“You probably could,” she says, releasing me and flopping back against the lockers, arms crossed. “You’ve got all that secret strength for taking down adolescent boys. Were you on the varsity wrestling team back in DC? Coronado Cove’s got a Roller Derby team, you know. The Cavegirls.”
I snort a laugh. “No, I didn’t know that, but I’ll keep it in mind for this fall.”
“Look, I really am sorry for losing you at the bonfire. I didn’t mean to. I don’t even know how it happened. Freddy started talking to me and you just disappeared. Someone said you were talking to the twins—”
“I was. They introduced me to someone else. I don’t know. I’m not great at being social,” I admit. “Anyway, it all worked out.”
She glances around the break room. Only a few people are there, and no one’s paying attention to us. “So, yeah. Do tell. Porter took you home? And . . . ?”
“And what?” Crap. So much for avoiding that subject. I can feel my face getting hot, so I busy myself feeling around inside my locker for some nonexistent thing.
“I’m just saying, the two of you are spending an awful lot of time together and asking an awful lot of questions about each other—”
“I haven’t asked any questions.” Have I?
“And you’re giving him an awful lot of looks that say I’d like to jump on you with my mighty roller-derby strength. And he’s giving you looks that say I’d like to surf your waves.”
“You are nutty.”
“Mmm-hmm. Let’s see about that,” she murmurs, and then calls out past my face in a chipper voice, “Afternoon, Porter baby.”
“Hello, ladies.”
My heart rate jumps to a five on the Richter scale. I attempt to look casual, stay cool as I turn to my right. But there he is, hand braced on my locker door, and whatever self-control I tried to muster just blows away like paper napkins on a windy day.
“You’re still alive, so I guess everything went okay with your dad,” he says.
“No problems whatsoever,” I confirm.
“Good, good. Glad to hear it.”
“Yeah.” Is it just my imagination, or does he smell extra Sex Wax–y today? Did he do that on purpose? Is he trying to seduce me? Or am I just being sensitive? And—what the hell?—is the air-conditioning broken in the break room, because it suddenly feels like the Hotbox up in here. Note to self: Do not think the words “sex” and “wax” while he’s standing in front of you. Ever, ever, ever.
“So, yeah,” he says, sort of smiling to himself while he taps on the top of my locker. “I was just going to tell you, uh, both—tell you both,” he clarifies, looking over at Grace. “We got this new lock system . . . long story, but I have to help install it. So Pangborn and Madison will be dealing with all your Hotbox needs today. You know, in case you wondered where I was.”
“Because we’re always thinking about you,” Grace says sarcastically.
“I know you are, Gracie,” he replies, giving her a wink. He leans a little closer, hanging on my locker, and speaks to me in a lower voice. “So anyway, I was wondering what you’re doing after work.”
Heart. Exploding.
“What’s that?” Grace says.
Porter playfully shoves her head away. “I think I hear someone calling you, Gracie. Is that Cadaver? He said you’re fired for listening in on other people’s private conversations.”
“This is private?” she says. “It looks like a public break room to me, and we were talking before you sauntered up, if you do recall.”
He ignores her and give me an expectant look. “Well?”
“I’m not busy,” I tell him.
“Oh, good. Maybe want to get something to eat later?”
Be cool, Rydell. This sounds like it could be a date. “Yeah, why not?”
“Excellent. Umm, so . . . maybe we should swap numbers. We can leave from here, but, you know, just in case we need to call each other.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” I notice Grace when I’m digging out my phone. She’s standing next to me with eyes like two full moons. I think she might be temporarily stunned into silence. Which only makes me more nervous. And that’s no good, because I can barely handle the basic exchange of a few single numbers, and I still almost mess that up.
“Okay, well . . . ,” Porter says, tucking a curly lock of hair behind one ear. How can he be adorable and sexy at the same time? If he doesn’t vacate the break room soon, I might swoon to death. “Go sell some tickets.”
“Go lock some locks,” I tell him.
He flashes me a smile and after he leaves the break room, I quietly bang my head against the lockers. Lock some locks. Who says that? What a dork. He’s broken my brain.
I look up and see Grace. She’s still staring at me, all wide-eyed.
“Mmm—” she starts.
“Argh! Don’t you say it,” I warn her.
She keeps quiet until we get to cash-out. “I knew that lad was asking too many questions about you.”
? ? ?
The only good thing about our shift is that it’s insanely busy, so it passes quickly. I don’t even see Porter once. Mr. Cavadini, either. Guess that lock business is time-consuming. So is being nervous, and by the time six o’clock rolls around, I’m wired and ready to get out of there. I count down my cash drawer, inform Grace that if she follows me out to the parking lot, I will slash her tires, and that, yes, I will tell her everything tomorrow, duh, and then I look around for Porter. Nada. No surfer boy in sight. But I do get a text from him: Almost done. Meet you outside in five?
Okay, cool. That gives me time to head out to Baby and swap my work shoes for some slinkier sandals, which I’ve got stashed under the helmet in my seat. I grab my purse from my locker and dash outside. The sky’s looking dark. Overcast and grumpy. It hasn’t rained since I’ve moved here, but it looks like that might change today. Driving Baby in the rain isn’t my idea of a fun time, so I’m actually relieved Porter invited me out.
I . . .
Look around. To the left. To the right.
Where’s Baby?
I parked her right here. I always do.
I double-check. I must be confused. Third aisle from the back door . . .
I spin around, looking for her turquoise frame and leopard-print seat. There’s got to be an explanation. Maybe someone moved her for some reason, though. . . . I don’t know how they would. . . . She was locked up. I always lock her up. Always. I go through exactly what I did when I arrived that afternoon, making sure I did—and yes, I know I did. I’m positive.
“Anything the matter, dear?”
It’s Pangborn, strolling out from the employee entrance.
“My scooter’s gone,” I say.
“What? Gone?”
“I parked it right here at the start of my shift.”
“You’re absolutely certain? What color is it? Let me help you look,” he says, putting a calming hand on my shoulder. “Don’t panic just yet, now. Let’s be sure first, okay?”
I blow out a breath and describe it. There are several scooters back here, but none of them are Vespas, none are vintage, none are turquoise, and, really, the employee lot isn’t that big. I’m starting to feel dizzy. I think it’s finally time to face facts.
Baby’s been stolen.