Dangerous Girls, page 1
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Chapter 1
The night had been full of thunder, and when I got up, it was still pissing down like God himself was taking a leak.
I tried not to read that as a bad omen.
I really needed today to go well.
I dragged my tired ass into my apartment’s tiny kitchen, clicked the switch on the coffee maker, and yawned widely as the fragrant fumes started to rise from the filter machine.
I was still in the process of making this apartment feel like home, and one of the things I hadn’t yet had the chance to do was throw out Uncle Billy’s extensive collection of novelty mugs, which were both huge and hideous. Each one was a monstrous twenty-ouncer and labeled with slogans that ranged from cringe to downright offensive.
Today’s mug read “Don’t Talk To Me Until I’ve Had My Coffee.”
Cringy.
And even cringier for being accurate.
I wasn’t a morning person, okay?
Even less so when I had an author to wrangle.
Clinton Shepherd was famed in gaming circles for his series of adventure books set in the world of the roleplaying game WarAxe. The fact that I’d managed to book him for a signing at the shop was a big win, and I’d been patting myself on the back for it when an email from the guy himself arrived. He wanted to know more about the event and how to get to Wormwood, which wasn’t a bad thing in itself, but his sign-off struck cold fear into my heart:
“Anyway, don’t worry about it too much, I’m a pretty chill guy, haha!”
In my experience, anyone who felt the need to broadcast the existence of their chillness was never actually chill when it came down to it.
All of the assholes I’d ever met in my twenty-plus years of customer service jobs had either begun or ended their rants with an announcement that they were actually being pretty chill, really. Meanwhile, I’d be picking myself up off the floor in a daze after they’d just unleashed enough vicious hot air to make Dorothy clutch Toto in terror.
Maybe Clinton Shepherd wasn’t an asshole, but I wasn’t about to get my hopes up.
He was coming to the shop to sign copies of his latest book, which would be a massive boost for the shop’s profile and maybe even bring in some customers from Portland. As long as the shop benefitted from his visit, I could bite my tongue and swallow the bullshit.
This was the first event I’d hosted in the shop since Uncle Billy had left it to me, and given the state that the shop had been in when he’d left it to me, I had the feeling this would also be the first event hosted in the shop in a very, very long time.
Uncle Billy had been many things, but a businessman wasn’t one of them.
The shop’s front window had been stuffed full of dusty plastic figurines that were worth less than the sun-bleached cardboard they were mounted on. The walls hadn’t been painted in at least two decades. When I’d ripped up the disgusting carpet to reveal the surprisingly nice hardwood floor underneath, I’d found a Reagan campaign button that had worked its way underneath.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved the guy for leaving me the shop… who gets a headstart like that in this economy? But it hadn’t been an easy job to drag the shop into the current century.
I’d cleared out the front window and shelves of anything older than I was, ripped up the carpet, scrubbed the floor, and cleaned the windows. Then I’d painted the walls a refreshing dark teal, bought a cash register that could actually handle card transactions, done a stock check, and despaired over whether there was anything in the stock check I could actually sell. Finally, I bought a load of new stock and installed some new shelves to hold the new stock. The shop looked a thousand times better after that.
I still needed to paint the outside of the store, tear down a wall in the basement, and start trying to understand social media so I could boost the shop’s online presence, but overall, Time & Space was well on its way to becoming a respectable and profitable gaming and comic book shop.
If Clinton Shepherd liked us, he might come back, or spread the word that we were a good venue. Even if he didn’t, just the fact that he was coming here was a huge feather in the shop’s cap.
What was there to worry about? The author was a really chill guy, he’d told me so himself.
I chugged my entire mug of coffee without pausing and let out a sigh that seemed to echo around the apartment.
Enough stalling.
Time to get to work.
I went back into the bedroom and changed into my normal black jeans and black t-shirt combo.
“Hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” I said to my reflection.
Besides, wearing all black emphasized my dark hair and eyes, and there was nothing like a snug black t-shirt to emphasize the shoulder gains that I’d been working on. I wasn’t Schwarzenegger, but I’d been on the wrestling team in high school, and now I took a regular karate class at the gym in town to make sure that I stayed in shape.
I grabbed a protein bar for breakfast and went down the stairs that led from the apartment to the shop below. Even if the apartment didn’t yet feel like it was properly mine, the shop definitely did.
The place still smelled of new paint, even with the multiple Febreze air fresheners I’d plugged into every spare outlet. And, of course, like every building in town, there was the faint but persistent smell of dampness underlying everything.
That was Maine for you.
I switched on the lights and the cash register, looked longingly at the second, smaller coffee maker I’d bought to live behind the counter, then went to the front door, and flipped the sign from “CLOSED” to “OPEN.”
The rain was trickling down the windows, and I peered through the glass in the door to get a glimpse of the rain-soaked street outside. It didn’t look promising out there, so I turned around and put my focus on making the store as warm and comfortable as possible.
The store was divided roughly into two spaces. The first space was by the front door, and it was where I kept most of the bookcases and comic stands. The second space was further back in the shop, and it was raised up a little so you had to step up to get to it, and there was a sheet of plywood that acted as a kind of railing and a border between the two spaces.
Uncle Billy had put it up as a temporary solution years ago, and it was on my list of things to fix, but I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
The cash register was in the middle of the shop on the right-hand side, so when I was behind the counter I had a vantage point that let me see into both the front and the back of the shop.
The second space was where I kept stock like WarAxe trading cards, replica weapons from The Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, and Dune, posters, figurines, and memorabilia that were actually worth something. Most of this stock was on the walls so light-fingered teenagers from the city couldn’t swipe a souvenir from their weekend trip to the suburbs, and this meant the back half of the shop was the perfect space to hold events.
This was where the local WarAxe gamers met, although ideally, I wanted to eventually transition them down into the basement as they could get rowdy when storming castles in Fortlandia and defeating Crowcat bandits in Osstara.
I’d already brought up all the folding chairs from the basement last night, and I started unfolding them and setting them up in rows.
The door opened, and I looked over to see one of my regular customers coming in.
“Hey, Mike!” Jay greeted me with his customary megawatt smile as he brushed the raindrops from his sleek black hair. “How are you doing? I thought I’d come and see if you needed any help setting things up for the event.”
“Thanks, man,” I replied. “Yeah, you can come and help me set up these chairs. You can hang your coat on the stand there. Still no pause in this rain, then?”
“No, it’s still going like crazy.” Jay peeled off his dripping, bright yellow raincoat and hung it on the coat stand by the door.
Jay had been a regular at Time & Space for years, and he’d been genuinely sad when Uncle Billy died.
I got the sense the WarAxe group had been a source of friendship and company for Jay that he didn’t get in other areas of his life, and he’d told me once that he’d been a bit panicked when it seemed like the shop might close. When I stepped in and announced I would be keeping the shop open as usual, Jay had been only too eager to give me the inside scoop into Wormwood’s local comics and gaming community, and he often did things like this where he would come along unasked to help me out with random tasks if it seemed like I needed it.
He was a nice guy, and I kept thinking I should ask him to go for a beer or something. Although, saying that, I didn’t know if Jay drank. I was pretty sure he was in his early twenties, so he was old enough for it, but he had such an innocent look to him that it sometimes made him seem a lot younger.
His parents ran Han’s, which was the Chinese grocery store in town. I didn’t know what they thought of Jay’s WarAxe hobby, but as long as he finished his shifts at the store and didn’t get into any trouble, they seemed happy enough to grumble about t he normal things, like when he was going to give them grandchildren and learn to drive stick shift.
“I’m so excited to see him, I’m going to be a total nerd when he arrives,” Jay said.
“Clinton Shepherd?” I asked with a grin. “Just remember, he’s more excited to see you than you are to see him.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Jay declared. “I have worshiped that guy’s books since I could read.”
“Really?” Most of Clinton Shepherd’s books featured big-breasted women with long swords on the covers, which I wouldn’t have thought would go down well at kindergarten.
“The Chronicles of Ember,” Jay declared. “Fun fact: Clinton Shepherd was inspired to write that series after watching Ralph Bakshi’s animated Lord of the Rings film with his niece and nephew. He wanted to create an immersive world that his family could read to their kids at bedtime.”
“That is interesting,” I said. “I’ve heard of the Chronicles of Ember, but I didn’t know it was for kids.”
“Not many people do,” Jay said. “It didn’t do very well, and after that, Shepherd’s publisher said he should focus more on the adult market.”
“So tell me,” I said as we finished the first row of chairs and moved on to the next. “What’s so great about the Chronicles of Ember?”
“Holy moly, everything.” Jay’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm.
I listened as he described a world of gnomes, salamanders, dryads, and nymphs learning to master their magical powers and keep the realm of Ember balanced in spiritual and magical harmony.
“That sounds complex for a kids’ book,” I commented. “Lots of themes.”
“Oh, yeah, totally!” Jay exclaimed. “That’s what makes it so good. It’s all about power and the effects of it on individuals, systems, and groups. You can totally see where Tolkien’s influences come in.”
“Maybe I should see about stocking the series in the shop,” I said.
“That would be awesome,” Jay said in a tone that was utterly devoid of any irony.
I smiled to myself as I unfolded the last chair.
That’s why I liked Jay. He was so passionate about his interests, and he didn’t give a fuck what others thought.
When I was in school, being that openly interested in The Lord of the Rings would’ve been a surefire way to get my lunch flushed down the toilet.
The chairs were all set up, and I put one at the front facing the rows so the visiting author would have somewhere to sit. I put a small folding table in front of the chair along with a cup of Sharpies and a glass of water. The big man hadn’t made any specific or unreasonable requests yet, like a bowl full of Skittles with all the green ones taken out, but regardless I was still mentally prepared for him to pull some diva bullshit like that.
The bell above the door jangled, and a crowd of people came in. I recognized a lot of them as regulars from the WarAxe group, and they made a beeline for the chairs.
“Is he here yet?” one of them asked. “Is he here?”
“Of course he’s not,” another scoffed. “We’re an hour early.”
“You are an hour early,” I agreed with a smile. “But don’t worry about it. Have you got your tickets?”
The group collectively held their tickets for me to see.
“Great, then you can grab a chair if you want or browse the shop.” I gestured at the chairs and shelves.
“Oh, my god,” one guy breathed. “Is that the latest installment of Captain Yelchin? Can I buy two copies?”
“Sure,” I chuckled, and I went to stand behind the counter.
The shop filled up quickly with regular customers, people who’d come here for the event, and passersby looking to escape the rain. And it wasn’t just people browsing, either, I was making good money, and in an hour, I was more than halfway toward meeting my target for the day.
There was just one problem.
There was no sign of Clinton Shepherd.
“Yes, no, he will be here,” I assured the fifth customer who asked. “He’s probably running a little late because of the rain. It’s terrible out there, isn’t it? But, well, it is Wormwood, after all!”
My customer service voice sounded even faker in my ears than normal, but the customer didn’t seem to notice as they smiled and agreed that yes, it was Wormwood, after all, a town noted for its year-round torrential downpours.
My cheeks were starting to hurt from having my retail smile pinned so firmly in place, and I discreetly checked my phone for the fiftieth time to see if I had any missed calls.
My phone was an ancient piece of crap, but it could still receive calls, and I had no notifications.
The event was due to start at eleven.
It was ten-fifty-five.
Most of the people who’d come to the shop for the event had already taken their seats and were shuffling impatiently in their chairs. Others were still browsing the shop, but we weren’t a superstore and there was only so much here to keep a crowd of excited fans occupied.
The bell above the door jangled.
My head snapped up, and my heart leaped in anticipation.
But it wasn’t Clinton Shepherd.
It was a guy in dirty blue overalls underneath an enormous black raincoat.
“Hey, alright,” he said to me with a nod.
“Uh, hi,” I said.
“So, where am I going?” he asked.
I stared at him. “Sorry?”
“I’m here for the wall,” he said with an impatient gesture of his hands that sent raindrops splattering in all directions. “You’re Time & Space, aren’t you? I spoke to a guy called Mike about knocking down a false wall in a basement.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s me.” I frowned. “You’re not meant to be here today, though.”
“Yeah, I am,” he retorted, and he rummaged in the pocket of his coat for a moment before he pulled out a phone and started scrolling back through his messages.
“No,” I said in as patient a tone as I could manage, “you’re meant to be coming here next week. I have an event happening right now, I can’t have drills and sledge hammers going on downstairs.”
“Look, man, all I know is you booked a contractor for today at twelve,” the guy replied. “I don’t care what’s happening upstairs, I just need to get this done.”
“But I didn’t book you for today,” I said with the edges of my customer service smile wearing thin. “I booked you for next week on Wednesday the seventeenth of April.”
“Nah, man, the thirteenth of April, right?” The guy frowned and squinted at his phone.
Then his eyebrows shot up.
“Oh,” he said.
“The seventeenth?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Shit.”
“Shit indeed,” I agreed.
“Ah, I’m sorry, man,” he said with a shrug. “Can’t read my own handwriting.”
I decided not to point out that the booking had been done over email.
“No problem,” I said. “Just come back next week.”
“The thing is, man,” he said, “We’re all booked up for the next month because Glenn’s going on his honeymoon and Brad’s got his surgery, so today’s the only day I can fit you in.”
“But that’s not what you said on the phone.” My voice was very even and calm, which I thought was extremely nice of me. “And I need this done right away.”
“Sorry, man.” He shrugged and managed to not look sorry at all. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s today or next month.”
I massaged the bridge of my nose where I could feel a headache coming on.
I should have had a better breakfast than a Clif bar and a quart of coffee.
“Fine,” I said with a sigh. “I’m probably going to have to end up canceling this event and refunding everyone anyway.”
“Okay, cool.” The guy looked bored. “Just point me where to go.”
“I’ll show you.” I walked out from behind the counter and headed toward the small door in the front of the shop that was partly covered with a “Visit Osstara” poster.
“Are you into all this stuff?” the contractor asked me with a rather dismissive look around the shop. “Bit nerdy, isn’t it? Bet none of these jokers have girlfriends.”
I heaved a deep sigh because of course I had to get the workman who would insult my clientele in a voice that carried.
