Next Stop Love, #1

by Rachel Stockbridge

  “Yes,” he said sardonically. “I used my extensive network of spies to track down a tiny, weird, crazy girl whose name I don’t even know because I’ve become obsessed after fighting with her for five minutes in a library.”

  “You could have followed me home the other day,” Beatrice pointed out, crossing her arms.

  “Give yourself some credit. I think you would have noticed if someone followed you all the way out here.” He motioned down the street with the grocery bag—which did indeed seem to be filled with groceries. Some kind of leafy vegetable stuck up from one corner, the end of a box of noodles from another. “I’m not actually stalking you. I live over there.”

  Beatrice frowned, annoyed at herself for believing him. She hardly knew anything about him. Not even his name. She should be cautious, instead of just trusting whatever he said because he looked honest. Plenty of serial killers probably looked honest, too. And it ought to raise a red flag or two that he allegedly lived in the same small town as her.

  He shook his head when she didn’t reply. “Okay, well. Good luck with that gremlin, Simba.” He hit the button for the crosswalk a couple of times. “I hear they can be kind of a handful. Especially when fed after midnight.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You’ve never watched Gremlins?” he asked, turning back to face her.

  “Not that. You just called me Simba.”

  “Oh. Right.” He made a motion with his hands like he was fluffing an imaginary wig. The grocery bag slipped to his elbow and swung like a pendulum. “Because of the hair.”

  Beatrice stared at him.

  “Simba is a lion from The Lion King?” he added. “Kids’ movie. Wildly popular. Also a musical. With puppets. They have ads up for it all over Manhattan, all the time.”

  “I know who Simba is,” Beatrice snapped. “I just don’t understand why the heck you would call me Simba.”

  “Lionesses don’t have manes,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her like she was the crazy one. “What did you want me to call you?”

  “I don’t,” Beatrice said, bristling. Any other day, the comment wouldn’t have bothered her. But Kinsey had already implied her hair looked like a rat’s nest this morning, and she didn’t need cute strangers reminding her that she could rarely get her hair entirely under control. It wasn’t like she never brushed her hair. She just had more of it than she knew what to do with.

  His eyebrows drew together. Not like he was angry. Not really. More like he was trying to figure her out. “Okay, then.” The light changed for the crosswalk, indicating it was safe to cross. He rolled his shoulders and raised his hand in a kind of wave as he turned away. “Sorry to bother you.”

  Beatrice stood there and watched him walk away, battling the impulsive, stupid part of her that wanted to jog after him and apologize. It wasn’t his fault she was stressed out and irritable.

  But she didn’t have any proof he wasn’t stalking her, either. Except for the small, instinctual part of her that had relaxed when she saw it was him talking to her. Like being around him made her safe.

  Which was idiotic, considering how they met. Where was this conviction he wouldn’t hurt her even coming from? And why should she care if she’d snapped at him? It was weird that he’d run into her again. Right? It was weird. She was allowed to get defensive.

  Except—halfway down the next block, he jaywalked across the street and let himself into one of the rundown apartment buildings clustered there.

  He did live here.

  Mentally kicking herself for being such a jerk for no reason, Beatrice slunk the rest of the way home, where she could fling herself on her bed and berate her life choices until she was too tired to keep her eyes open anymore.

  Six

  It didn’t bother Julian that the weird lion-girl from the library had been so put out with him when he ran into her last night. Because that would imply he cared what she thought about him. Which he shouldn’t. Because she was weird. And dressed like a cross between a ’70s family sitcom character and a ’90s grunge musician. And stupidly stood up for strangers against knife-wielding criminals.

  And who cared what weird, fashion-confused, stupid-brave people thought?

  It didn’t matter, anyway. He was going to have to take off somewhere else as soon as he got the funds to move again. That run-in with Vito was more than enough proof that coming back here was a terrible, terrible idea. Even if he did see Simba again, there’d be no point trying to build a relationship. Not that he wanted a relationship with her. He’d mostly avoided getting involved with anyone since he dropped out of high school. He hated letting people down. Especially people he cared about. It was easier to be on his own.

  Plus, Julian was already dealing with plenty of crap without adding any more complications to his life. Living with Fabiana was more of a pain in the ass than he’d anticipated. She never stopped complaining about the state of his apartment. He had to suffer through a fifteen-minute tirade yesterday morning after her own hair dryer shorted out the power. Last night, she’d gone into a state of near-hysterics when a cockroach skittered over her bare foot. And this morning, he’d been bullied out of the apartment—again—to fetch her coffee. He didn’t have a coffee maker, and Fabiana was apparently going to suffer an aneurysm if deprived of her morning caffeine fix.

  If all that wasn’t aggravating enough, the floor—big shocker—was murder to sleep on. Julian hadn’t slept long or well, and he had the beginnings of a headache because of it.

  In fact, as he joined the short line at the coffee shop register, he gave serious thought to getting a coffee for himself, too. He wasn’t a fan of the stuff, but if he dumped in enough creamer, it was tolerable.

  Julian pulled out his wallet as the guy in front of him finished up his order. He had another 75 cents he could use to pick up a second cup. He just wasn’t sure the pick-me-up was worth the potential stomachache. Particularly since Java Mama coffee had a certain . . . reputation.

  The guy ahead of Julian took his change and coffee and headed for a table, eyeing his beverage with trepidation.

  “Thanks,” the cashier said, to the sound of coins falling into the register drawer. “I can help the next—” She cut herself off when she locked eyes with Julian.

  He froze.

  She had wrestled her massive mane into something that would only be termed a ponytail by the most generous of souls, and the brown Java Mama polo shirt and baseball cap made her look more ordinary than the eclectic outfits he’d seen her wear before, but there was no mistaking her.

  A look of dismay crossed Simba’s features. “Oh God.”

  “Good grief,” Julian said simultaneously, tipping his head back in exasperation.

  No wonder she thought he was stalking her. It was like he’d developed a bizarre sixth sense for bumping into her.

  “Look, I’m just trying to buy some damn coffee,” he said, bracing his hands on the counter and scowling at her. “I’m not stalking you.”

  More than one head in the cafe turned at this proclamation. The two other girls behind the counter, who were lackadaisically filling orders, stopped gossiping to stare.

  Simba turned a blotchy shade of pink under her freckles. “I know,” she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “I know, I just—God. You caught me on a really bad day yesterday. Ugh. Listen, let me get your . . . coffee, was it?”

  He blinked at her a few times, thrown. She was . . . what, apologizing, now? That was dumb. He didn’t blame her for being freaked out yesterday. He knew better than to approach strange girls on the street at night. It made most of them jumpy. And anyway, he reminded himself, he didn’t care what she thought.

  Christ. He wasn’t awake enough for this. “Yeah, but—”

  She frowned. “Are you sure? It’s . . . not very good coffee.”

  “I’m aware of that, yes,” Julian said, remembering Fabiana’s prolonged complaining about the quality yesterday morning. “That’s one of the draws, actually.”<
br />
  Simba’s dubious expression became outright incredulous. “You like terrible coffee?”

  “Never mind,” Julian said. He was not about to confess he was harboring fanciful hopes of convincing his sister to move her butt somewhere else by sabotaging her with lousy coffee. He slapped his money down on the counter. “I just want a medium coffee, no sugar, three creams. And a little less judgment on my beverage choices, if you don’t mind.”

  “Keep your money,” she said, shoving the quarters and nickels back at him.

  “But—”

  “Moira, did you get that order?” she called over her shoulder, going to the pastry case and putting a selection in a brown paper bag.

  “Got it,” said the barista with purple lipstick. She looked about as confused about the exchange as Julian felt. He wasn’t sure if this made him feel better or worse.

  “The coffee is crap,” Simba said, “but we get our muffins and croissants from a woman who runs a bakery over in Newburgh, and they’re pretty great. Are you allergic to nuts?”

  “No, but—Will you stop trying to give me pastries and let me pay for the damn coffee?”

  “No,” she said, topping the selection off with a walnut muffin. She folded the top over and plunked the bag on the counter, staring him down with those expressive gray eyes, like she was daring him to take it. “The pastries are symbolic.”

  She was crazy. Absolutely, completely insane. “What?”

  “I’m trying to apologize for yesterday.”

  “By giving me pastries?”

  “Yes.”

  Julian closed his eyes and gave his head a shake. He felt like he’d stepped into an alternate dimension where the rules of logic were null and void. But when he opened his eyes, Simba was still standing there, with her ridiculous hair, in her ugly uniform, watching him. Her expression remained stubborn, but her fingers were playing with the apron strings looped around her waist. Like she was nervous.

  For a split second, brought on no doubt by his lack of sleep, Julian wanted to reach across the counter and . . . make contact. Flick the brim of her hat, or tweak the collar of her polo shirt, or wrap his fingers around her hand to still the fidgeting.

  Oh. Shit.

  He pulled his eyes away from her and glowered at the paper bag on the counter. “I don’t follow. Why are you apologizing again?”

  “You caught me on a bad day, yesterday, and I was acting like a jerk, and I feel terrible, and can you please for the love of God just take the dang pastries?”

  “You won’t get in trouble, will you?” he asked, glancing back at the two baristas, who were staring at them with open curiosity.

  “We’re supposed to get free coffee if we work here, and I wouldn’t drink this stuff if they paid me,” Simba said. “Which—well, you know what I mean. The point is, I won’t get in trouble.”

  “Here, hon,” Moira said, plonking a coffee down on the counter next to the bag of pastries. “No sugar, three creams.”

  “If you try to pay for that, I’ll break your fingers,” Simba informed him, leveling him with the same stubborn glare she’d given Vito two days ago.

  He was pretty sure she was joking. Sixty percent sure. There was a morbid glint in her eye that made him wonder.

  “You’re so weird,” Julian muttered, sliding the bag of pastries and the coffee off the counter.

  “Actually,” she said, going pink again, “my name is Beatrice.”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “That’s a big name for such a tiny person, isn’t it?”

  The corner of her mouth twitched. “Just be happy my mom didn’t go with her original idea.”

  “Which was what?”

  “Desdemona Amaryllis,” she said, in a pitch-perfect deadpan.

  Julian let out an undignified snort of laughter. He covered his mouth with his wrist and tried to turn the snort into a cough and save some face.

  But Beatrice the pastry-pushing, coffee-proffering lion-girl was trying to hide a very smug-looking smile of her own. “Most people just call me Bee,” she said.

  He recovered quickly and stuck out a hand to shake hers. “Julian. Most people call me Julian.”

  She smiled at him—grinned, really—as their hands met. Hers was small and slender, but her grip was decisive. It was a nice hand, and warm. The warmth of that single point of contact spread up his arm and all through him like a bonfire on a cold day. And his stupid, tired brain didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to keep on holding her hand indefinitely.

  Julian gave himself a thorough mental shake and pulled his hand back. The last thing he needed right now was to start entertaining thoughts of being a normal person doing normal things like flirting with weird girls who weren’t even all that pretty.

  Not that she wasn’t pretty. She was certainly interesting-looking. Julian kept trying to work out how he’d draw her hair, or the peculiar quirk of her lips when she was trying not to smile—

  Dammit, Julian, pull yourself together.

  He had to get out of there. He thanked Beatrice again, nearly ran into the doorjamb trying to shoulder his way out, and all but sprinted back to his apartment.

  * * *

  “Really, Jules? Did you have to go back to that shit-hole today?” Fabiana complained when Julian breathlessly shoved the requested coffee into her hands.

  “If you want something different, you’re going to have to dish out for it yourself,” Julian told her. He set the bag of pastries on the counter and took out a chocolate croissant. “You want?”

  “You can’t go to a decent cafe, but you can afford a sack full of croissants?” Fabiana asked, snatching the pastry out of his hand.

  “They’re symbolic,” Julian said, digging in the bag again for a muffin.

  “What?”

  Julian checked his grin at the sight of his sister’s scowl. “Never mind.”

  “Okay, freak,” Fabiana muttered, dropping into one of the craptastic kitchen chairs. She took a cautious sip of coffee and made a face. “This is disgusting. It tastes like tar made with sweaty feet.”

  “Gross,” Julian said. He leaned against the counter and took a bite of the walnut muffin. Beatrice was right. It was amazing. Next time he had the cash to spare he should go back and—

  “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Fabiana demanded.

  “Doing what?”

  “If you want me out, just say so. You don’t have to be a passive-aggressive jerk about it.”

  Oh. Oops.

  Julian sighed and sat at the table with her. “I’m not going to kick you out,” he said. “It’s just that I’m running out of money, and I only have one lead on one job. Which I can’t take. And that”—he tipped his muffin at the coffee cup on the table between them—“is the cheapest coffee in a five-mile radius.”

  Fabiana’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, out of their defensive position. “Would you splurge on an actual coffee maker if I told you I’ve got an interview for a part-time thing on Tuesday?” she asked. “I think I’ll get it, if that makes a difference.”

  “I didn’t know you’d applied for anything,” Julian said.

  Fabiana picked at the edge of her coffee lid. “I may have suspected the blow-out with Walter was coming.”

  “Why? What did he—”

  “It’s just part-time,” she continued, speaking over him, “but I thought I could at least try to help out until I can bring Walter around. You’ve got a fridge that looks like it was stocked by an anorexic bird. You’re a guy. You need to eat more protein than eggs and peanut butter.”

  Julian rubbed the back of his head. She’d never offered to help out before. When she crashed with him, she was usually off again a few days later. “Walter’s being a real dick this time, huh?”

  Fabiana shrugged, absentmindedly taking another sip of coffee. She winced and made a disgusted sound. “What is this made of? Toxic sludge?”

  “Maybe you’ll get superpowers,” Julian
offered.

  “If I get toxic sludge powers, I’m going to go full super-villain and kick your ass for causing the problem.”

  “Okay. Fair.”

  “Coffee maker?”

  Julian groaned, annoyed that the guilt trip was working on him. “Fine. We’ll get you the coffee maker. But we’re getting the cheapest one at Goodwill, and you’ll just have to deal until we get some actual cash coming in.”

  “I accept your terms,” Fabiana said, brightening. She got up—leaving her half-finished croissant and the coffee on the table—and shoved Julian’s head affectionately on her way past.

  “Ow,” Julian complained, more out of a sense of tradition than because it hurt.

  “You’re buying me another coffee on the way over, though,” she called over her shoulder as she slipped into the bathroom.

  Julian shot her a glare, but she’d already shut the door. He picked up the coffee from the table and sniffed it. It just smelled like coffee, to him. Although he had to admit there was an odd smell underneath. Vinegar? The Wi-Fi at Java Mama must be incredible. Julian had no idea how they would still be in business, otherwise.

  The bathroom door popped open, and Fabiana hung out of it, her long, black hair clipped out of her face, toothbrush in hand, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why can’t you take your one job lead?”

  He’d been hoping she’d miss that. “It’s in the city,” he said, pushing the coffee across the table.

  She stared at him, expression unchanging. No one could accuse them of having twin telepathy.

  “What if I ran into someone?” Julian asked, as though he hadn’t run into Vito already.

  Julian hadn’t divulged too many details when he’d told Fabiana what happened with Vito and the rest of them. He didn’t like dwelling on that part of his life too much. Vito’s guilty verdict had been overturned shortly after sentencing—some kind of technical issue with the jury—but one of the things that put him in prison was Julian’s testimony, after he flipped on Vito’s gang to the FBI. That wasn’t the kind of thing Vito and his thugs took too kindly to. Fabiana was familiar enough with the gist of the story to understand that Julian taking a job in the city was a significant risk.