Funny. It just arrived. By messenger.
“So beware. Also, I sent one of the guys to the bakery on Seventy-Sixth.” Her eyes flick down at the tray. “I’m practicing being a taste tester. You want a green one? They call it the ‘grasshopper.’ I think they can improve on the naming process.” She frowns, lowering the cupcake as she searches my face. “Hey. What’s wrong? Your face looks like that time we thought we’d lost that first edition of The Great Gatsby.”
A faint smile ghosts my lips. An employee accidentally shelved it when it should have been locked behind a glass display in the rare-books section. We ransacked every floor looking for it, then found it next to the antique manual typewriter we keep on a table in the rotunda for customers to type messages and notes to people.
She comes closer. “Was Terry an ass?”
I shake my head. “No.”
G has found me. He knows where I work. Probably where I live.
It’s time to face the consequences of my actions. Karma has circled back to sting me.
I gather myself. “Question: Is there a vacant place here where I can go scream?”
“Basement. Nothing there but boxes and a papier-mâché shark. The art girl made it while you were gone, if you want to take a look. It’s quite massive. You’ll love it.”
I sigh sadly. No one will see our shark. No one will see our summer window display.
“I gave Terry a blow job in the basement once. It was a good one. He blacked out.”
“Thank you for letting me know. How do you think I’ll look in orange? Maybe in scrubs?” I ask.
“No one looks good in orange. Why?”
“It’s what they wear at county lockup.”
She grimaces. “Are you in that much trouble?”
I nod as I think about his vague letter, anger curling inside me. Just send the police, already. Bring on the handcuffs and interrogation.
I’m not doing “something” for G. Scenarios dance in my head. Who exactly was he? Wealthy, yes, that was evident by the car and clothes, although he was staying in a shithole motel. He could be mafia or some kind of international thief. Maybe he wants me to kill someone, smuggle drugs, or steal art from museums.
I rub my temple. Maybe he just wants an apology?
Chewing my lips, I think about the twisted remains of his car. Somehow, I think “I’m sorry” isn’t going to cut it.
“Where are you going?” she asks as I grab my purse and walk out of the office and into the bookstore. She trails behind me on my heels like an overeager puppy.
“Wait. Are you going job hunting? I want to go. Please . . .”
I grab one of the cupcakes from the tray she’s holding and take a big bite, savoring the burst of sugar. “Stay. I’m going to find a man about a car.”
“You can’t just say that and not explain. What car? You don’t even have a license!”
And that didn’t stop me from stealing one.
I give her a wave and head out the door.
Chapter 6
EMMY
I walk into Marcelle’s, a martini bar near Central Park. I try to get at least two night shifts a week here.
I didn’t find out who G is because I have nothing to go on. I called the motel and asked if they could tell me who the man was in 306, but it got me nowhere. The clerk told me that it’s illegal to give our personal information about their guests. I knew that but tried anyway.
The sound of low pop music greets me as I push open the door. Dimly lit, Marcelle’s features a curved wooden bar, leather booths, and industrial-style pendant lights that hang from the ceiling.
Ciara is behind the bar, her face scrunched in concentration as she aligns bottles on the mirrored wall. A transplant from Nashville, she moved to New York for ballet but gave it up professionally after hurting her knee.
“Hey! I’m here!”
“You’re early—” Her words stop when her gaze lands on the small head poking out of the backpack I’m wearing. I can see the animal in the mirror behind the bar, big amber eyes and a feline face with overly long whiskers.
She starts, then giggles. “A cat in a backpack? Holy . . . turn around and let me see that crazy carrier.”
I turn and give her the back view, which is a clear, popped-out bubble, perfect for cats to see the world. “The rescue place said he hated his cage, so I grabbed one of these but couldn’t bear to zip it, so I let him stick his head out of the top and see the city. He put his paws on my shoulders and stayed there the entire way here.”
Twisting the backpack around to my shoulder, I ease him out, and his paw curls around my finger. I bend my arm to give him a resting place. He purrs, his back arching as I stroke his black fur. The rescue didn’t know his origins, only that he’d been delivered to them undernourished and bleeding.
“Bless his heart, what happened?” she asks. “He’s missing an ear. Oh no, is his tail . . .”
“Yeah, it’s been cut off midway. People can be so cruel.”
“I see what this is. You wanted a Kian distraction?” She gives me a knowing look.
I wave his paw at her. “Meow. Say hi to my new boyfriend.”
“Hi, new guy, you’re gorgeous. What’s his name?”
I hold him close to my cheek. “No clue.”
“We had a cat when I was a kid. He chewed hair and licked my armpits. Midnight would be a cool name for him, or you could be ironic and call him Snowball. Oh, how about Lucifurrr,” she says, drawing out the name for effect.
“Hmm, maybe. He needs an IG account. Put a bow tie on him, maybe some little glasses, throw some books in, and let him hang out in the bookstore window . . .” I let out a frustrated groan. “Never mind. The store is closing.”
“I got your text. So sorry, Emmy. I know how much you wanted to own that place.”
“Just a dream.” I’m barely keeping a roof over my head.
She pats me on the shoulder. “How about a cat joke?”
I groan.
“I just made it up on the spot.”
“Uh-huh.”
She rubs the cat’s back. “You know where you can go to get him a brand-new tail?”
“Where?”
“The retail store. Booyah. I’m so good at this.”
“Somebody, please, save me from Ciara’s jokes,” I call out teasingly.
Mason, the manager, comes out from the kitchen with a towel over his shoulder. Carrying a tray of freshly cut fruit for the drinks, he’s tall, with dark-red hair swept back on top and shaved on the sides. Our friendship goes back to my NYU days.
“Hello, health violation,” he says when he sees the cat.
“Can I leave him in your office?” I say as the kitten scrambles up my arm and perches on my shoulder like a skilled acrobat. His short tail whips as he balances on my shoulder and blinks at Mason with an innocent expression.
Mason grunts. “He looks like he’s about to pounce on me.”
“He adores you,” I say. “He just told me. Telepathically.” I wink at him. “Come on—I brought some litter, and I can find a box in the back for him to go potty. Your office? Please . . .”