Loverboy

by Bowen, Sarina

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I lead the man out of the pie shop’s front door, and then into my own front door. I unlock the door to the basement, and I descend the stairs carefully. Then I pull the string that illuminates the ugly space with a single bulb. “See? There’s nothing down here but mechanicals.” There’s a giant boiler that heats two buildings at once, and a double electrical box.

  “Oh dear,” the inspector says, crossing the space.

  “Oh dear what?” I demand.

  The man points, and I see two dead rats on the floor, near the cellar wall. “Evidence of vermin,” the inspector says, checking a box on his clipboard. “And, furthermore, easy access for vermin.” He points his pen at the one little window out on the alley.

  And there’s a hole in one pane. I’m so screwed.

  “But we’re not using this space!” I squeak. “There’s nothing to contaminate!”

  It doesn’t matter, though. Two minutes later he’s gone, leaving me with twenty-eight points against Posy’s Pie Shop, which will translate to a C grade.

  I’m so screwed.

  * * *

  Back in the kitchen, I feel chastened. I’m great with details, and I’ve always studied to get an A. The poor inspection feels like a personal failure.

  I make two of the world’s most beautiful meringue pies, each one with a crust that won’t be soggy, a filling that will hit the tongue with a bright burst of sweetened acidity, and a fluffy cloud of toasted meringue on top. But it’s a hollow victory. I need someone to give me a hug. Someone who knows I’m better than a C-grade human.

  I need Gunnar, damn it. Where is that guy? Teagan tells me he stepped out to run an errand.

  Finally—when it’s almost closing time—I hear his voice in the cafe. And something lifts inside me. I forget all about the stupid inspection, and I wonder whether he’d like to go out for a sushi dinner tonight.

  I wash my hands and check the mirror, just to be sure I don’t have blobs of lemon curd on my apron. And then I step out to greet him.

  Gunnar has his back to me, just like the first time I saw him in my shop. This time, though, I’m more intimately familiar with the muscular butt in those jeans. And the strength and passion in those hands that he’s using to tape a new sign to the front door.

  “Hey, Gunn,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s with the new sign?”

  “Posy.” He turns around abruptly. “I didn’t see you there.” His handsome face is sheepish.

  Uh oh, my subconscious says.

  I step closer so I can read the sign. Barista needed immediately. Signing bonus offered.

  “Signing bonus. What the heck is that all about?”

  “I thought it would help. I’ll foot the bill for a qualified candidate to get a thousand bucks for agreeing to start right away. What do you think?”

  I think I’ve never gotten angry so quickly in my life. “That’s not your call, is it?” I bark.

  “Well, no.” He winces. “I was trying to solve our problem.”

  “Our problem,” I echo. “You mean my problem. The one I have with unreliable men? Is this it for you? Just like that? Poof, and I’m down an employee?”

  His sheepish face tells me all I need to know.

  “I see. You’ve had your fun here. Does that mean you were successful with—” I stop myself before asking if he’d identified the killer. He won’t be able to say so out loud, not in front of the last two customers who are still enjoying my WiFi connection even though their cups are empty and their pie plates contain nothing but crumbs.

  “Just so you know, I’m going to lean on Teagan for some more hours. And I can work tomorrow,” he says. “Until noon.”

  “Until noon.” Does he mean only tomorrow until noon? Another glance at his guilty face confirms that it’s true. “I see.” And damn it, I do see. It was always going to happen like this. Why did I not understand that?

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I feel terrible about leaving you in the lurch.”

  “Right.” I swallow hard. “Of course you do.” Why do I feel so crushed? It’s not just the barista job, either. Gunnar means a whole lot more to me than coffee. And now he’s done? With me, too?

  I shouldn’t leap to conclusions. “Listen, what if we got some sushi tonight and did a little brainstorming about the new hire?”

  “We’ll definitely have that conversation.” He frowns. “Tonight isn’t good for me, though.”

  “Oh,” I say quietly. “I see.”

  One of those lingering customers clicks his laptop shut and prepares to depart. Needing something to do with my hands, I hustle over there and take his cup and plate off the table. “Thanks for coming in,” I say cheerfully, although I’m dying inside.

  Is this really it? I thought Gunnar’s time in my shop would telegraph its ending. That there’d be a big moment of clarity when he and Max sorted out their mystery and celebrated its conclusion.

  But I guess I’m not privy to that part. Gunnar is going to disappear as quickly as he arrived—from my shop, and from my bed. And it’s abundantly clear that I’m going to be far more upset about it than he is.

  I carry those dishes swiftly out of the room. “Flip the sign, Jerry!” I call out. “I’ll wash these last couple of things.”

  “Okay, Posy!” He gives me a big smile.

  I turn on the water with a blast into the metal sink, and it’s loud enough to cover the sound of my unhappy sigh. I hose the coffee dregs out of the cup like it’s the most important thing in the world. Then I grab the soapy sponge and scrub.

  “I will not pine for that man,” I say under my breath. “Pining is for losers.”

  But he’s so pretty, my hormones whine. And we want him around. We might even be falling in love with him.

  I scrub the plate and take deep breaths, so I won’t do something stupid. Like cry.

  When I shut the water off, Gunnar is standing in the doorway to my tiny office, and he’s talking to Teagan, I think. “Come on, now,” he says. “I’ll walk you out.” He’s giving her his loverboy smile. And when she steps into view, he puts his arm around her back and leads her toward the front of my shop without a backward glance at me.

  He’s turned on the charm, hoping to convince Teagan to take a bunch of extra shifts behind the counter. He’s trying to assuage his guilt at abandoning me like a used napkin.

  I’m going to be eating takeout sushi alone on the sofa tonight, I realize. With the same extra-large glass of cheap white wine I was drinking the night that Gunnar walked back into my life.

  How fitting.

  “Posy?” Jerry calls from the front. “I know we’re closed now, but someone is here to see you!”

  Please, God, let it not be another health inspector. “Coming!” I trot out to the front with no small amount of trepidation. What else could go wrong today?

  But it’s not a health inspector. It’s a young woman with dark skin, clear brown eyes, long, elaborate earrings and her hair piled into a jaunty bun on top of her head. “My name is Monique. I’m here about the barista job,” she says. “If you’re on your way out, I could come back tomorrow morning. But I saw your sign in the window, and I’d love to fill out an application.”

  I blink back my surprise. “Nice to meet you, Monique. Let me just grab that application. I’d be happy to stick around while you fill it out. The last barista quit, leaving me high and dry. He couldn’t even be bothered to give me two weeks’ notice.” My anger burns brightly as I say these words.

  But my foolish gaze looks toward the street anyway. Ready for a glimpse, in case he passes by.

  He doesn’t, though. So I nip into the office and grab an application, and a good pen. Then I bring it out to the young woman in front. “Here you go! Can I ask if you’ve worked as a barista before?”

  “Oh, totally!” she says, giving me a beautiful smile. “My summer job is at Maxi’s Coffee in Peoria, Illinois. Our machine isn’t quite as pr
etty as yours. It’s a Cecilware two group. But I’m sure I won’t have a problem adapting. I’ll make you some test drinks if you want to see me in action.”

  “Let’s do that,” I say, stepping behind the counter to flip Lola back on. “What’s your availability?”

  “Well, Tuesday and Thursday aren’t good for me. But I piled all my classes onto those days, so that I could work the other five. NYU is expensive.”

  Five days of availability, including weekends? I nearly squeal with joy. “I can work with that,” I say coolly. After all, Gunnar has turned me into a more cynical person than I used to be. It’s quite possible that Monique is some kind of spy. If there’s one murder plot afoot in my cafe, there could easily be a second one. Or a third. The world is full of liars with their own twisted agendas.

  I watch Monique write her name onto my application in a pleasant, loopy script, her earrings swinging playfully as she writes.

  Nope! my subconscious says. She’s a cheerful college student who needs money for beer and books.

  The truth is that I’m just not cut out to see the world the way Gunnar sees it. I’m the kind of girl who expects people to be who they say they are, right up until the moment they let me down.

  And I like myself this way. If Monique is secretly a caffeine-crazed alien with a secret mission to colonize the Earth, I’m not going to figure it out until her spacecraft touches down in the alley outside. That’s just the kind of girl I am.

  Monique finishes the application and looks up. “Shall I make you a drink? What will it be?”

  “A decaf latte, please. Lola is a little finicky with the tamp. I won’t take any points off if it takes you a couple of tries to get it right.”

  “I’ll win her over,” Monique says, ducking behind the counter and heading right to the sink to wash her hands.

  I’m smitten already.

  Humming to herself, Monique grinds a shot of decaf and tamps it expertly, dusting the group head of stray grounds. And she cleans the frothing arm like a pro.

  A few short minutes later I’m sipping an excellent latte with a foam bunny on it. “When can you start?” I ask.

  “Well, I could come in tomorrow. I need the paycheck. Your, um, flyer in the window says something about a signing bonus.”

  That was Gunnar’s big idea. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to take his guilt money. “It’s five hundred bucks after your first shift, and another five hundred after your first month.”

  Her eyes light up. “That’s wonderful. I can buy my last two textbooks, and still have money for beer.”

  “Be here tomorrow before seven,” I tell her. “Welcome aboard, Monique.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Call me Posy,” I insist.

  The minute she leaves, I text Gunnar. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow. I found someone else.

  28

  Gunnar

  It’s Teagan. I can’t believe it. The Plumber is a gum-chewing donut-making Millennial.

  A few minutes ago, I burst in on her in Posy’s office, where she was tapping madly on her phone. And when I glanced at the screen, instead of Instagram, I saw the ugly black screen of a dark web message board.

  We locked eyes. But it only took me a moment to get over my shock. Then I clamped an arm around Teagan and said, “You’re walking out of here with me right this second. And you will smile, damn it.” And then I grabbed that damn phone and shoved it into my pocket.

  I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to Posy. On our way out, I felt her anger radiating in my direction, as hot as the sun.

  It’s well deserved, that’s for sure. But I don’t have time to worry about it right now. Because I’ve finally found The Plumber. And I’ve frog-marched her onto the sidewalk and into a taxicab, all while pretending to chat her up. As I walk her toward the cab, past the NYPD’s cameras, and whoever else is watching the pie shop, I smile the smile of a dude who’s out on a hot date with a younger woman.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asks after I give the taxi a destination a few blocks away.

  “To my office,” I say, clasping her wrist in a tight hold, just so she doesn’t get any ideas. “And if you try to make a run for it, you won’t get far. My guys are following us right now.”

  I have so many questions. Who is Teagan, anyway? And who spoofed her phone to make it appear on the WiFi connection as a Windows device?

  But I don’t ask anything of my hostage, who’s trembling visibly as the cab pulls over. I pay him, and then tell Teagan to get into the black Company sedan that Duff has just pulled to a stop behind us.

  “Who are you?” she whispers as she slides onto the leather seat behind Duff. The locks click into place, which means Teagan’s door won’t open now. Duff is no fool, and our cars are the shit.

  “I’m the world’s best barista,” I mumble as I tap my watch and leave Max an encrypted voicemail. “Bringing you a treat at the office, lover! Your favorite donuts. See you in five minutes.”

  “Nice one,” Duff says from behind the wheel.

  “Thanks,” I say, but my mood is pretty sour. How the hell did I not figure this out earlier? Although—to be fair—I’ve looked over Teagan’s shoulder dozens of times only to see Instagram on her phone.

  “I want a lawyer,” she says.

  “Well, I’m not a cop.”

  “Who are you, then?”

  “Good question. It really depends on whether you’re guilty of killing hackers. I might be the guy who quietly saves your butt. Or the guy who hands you over to the police. It depends on what you have to say, and if you’re smart enough to say it.”

  “I’m not guilty of anything. But I can’t talk to you, or someone could die.” Her eyes fill with tears, and I feel instantly terrible. I’m not a fan of intimidating women. But I’ve just done exactly that.

  Teagan—if that’s her real name—owes us nothing. She brought a lot of shit to Posy’s door, which wasn’t nice. But it’s possible that she’s just a pawn in someone else’s evil game. She sure as hell doesn’t look menacing.

  Duff steers the car into the rear entrance of The Company headquarters, and the garage door is quickly shut behind us.

  “Where are we?” she squeaks, pressing her body into the corner of her side of the seat.

  “This is my office building,” I say calmly. “Nobody is going to hurt you. But you’re right—people could die because of what you know. But if you tell us, we can sort it out. Now come upstairs.” Duff unlocks the back doors, and I climb out, taking care not to touch Teagan when she also leaves the car. It’s not like she can escape. There are two men at the exterior doors. “Would you follow me, please? We have an interview room just down that hallway and up a flight of stairs.” I point to a glass door.

  Biting her lip, Teagan follows me. Duff is bringing up the rear, but he hangs back, giving her space. I press my palm to the security panel and open the door.

  Scout is already waiting on the other side. “Hello there. Do you mind if I pat you down for weapons?” she asks Teagan.

  “Uh, no?” Teagan says, looking terrified. “I don’t have anything but my phone and my wallet.”

  Scout—who’s two inches shorter than Teagan but deadlier than a bag of rattlesnakes—quickly pats her down. “Thank you for that. Come right this way.”

  * * *

  The next hour is very illuminating. From the look of fear on Teagan’s face, it’s easy to see that our donut maker is in way over her head.

  But once Max and Scout sit her down around the conference table with two bags of chips, a selection of cold sodas, and proof that we can tie every one of The Plumber’s pie shop posts with video evidence of Teagan on the premises, she caves in faster than a sandcastle at high tide.

  “Everything I posted, I did for my boyfriend. He’s just a bookkeeper who found himself working for the wrong guys,” she says, eyes downcast. “I mean—this one in particular is super scary.”

  “Super scary how?” Max a
sks, leaning back in his chair and appearing far more relaxed than I know he really is.

  “My boyfriend always found him creepy, and he has a short temper. But his office seemed pretty normal at first.”

  “What kind of office is it?” I ask.

  “It’s upstairs at a nightclub. He goes in two times a week to do the club’s books. The ledgers are mostly ordinary—alcohol and a big payroll. But they also pass him receipts with dodgy information on them. My boyfriend is supposed to put them down for ‘miscellaneous expenses.’”

  “Huh,” Max says noncommittally. “Nightclubs are often fronts for a whole lot of things. Drugs. Money laundering.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Teagan insists. “Anyway, there are also a bunch of computers up there—more than a nightclub would need. My boyfriend is a bookkeeper by trade, but hacking is his hobby. So he notices powerful computers, you know? And the machine they put him on has a lot of horsepower.”

  “Interesting,” Max says, leaning forward. “What kind of hacking does he do?”

  “Breaking into first person shooter games.” She shrugs. “He sells cheat codes to sweaty gamers in South Korea.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” I ask.

  “A little bit,” Teagan admits. “The game manufacturers are always trying to close the loopholes. But my boyfriend likes the thrill of the chase. It’s a cat and mouse game between him and the game manufacturers.”

  “Okay,” Max says. ”So how did your hacker boyfriend get you posting murder details on the dark web? Connect the dots for me.”

  “Well, these guys in the nightclub office are a weird bunch. They won’t let him do the books remotely. They won’t let him use his own computer, and he has to put his phone in a bowl while he’s working there. It’s a little paranoid, but not that off base, right? Some people just don’t trust the cloud. So he’s on one of their rigs, and he starts poking around this PC one day just for fun. Kind of like driving someone else’s Ferrari. And someone had left a private message channel open …” She sighs.