want any more company,” she said, for the eighth time. “And you’ve had enough to drink.”
“I did knock back a few. Can’t drive back to Portland like this. You’ll let me stay, won’t you, dollface? I’ll make it so worth your while.”
Dollface? “In your dreams, Edgar,” she said. “Get a room.”
“Cool idea. Let’s go check into that No-Tell Motel down on the highway.” He swayed toward her. “Cheap, sleazy motels turn me on.”
“Nope.” She swayed back, to minimize the stupefying effects of his garlic-and-wine breath. Her landlady lived on the ground floor, but she was eighty, and would not appreciate being dragged from her bed just because Abby couldn’t keep her purses organized.
“Break the kitchen window,” Edgar suggested. He hefted her doorstop, a swirl of driftwood attached to a chunk of petrified wood.
“No!” Abby grabbed the doorstop, staggering under the momentum of Edgar’s enthusiastic downswing. “Do not help! I’ll deal with this problem myself. In fact, you can go. Now. Please. Feel free.”
She fished out her cell phone and punched in the number of her friend Elaine, the only person besides Mrs. Eisley who had a set of keys.
Elaine picked up on the fourth ring. “Abby? What’s up? You OK?”
“I’m fine,” Abby said. “Sorry to call so late, but I was a ditz and locked myself out. I figured you’d turn the cell off if you were asleep.”
“Um, well…I’m out.”
“You’re what?” Abby was startled. Shy, homebody Elaine was never out on a Wednesday night. Or any other night, for that matter.
“Out. Actually, I’m sort of, ah…involved, right now.”
Abby’s mouth worked for a moment, but she rallied swiftly. “Really? Whoo hoo! Good for you, girlfriend! I had no idea.”
Elaine’s giggle sounded nervous. “It’s been a secret. I just met him recently. But later for that. Are your keys to my house locked in, too?”
“Yup.” Abby recoiled as Edgar kissed her neck. His sour breath made her gag. She swatted him away. “Edgar, do you mind?”
“Abby, are you in trouble? Do you want me to call someone? Like the police?” Elaine’s voice sharpened.
“I can handle the situation,” she assured her friend. “Could you grab the Yellow Pages and find me a locksmith?”
“Coming right up.”
Edgar chortled as Abby batted his hand away. He seemed to think they were playing a game, like an unruly dog hanging on to a stick.
“Abby? You still there?” Elaine asked anxiously.
“Hanging in there,” Abby said grimly, rummaging through her bag. “Edgar, do you have a pen?” Edgar pulled a gold pen out of his pocket. Abby snatched it out of his hand. “Go ahead, Elaine.”
“Let’s see, let’s see…oh, perfect. Night Owl Lock and Safe. It says, ‘nighttime lockouts are my specialty.’”
“Great.” She wrote the number Elaine recited on her thumb.
“Call me when you get inside,” Elaine said. “If you don’t call within twenty minutes, I’m calling the police.”
“I’ll call,” Abby soothed. “Be ready to spill juicy details tomorrow.”
She broke the connection and eyed Edgar with trepidation.
It was going to take some serious, hardcore rudeness to pierce his protective layer of self-absorption.
She sighed to herself. How squalid and depressing.
Zan was perched on the fence on Lookout Drive, wondering if that high, fast-moving cloud was going to hit the moon, when his phone vibrated. He checked the display. Unknown number. Lockout job.
Not tonight. He was in one of his moods. He was better off focusing on neutral things, like the moon on the ocean.
The vibration of the phone tickled his thigh. He didn’t answer. He didn’t feel like hauling his ass back down to the world of people. Their problems, their opinions. His family, for instance. Granddad and his brothers were constantly in his face, which was one of the reasons he was in this funk to begin with. Everybody telling him to change his coping mechanisms, his career, his whole goddamn personality.
Just thinking about it was getting him all wound up again. He focused on that smudge of stars on the horizon to chill himself out.
Hard to do, when the damn phone kept ringing.
Maybe he should phase out locksmithing altogether. He certainly didn’t need the money. His computer consulting kept him busy. He kept his locksmith license current only because he enjoyed pitting himself against locks now and then. Besides, he didn’t sleep at night. Nights could get long and boring. Sometimes he welcomed something to do.
But not tonight.
The caller gave up; the phone went still. He let out a sigh of relief and tried to get back into his groove, blissing out on the pulsing surge of the surf. Moonlit foam, in gleaming swaths over the beach. Full moon, clear night. Rare for the Oregon coast. He’d stay till dawn. The view was better than his computer screen, or the ceiling over his bed.
The phone buzzed against his thigh again. He resisted the urge to hurl the thing over the cliff, if only because he despised littering.
It kept ringing. He counted the number of rings stored in his short-term memory. Twelve. Curiosity started to poke at him. Sixteen, seventeen. Wow, someone was desperate. Or just stubborn. Nineteen, twenty. Aw, what the hell. He clicked TALK. “Night Owl Lock and Safe.”
“Oh, thank God. Finally. I thought I’d misdialed.”
A woman’s voice. Low, husky. Sexy Southern accent. He was intrigued, in spite of himself. “Nope,” he said.
He offered no explanation. After a puzzled silence she pushed on. “I’m locked out of my apartment. It’s 2465 Tremont. Are you nearby?”
Tremont was just down the hill. He was about to say he’d be there in a few when a male voice said something loud but unintelligible.
“Stop it, Edgar.” The sexy voice was muffled, no longer directed at the mouthpiece. “Keep your hands off—hey! Back off! I’m not—”
Thunk. The phone went dead.
Zan stared at it, hit the caller redial. Let it ring, eight times.
He felt jarred. Prodded by urgency. Like it was his responsibility to gallop off and solve this girl’s problems with this dickhead Edgar.
Not my problem. Repeat after me. Not. My. Fucking. Problem.
The litany didn’t do any good. Something was revving up inside him, part knee-jerk chivalry, part curiosity.
