“Anything else you think I should grab?” he asks. I study hisselection on the counter. Who is he buying all this stuff for? Is he planning on taking endless rose-scented bubble baths while burning a forest’s worth of pine-scented candles and readingThe Essential Tarot Guide? (I convinced Honor to stock that book because it’s life-changing. Trust me.) Is he hosting a bachelor party and that’s why he needs a dozen pocket Big Night Out Survival Kits (includes: mini-flask, breath mints, condoms, energy bar)?
Now I look deeply into his face—his skin is like one of those rubbery Halloween masks. Since we sell all sorts of sex toys, we sometimes get fetishists in the store. No judgment—if your kink is licking pickle juice off someone’s clamped nipples, go off, girlfriend. Every once in a while, though, a customer will ask all sorts of questions about our products as a way to proposition Honor or me. It’s like they assume that, by virtue of our working in a store that sells erotic items, we, too, are for sale.
“Looks like you did a great job. Um, other than…” I glance around the store. He’s sporting a pair of limited-edition vintage Yeezys, which I know are worth at least a thousand dollars. “…our shoe-cleaning kits? You should definitely grab one. Everyone loves them—microfiber cloth, deodorizer, cute little brush. They’ll keep those Yeezys looking fresh.”
“Done,” he says, and adds a few kits to the pile. Sometimes I think Honor orders these things just to test my sales skills. Our customer base rarely crosses over with sneakerheads.
Suddenly, I’m extra aware that he and I are all alone in here. Dude might not be tall, but he’s got at least fifty pounds of muscle on me. His thick wrestler’s neck contrasts with his delicate wrists and manicured fingernails.
Is he dangerous? Should I be alarmed? Should I press the button under the counter that summons Strike’s personal security team?
My finger finds the button, just to feel it. Just in case.
“So, what’s your name?”
And there it is. A flirty lilt to his voice. Shit. He’s going to ask me out, and I’m going to need to tell him NO without pissing him off. I hate how often I feel vulnerable as a woman in this world. I look around for a weapon. Could I stab him with my EpiPen?
Chill out, Josie.This man has given no indication he wants to do anything except buy random shit and make awkward conversation. Creepy isn’t the same as dangerous.
I blame Nonna’s disturbing warning. Freddy Krueger. That damn Devil card. And, of course, I’m still haunted by Troy Simpson—the psychopath who killed Honor’s sister. That experience has definitely left its mark.
“I’m Josie,” I say, my voice as neutral as beige paint. “Cash or credit?”
“Pretty name, Josie,” he says as he hands over a black Amex. Ha, Strike has one. I always tease him that I’m going to use it to buy a private plane. Rumor has it these cards have no credit limit. I swipe it and hand it back with mythank you for shopping in this establishment—and not aplease ask me for my number—smile.
Hopefully, this guy can tell the difference.
“I’m Niles,” he says. “Niles von Grafenhagen.”
“For real?” I blurt out without thinking. What a freaky-ass name. Like a villain in a bad spy movie.
“As far as I know, yes,” he says, and he sounds offended. “That is my name.”
“Sorry. Long day. I’m a little punchy. It’s a great name. Memorable. Great to meet you, Niles von…” I mumble a bunch of vowels and hope he doesn’t notice. “Thank you for your business. Have a good night.”
I need to change before I head to SynthoTech. I probably won’tsee Axe tonight—but if I do, I don’t want to be wearing these old sweatpants and a T-shirt that saysI’m in My Glitter Erain sequins.
To my relief, Niles takes the hint. After he scoops up his five shopping bags, he gives me one last, intense look. “Now that I’ve found this delightful shop, I expect we’ll be seeing more of each other, Josie,” he says, and the hairs on my arms stand up in alarm. I don’t like him saying my name.
“Sure, see you around,” I say with false brightness.
After he leaves, I’m so shaky I double-check my blood sugar. Numbers are good. This is a completely irrational reaction to a friendly customer. Maybe some basic Troy Simpson PTSD. Nonna always says people can read energy, that we all have a sixth sense we’ve been conditioned to ignore, and if we just tuned in, the world would be better for it. But Nonna could be seriously superstitious, probably just looking for ways to make sense of things.
Of course that odd little elf man is harmless.
Still, after I lock up, cash out, and call Honor to give her the day’s receipts—which sends her launching into a passionate verse of “Billionaire”—I pull out my singing bowl from under the register. I stroll slowly around the shop, tapping the bowl with my mallet, breaking up Niles’s gremlin energy with the calming vibes and chimes of Zen. I remember how the other night Axe almost spit out his champagne when I told him that I keep sage in my bag for these sorts of emergencies. I picture him watching me now.
Laugh all you want, Axe, I think. I’m not sure when I started having imaginary conversations with him in my head, but here I am.You can never be too careful.
Twenty-Three
Axe
“You really don’t need to be here for this, boss,” Theo, my head of graphics, says. “We got this handled.”
Theo, in his mid-twenties, sporting a rainbow mohawk and ear gauges, lives with his husband, Chuck, on a farm just outside Shelton. When he’s not busy revolutionizing AI at SynthoTech, he’s out there growing rhubarb and making jam. I don’t usually mix with my staff outside the office—except for the annual SynthoTech-DME party, of course. (My team’s already hounding me for new theme ideas, because you can never start planning my least favorite day of the year too soon.)
I’ve been to Theo and Chuck’s croft once, when they had me over for their Fall Harvest Festival. I like and trust Theo well enough, but not enough to let him take the lead on re-creating AI Josie without me keeping a watchful eye.
