Shimmy Bang Sparkle(51)

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! I said maybe!” I tried to say. What came out instead was just a whole lot of croissant crumbs. These he gracefully brushed off his T-shirt, then headed down the hallway toward my bedroom. Over his shoulder he said, “I’ll patch this up when we’re done. But you need to practice.” He set his bag down in front of my door. From inside it he pulled a chain-lock mechanism, like they had at the Ritz, and also a big replacement doorknob, which had a keypad where the Ritz locks had a card reader.

He pulled a drill from his bag and popped a battery into the bottom. On the drill end, he attached a kind of cylinder, then took a measuring tape off his belt. Apparently, there was no maybe about it.

Finally, I finished chewing my croissant and watched Nick make a few small and precise pencil marks on my door. “This might fuck up your security deposit, but it’ll be worth it.”

I wiped my mouth and checked for smudges of chocolate on my palm. “Not to worry. The day we moved in, Roxie dropped three bottles of red nail polish on the kitchen floor. If you move the rug in front of the sink, you’d think it was a murder scene.”

“Excellent,” Nick said, with a drill bit pinned between his teeth. He checked something on the back of the electronic door lock and made a second pencil mark about half an inch to the right of the first.

“Can I help?” I asked.

His eyes moved slowly over my body, pausing for a beat on my cleavage, which was peeking out of my robe. Then he looked up at me. “So we’ve moved on from maybe.”

Though I didn’t much care to admit it, I did need his help. “Yeah,” I said, and pulled my robe’s belt tighter. “We’re past maybe.”

“Good,” he growled, then turned his hat around backward. “I don’t need your help, but I like the company,” he said, and then he drilled into my bedroom door, sending wood chips flying.



Three hours later, I’d broken four credit cards trying to jimmy the electronic lock, pinched my finger in the door trying to duplicate Nick’s hocus-pocus to undo the chain lock, and gotten a blister on my finger from trying pick the deadbolt that he’d installed. The whole setup was meant to re-create what I might encounter at the Ritz. And the whole setup made me realize I was in way over my head.

But Nick was calm and cool. He sat cross-legged on the carpet, coaching me through failure after failure, then showing me how to do it again and again. The chain lock was the most baffling—with nothing but a piece of Scotch tape and a rubber band, he was able to undo it from the hallway side and get into my room. He made it look so easy. And I found that so frustrating. “Where on earth did you learn that?”

The lock slid open, and the chain jingled. Again. “YouTube.”

I shoved his massive shoulder. “No way.”

“Way,” he said, pulling me close and planting a kiss on my cheek.

It was my turn again. I got situated on my knees, with the carpet pressing uncomfortably into my skin. I was hungry and I had to pee, but I didn’t care. I was going to figure this thing out somehow, someway.

“Focus,” he said, straightening his broad shoulders. “Deep breath. Be calm.” Next to me he followed his own advice, inhaling long and slow. “Don’t force it. Just let it happen.”

For a few seconds, I was pretty Zen about it. But when I felt the lock bite back, I gritted my teeth and began to force it. As I turned the little L-shaped wrench and rotated the pick, I thought I felt the pins catch, but as soon as I shifted my hand I felt them slip shut again. My blister throbbed, and the tension in the wrench went slack. “I’m never going to get this,” I said, and pressed my forehead against the door.

“You will,” he said. “It’s just going to take some more practice.” He took the pick and the wrench from me, and in about two seconds flat the deadbolt slid open. “You were planning to leave . . . when?”

Now I went full-on face-slump against my door. “Tomorrow,” I said into the painted wood.

Nick let out a sort of ouch-style whistle.

I opened my eyes and stared at him. “I know.”

Yet again, he was unfazed. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. When he saw what it said, he grimaced. “Fuck. I gotta get to work. I’ll be done by dinnertime, and we can keep on practicing tonight. Sound good?”

“I’ll still be here,” I said, rubbing the swollen blister on my right hand.

“Look at me,” he said. He hooked his thumb under my chin and tipped it upward. “Chin up, buttercup.”

I met his gaze. I felt raw and frustrated and worried. He looked unconcerned, confident, and self-assured. “You’ll get it,” he said. “Promise.”

His faith in me helped, a little. I gave him a kiss goodbye and walked him out. Once he was gone, I took another shot at the deadbolt. I closed my bedroom door and used the key to lock it up. I removed the key from the lock and placed it on the carpet next to me, then picked up Nick’s pick and wrench. I centered myself. I became one with the lock, as he’d told me. I placed the wrench into the lock and positioned the rake inside it, then turned. Much to my astonishment, the rake slipped in a little farther, past the first pin.

I gasped. I held my breath. I turned the wrench another quarter turn . . . And it snapped off inside the lock.