The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)
Meghan Scott Molin
CHAPTER 1
Instead of finalizing his coffee order, the schmo ahead of me in line is reading on his iPad, the headline MYSTERY DRUG BUST AT DOCKS splashed across the screen. While I can’t fault him for being sucked in, if we don’t hurry, we’ll all get stuck on the 110, having to contemplate peeing into our cups. As irked as I am, I can’t help but look over his shoulder. I read about the drug bust this morning in my Twitter feed, but I didn’t see a picture of the crime scene. It’s a doozy. Who doesn’t love when two street dealers are trussed together, back-to-back on the Long Beach docks, left with a note for the police? Actually trussed together. Like in a comic book. I squint my eyes, lurking over the guy’s shoulder probably a little too long, but . . . Is that an outline around the criminals? It can’t be. But . . . if I tilt my head just a little, it does look a little like a rabbit. And if so, this tableau bears a striking resemblance to something I’ve seen before. It is probably a glare in the shop or a trick of the light, but my poor little writer brain has no defense against this sort of nerdy imagining. All I can see is a panel from my favorite comic come to life.
“All that’s missing is a golden arrow,” I mutter, giving the picture one last look as the line shuffles forward. I dutifully shuffle . . . straight into iPad Guy’s heels.
He snaps the iPad closed. “What did you say?”
Oh crap. iPad Guy looks straight at me with the typical “I disapprove of your purple hair” frown on his face and completely ignores the counter girl yelling, “Next!” There’s a lull in the shush and hiss of the coffee-making orchestra that suggests they’re ready to make the next order.
“Nothing. Just that news story reminds me of a graphic novel. Are you ready to order?” I paste a smile on my face. I know better than to upset the Muggles. Even when they are seriously inconveniencing the rest of us in line.
Tap, tap, tap—Order-Taking Girl isn’t pleased. Someone’s getting spit in their foam, and it’s not going to be me.
“No . . . I’m still decid—”
I step around the man and belly right up to the bar. “Tall cinnamon dolce latte, coconut milk, dash of chocolate on top.” I already have my card out before Order-Taking Girl asks, and she knows by now not to give me a receipt. I don’t need more paper filling up my messenger bag. Thank God for online banking.
I’m startled when iPad Guy sidles up next to me while waiting for the barista to finish his drink. I look him up and down, taking in the slightly rumpled dark bedhead, five-o’clock shadow, jeans, and rolled-up sleeves of his nice-ish work shirt, and peg him as an Americano guy. Okay, so he didn’t really sidle. He’s more businesslike than that. But he’s definitely not hanging back in the typical stranger zone. I use my Genius Comic messenger bag as a blocker, putting it firmly between us. At least make it hard for the creepers to cop a feel.
“Hey,” he says, looking at me again. Only his gaze doesn’t linger on my short purple hair. It takes in my whole self, moving from my Converse sneakers to my black skinny jeans, messenger bag, Wonder Woman tee, bright-red blazer, and actually ending at my eyes, in a “I did not just look at your boobs, and here I am looking at your eyes because I value women as people” look.
I narrow my gaze in return. So it’s like that, is it? I detest false altruism. Just stare at my boobs and get it over with, like every guy at every convention I’ve ever attended. I can never just live my life; I have to be boobs first, comic book writer second—if a guy even gets that far. I get weary of being a novelty in my world.
“What were you saying before, about a book, Miss . . .”
I ignore the blatant fishing for my name and huff a breath, glancing at the time on my iPhone. I’m running late for the office, and I need time to let the coffee soak up some of my morning grump. “A graphic novel. A comic book. The scene reminded me of a panel from my favorite one.” Cue the disbelieving stare when man realizes woman has read comic books . . . and there it is. Game, set, match. If he’s surprised I read them, it’d turn his hair platinum to find out that I write them for a living.
“MG! Cinnamon dolce latte!” Saved by the barista. I reach out, snag the cup sans to-go collar—ouch—and keep right on motoring out of the coffee shop. I hear “Herbal tea” called out behind me, and I snort. Not an Americano guy after all. Herbal tea? Hipster much? Or maybe it’s for his sick girlfriend. He seems the type.
Through the glass storefront, I hear a symphony of honking peppered with angry yelling. The traffic outside is already picking up for morning rush hour, and downtown LA is a bitch in May. It’s why I ride my bike whenever possible.
Heading for the door, I weave my way through a dude pitching a screenplay and a stay-at-home mom bitching about no “me time,” even though she’s clearly here without her children. Or they’re off terrorizing the other patrons—a distinct possibility, seeing as LA fuels itself on broken dreams and hypocrisy. The dirty glass door screeches, letting a blast of gritty, gasoline-scented wind in as I push it open with my hip. It never closes behind me. I’m surprised when an arm reaches out to hold it open. I don’t even need to look to know that it’s Herbal Tea Guy. Usually the Muggles aren’t this tenacious. Time to level up my game.
“Hey, I know you seem busy, but—”