You look really close. You’re lucky.”

I joined him at the small table. “Have some food.”

He placed a piece of cheese carefully on a cracker. “So you work in a bookstore?”

“Technically, I own a bookstore.”

He was impressed. “You’re full of surprises. Which one?”

“The Brimstone Magpie, over on Telegraph.”

He nodded. “I’ve been there. Where’s the name from?”

“The first book I ever sold, Bleak House. One of the characters, Grandfather Smallweed, used the phrase as a curse word. I always liked it. Where are you from?” I shifted.

“A small town near Bozeman. I went to U of M on scholarship even though my parents weren’t into higher ed. They thought it would turn me gay, Commie or, worst of all, liberal. I met a few professors who gave me a lot of encouragement, got lucky, and ended up at Cal. They give me a stipend that still seems too good to be true. Over twenty thousand a year to read and teach.”