Killer Beach Reads

by Gemma Halliday Publishing

  She thought of people in New York as party-ready, always eager for a night out and always…available. After all, they had great public transportation, but nobody had cars. How far could they go?

  She stretched out on her hotel bed and growled, low, in the back of her throat. What am I going to do by myself for two entire days in New York? Her meeting with a Chelsea gallery owner was taking place the next morning and would be followed by lunch, but other than that her only assignment was to check out new exhibitions at the Whitney and the Guggenheim, and she'd gone to the latter as soon as she'd dropped her bags at her hotel. She was planning to hit the Whitney after her meeting the next afternoon.

  That left her two nights in the city gloriously, but also frighteningly, free.

  She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Her flight had landed at two-thirty, and it was now almost seven. What would she be doing if Briana or Emmy had been able to meet up with her? Probably getting into the shower to get ready to meet them at a restaurant in someplace interesting like SoHo or the Meatpacking District and then head someplace else to drink. She'd been looking forward to experiencing the city with a New Yorker, learning the secrets of their favorite neighborhood dive bar, like MacLaren's on How I Met Your Mother.

  She rolled her eyes. God, I sound like The Beverly Hillbillies. She might have grown up in the sticks, but she'd lived in Boulder for four years of undergrad, and then in San Francisco for two years after college, and now in Carlsbad, just outside San Diego, for three. She had been to a major city before.

  She rolled onto her side, pushed herself off the king-size bed, and stripped off her carefully planned "I'm a grown-up business person" travel outfit—navy skirt, white blouse, and three-quarter sleeve khaki blazer—on her way to the bathroom. If her friends weren't around to show her a night on the town, she'd just have to make some more friends.

  * * *

  Nicki lingered in the shower for a long time, contemplating her solo night out. First she'd text Briana to figure out where to go. Then she'd just…go. She could always sit at the bar, and if nobody talked to her, she'd go to the next bar. After shampooing her hair twice with the watery hotel shampoo and slathering on almost the entire bottle of conditioner, she piled a towel on top of her head, cinched another towel around her body, and stepped out into her tiny room at her hotel on West 25th street.

  She flipped on the TV and surfed quickly through the lackluster array of channels before stopping on some inane Hollywood gossip show on the E! network. While the show's host gave the latest Kim Kardashian update (Puh-leeease! Was Hollywood ever going to get over that hot mess?), she lugged her suitcase onto the room's second bed and reached for the zipper.

  It was stuck, and she tugged at it, her brow furrowed. She'd never had trouble opening it before. What's airport security done to my poor suitcase? Finally the zipper gave, and she yanked it around. When she flipped open the lid, she gasped.

  This isn't my stuff!

  Nicki undid the interior straps and started rifling furiously through the suitcase's contents as if a TSA employee might accidentally have placed someone else's belongings on top of hers. No such luck.

  In her haste to leave LaGuardia, she'd obviously grabbed the wrong bag, which was ironic since the main reason she'd bought a pink-and-turquoise suitcase in the first place was because it would be easy to identify. She'd been smug at her own sensible thinking.

  "Nice, Nicki," she said out loud. "You're totally brilliant."

  She should have known better, anyway. The one big problem with Target was that no matter what you bought, a million other people bought it, too. The cuter it was, in fact, the higher the likelihood that you'd see ten other people you knew wearing it or carrying it.

  Frozen in place, she contemplated what to do next. She had to call the airport, of course, but even when she did, there was probably zero chance that her bag would be back in her hands before she left on Thursday morning. She flipped up the polka-dotted luggage tag attached to the suitcase. It was exactly like the one on her bag—pink with turquoise stripes—thinking she might have better luck if she contacted the owner directly. There, in neat block print, was the owner's name, Sarah Jones, along with a Los Angeles address. There was no phone number. What the hell? Who doesn't put their cell number on a luggage tag? And Sarah Jones? There were probably two thousand Sarah Joneses in L.A. It wasn't like she could just Google her number. Fabulous.

  She scooted cross-legged onto the bed beside the suitcase and began rifling through the items inside again, cringing as she imagined Sarah Jones doing the same thing with her suitcase. Maybe there was something in here she could borrow, if just for the evening? She glanced at the clock again. It was seven forty-five, which meant that if she was going to go out, she either had to wear her work clothes—her nose wrinkled in annoyance that she'd chosen such a boring travel outfit—or buy something new, and she had no idea where to shop or whether any clothing stores would even be open by the time she could get out of the hotel and find her way out of Chelsea. Plus, she wasn't exactly swimming in extra funds.

  I wonder what's around here.

  She picked up her cell and texted her best friend, Marin.

  So, dumbass me picked up the wrong suitcase. Looks like the clothes in it r around my size. What do u think???

  Marin's answering text, OMF-ing-G. ROTFLMAO…

  Yeah. Not helpful.

  Nicki lifted the top item off the stack of women's clothing and inspected it. It was a nightshirt, also from Target—she recognized it from the sale rack on a recent trip. The tag read "S," and at five feet, eight inches and 138 pounds, Nicki was an "M" on a good day, but it could be worse. At least it wasn't an "XS." Then she'd have to hate Sarah Jones for more than owning a bag just like hers.

  She tentatively lifted the fabric to her nose, sniffing delicately, and was relieved to find that the nightshirt smelled like fabric softener. At least it was clean.

  Feeling more confident, she dug a little deeper. The bag appeared to hold a couple of size small sundresses—not Nicki's taste or color palette, but they had potential, two pairs of size seven-and-a-half shoes (Nicki wore an eight), a hair straightener (ooh, Sarah's gonna be pissed she doesn't have that—Nicki's own straightening iron was in her carry-on bag), a couple of tops (XS—damn), and two pairs of skinny jeans that were definitely way too skinny for Nicki to squeeze her butt into. So far she'd found no underwear, which was sort of curious (not that she would have touched those anyway). Maybe Sarah had traveled with two suitcases? Or maybe she, like Nicki, had packed underwear in her carry-on in case of lost luggage instances just like this. Nicki had gleaned that bit of wisdom from her mom, Melanie. Of course, Nicki had extra underwear in her carry-on, not all her underwear…

  She shrugged and kept digging.

  Tucked between the two pairs of jeans was—she did a double-take—a row of five condoms, a small tube of KY Jelly, and a pair of silver handcuffs with a tuft of pink feathers attached to the key. Nicki's jaw dropped.

  "Ew, ew, ew!" she screeched. She dropped the jeans and picked up her phone. Suddenly the lack of undergarments took on a new meaning.

  911, she texted—her and Marin's texting distress signal. Suitcase owner likes it kinky. Handcuffs. No freaking joke. She lifted the jeans back up and took a pic to send with the text, to drive home the point.

  Marin texted back five seconds later. Guh-roooooss!! Guuuurl, don't even think abt wearing that stuff. You'll get da cooties.

  Nicki sighed. Marin was right, of course, on so many different levels. And she wasn't thrilled at the idea of skinny-assed, Target-shopping, commando-going, kinky sex-practicing Sarah Jones wearing her own clothes. But really, what other choice did she have?

  * * *

  An hour later, feeling disgusted with herself to her very core, Nicki paused outside the front door of a restaurant that specialized in sushi and sliders. She was starving, and when she'd texted Briana asking for dinner suggestions, this was the closest place on th
e map to her current location. Sushi and sliders seemed like a questionable combination in her mind, but Briana clearly approved of the place, so she decided to give it a go. Besides, it had actually been within walking distance—just two and a half blocks from her hotel.

  She glanced up at the restaurant's façade, deciding it passed the charm test, if nothing else. Gauzy draperies and a gingham café curtain draped across the plate glass window at the storefront, and cutesy curlicue writing on a sandwich board advertised daily specials. When she pushed through the door, she found herself in the middle of the dining room—the place was too small for an actual entryway. A cacophony of conversation greeted her, and she glanced around to orient herself. The place had a cozy neighborhood feel, and it was completely packed. But at least there didn't seem to be anyone waiting for a table.

  After she'd stood frozen inside the doorway for a few seconds, feeling like the new girl searching for a seat in the school lunchroom, a tall hipster-dressed Asian-American girl with pink and black ombré hair called out from behind the counter, "You can sit anywhere you want."

  Nicki nodded as two women seated at the table closest to her swiveled their heads in her direction, giving her a full once over and not looking impressed with what they saw. She glanced down at her weird composite ensemble. After agonizing over what to do about clothing and spending twenty frustrating and ultimately fruitless minutes on the phone with "customer service" at LaGuardia's United desk, she'd settled on her own skirt, which she'd rolled a couple times at the waist to make it shorter, tighter, and a bit more "evening." She'd combined it with one of Sarah Jones's too-small tops and her own white button-down shirt, which she'd left unbuttoned and tied at the waist in what she hoped could pass for a throwback '80s-vintage look. Her sensible work pumps had looked ridiculous with the ensemble, so she'd settled on one of Sarah's two pairs of shoes—both slightly too small and both of which, on closer inspection, could have passed for hooker heels. The pair she'd picked had hot pink stiletto heels, a patent leather platform base, and a bright floral, strappy top. She'd had to wrap a Band-Aid around her middle toe from the Fendi bag incident, and it was sticking out slightly from the shoe's open-toe front.

  Yeah, I know. I look awesome. The thought was laced with sarcasm, and she felt like sticking her tongue out at the two effortlessly well-dressed New Yorkers beside her. Bitches.

  Nicki knew she had to get a better attitude if she was going to salvage anything about this night.

  She spied an empty two-top table pressed into the far back corner, by the bathroom, and she headed for it, relieved. Her stomach growled loudly as she picked her way through the close, crowded space. She hadn't eaten anything since the plane.

  A waiter who looked about fifteen brought her a menu, and she glanced over it, finding that both the sushi and the sliders looked so appealing she couldn't decide on just one. Luckily the restaurant seemed to count on that happening, so she ordered one of an array of slider-sushi combos. When pink-hair girl brought out her salmon sliders and spicy tuna roll, she scarfed them down, every morsel more delicious than the last.

  At least one thing had gone right today. Briana's restaurant advice had been spot on. Nicki drained the remains of her beer and started Yelping the bars Briana had sent for her solo after-party. The top one on the list looked most interesting, but it was in the West Village, which meant a three-block walk to the closest subway stop, then a line switch, then another four-block walk in Sarah Jones's killer heels.

  Dejected, Nicki sat with her chin in her hands and mulled over her options. She had the company Amex for this trip, but she also had a per diem spending limit, and it wasn't generous. Her nonprofit employer, and especially her boss, were known for being tightwads—which was probably important, since art was an expensive amenity to acquire, even for a museum, and they had to work within the confines of their limited endowments.

  Her own bank account was even less generous. The cost of living in her beachside community was sky-high, and her roommate—and ex-boyfriend of four years, Kevin—had moved out on her four months ago, sticking Nicki with the full rent right after they'd signed a new twelve-month lease. Funny how he'd feared commitment when it came to her, but not when it came to signing a legal agreement he was now in violation of.

  He counted on her being too nice to turn him in. The verdict was still out on that.

  I'll have to take a cab. The thought was laced with dismay, because usually when she took cabs, she was with a group of friends, and cab fare was manageable when it was split four ways. She texted Briana again and asked for the best option to get from where she was in Chelsea to the Village.

  Def go Uber, her friend texted back immediately. So much quicker.

  Nicki shrugged. She already had the Uber app on her phone and had used it with friends once on a girls' weekend in San Francisco. Why not? It wasn't like she got the chance to go out in NYC that often. She could afford a few little splurges…even if it meant she'd be paying the minimum balance on her Visa for the next couple of months.

  She pulled up the Uber app and typed in the required info while the server cleared her table and took care of her check. By the time she stepped onto the curb, a car was already waiting outside the door of the restaurant.

  What the hell? Was he already driving up this street? She wasn't sure how this whole Uber thing worked, but damn, was that ever efficiency in action.

  Or maybe this wasn't her car.

  She approached the front passenger window of the dark blue Prius. She bent somewhat to make eye contact with the driver, who nodded, so she shrugged and opened the car's back door.

  "Uber?" she asked. It was the only word she could get out, since the sight of the car's driver momentarily caused her breath to stick in her throat. It wasn't as if he was drop-dead gorgeous, but he sure didn't look anything like her vision of a New York cab driver. He was around her age—late 20s, for sure—with dark hair that curled a little around his ears and at the top of his forehead, intense, coal-dark eyes, and a shadow of evening stubble. He looked amused as she completed her assessment, and Nicki felt self-conscious again about her atypical wardrobe choices.

  "Yep," he said. "You…" He glanced down at his iPhone screen. "N Bradley?"

  She'd entered her first initial only when she'd created her profile, mainly out of laziness.

  "Yes." She tentatively pulled the car door wider and slid onto the backseat, still rendered speechless from her general inexperience with this city's transportation and her driver's surprising and youthful appearance.

  "And you're headed to The Playground on Bleecker?" He said this sentence slower, as if questioning her intellect, or her English-speaking abilities.

  Nicki shook her head to snap herself out of the stupor she'd been living in since she'd made her shocking suitcase discovery. "Yes, Bleecker," she said, trying to come up with something more to say that would paint her as the competent, quick-witted human being she generally considered herself to be. "I…I don't know much about the city. I'm from the West Coast."

  He hummed a few bars of "California Girls," slightly off-key, which made her chuckle and like him instantly. As he slid the car smoothly from the curb, she felt herself start to relax. She sat back and clicked her seatbelt shut.

  "Well, what do you want to know?" he asked. "I'm Huck, by the way." He shot her a glance over his shoulder as he came to a stop at the light at the end of the block. They were in a long line of cars, and Nicki thought this was probably not going to be a quick trip.

  She thought that she might not mind that as she took in the dimple that appeared in his right cheek when he smiled at her.

  "Huck? Like, rhymes with duck?"

  He glanced ahead, presumably to make sure traffic was still at a standstill, and then looked back at her. "That's probably not my favorite mnemonic device, but sure." The dimple reappeared.

  "That's an unusual name." Apparently she wasn't going to start wowing Huck with her verbal prowess anytime soon.


  "My mom was a big Mark Twain fan," he said with a smirk.

  "Oh, that's really cool, then."

  "Nah, I'm kidding. I'm named after my dad, his dad, and his dad before that—my great-grandfather. Name's actually James Hawthorne Crenshaw the Fourth, but they'd pretty much exhausted the obvious nicknames by the time I came around. Still not sure how I was lucky enough to land Huck, but it, you know…stuck." She caught the shadow of a grimace at the bad rhyme, and she chuckled.

  As he talked Huck hit the gas pedal, and the car inched forward into a slowly building crawl.

  She was about to ask him another question, diverting from the name topic, when he said, "So, N. Huh. That's quite a name you've got, too." His sentence lilted up at the end so it sounded more like a question.

  She giggled again, wondering why she felt lightheaded—and like such an imbecile. It couldn't be the beer. She'd only had one, not enough to give even a lightweight like her a buzz. "My name's Nicole," she said, wondering where the hell she was finding the things that were coming out of her mouth. Nobody called her Nicole except her Aunt Cynthia and her brother Noah when he was trying to piss her off.

  Maybe Nicole was the name she'd assign this new her—the her in weird, mismatched layers and borrowed bordello footwear. Just for tonight she'd be Nicole.

  "Well, hello, Nicole," he said, interrupting her silent reinvention. "So what do you want to know about New York?" He paused for a brief moment before asking, "Is this your first time in the city?"

  "No," she said. "I came here as a kid a few times with my mom and sister. My mother loves going to shows. And I've been here once to visit my old roommate who lives in Brooklyn, and one other time with my old job." She felt like a Beverly Hillbilly again.

  "And what is it you do?" he asked, and she wondered what her appearance implied. Costume designer? Pole dance instructor?

  "I'm an assistant museum curator," she said. He was quiet for a second, probably stunned that someone with her apparent lack of social skills could hold down a professional job.