Chapter One

Nina

The band left their shit everywhere on their way out. Abandoned coffee cups, used napkins, crumbled muffins. This was a coffee shop, not a goddamn bar, and these guys were slobs.

But Susan had said to treat the band, headed by her nephew Tyler, like guests.

"Nina, this has been Tyler's dream since he was a kid," she'd said when she sprang the idea on me, "and this could be a great opportunity for Insomniacs." I was to keep them happy by offering free refills and pastries. After all, they were bringing paid customers to the shop.

That was one thing they did not do. For the past two hours, not one customer walked through the doors of Insomniacs while Blood Vomit used the coffee shop as their personal garage. Two hours of death metal while Tyler scream-growled and grunted into the microphone.

Either we did a horrible job advertising our new late-night hours featuring live music, or no one cared to hear this fucking band. And judging by the flyers we handed to every customer, plus the way my ears rang despite the wadded-up napkin pieces I'd stuffed in them, I bet it was the latter.

If they'd been any good, I wouldn't have minded staying late. As it was, the perk of this whole new venture Susan thought up meant I could finally sleep in for the first time in years. Today I got to come in at 1 p.m. and planned to leave around nine when the cleanup was done. However, the clock is inching closer to ten, even with an empty shop, because of those pigs.

And cleaning has never been my area of expertise.

Since Maren left, things here really suck. My former coworker and roommate quit a few months ago, but for good reason. She finally figured out how to make money working in music, and now spends her afternoons teaching kids how to play guitar, tutoring them on their band assignments, and giving vocal lessons. In the mornings, she's in the studio recording her first album, which has been her dream forever, and at night, she hangs out with that hunky boyfriend of hers, Mac Dermot—Sunset Bay's Prince Charming of real estate. But thanks to his once early-morning, near naked strolls near my house, I still think of him as Naked Coffee Guy.

Long story. Somebody should write a hot, steamy novel about it. I'd read the hell out of it.

Back when Maren was here, she and I always worked the same shift, and she took on the cleaning. I just wasn't any good at it. But now, six months after Maren left this place for better things, I'm stuck working most of my shifts on my own—which means the cleaning is on me.

At least there are no customers in the evening. Just a sloppy band.

I lock up the shop and head to my car, the lone Cadillac DeVille under a streetlamp in an empty parking lot. The car had been Nanna Dot's before she died, and somehow I'd managed to keep it running. Sure, it was in the shop every other week, and the replacement parts cost more than the car was worth. But it also held memories of my grandmother at the wheel—old jazz playing on the radio, my cousin and me in the back seat in our Easter bonnets in the middle of June, anticipating the taste of bubblegum ice cream as we pulled up to the parlor.

The car was newer back then and didn't have the musty smell that now mingles with the fresh air as I open the door. There also wasn't the trash I keep in the back seat—used tissues, old food wrappers, a few soda cans. Admittedly, my grandmother would be rolling over in her grave if she saw the way I treat her treasured DeVille. But Nanna Dot also loved me more than anyone else in the world, and I loved her the same. Which means I love this old beauty of a car, even if I know it's on its last leg.

I slide onto the leather seat, slick and scooped from years of ample fannies. My grandmother had never been a slight woman, and despite my best intentions, I'm cursed by her generous genetics. My mother—her daughter—never had this issue, and it has been a source of contention between us for as long as I can remember. I'm always on some weird diet, weighing and measuring my food, and eating celery as snacks while everyone else gets chips or cookies.

But not with Nanna. To her, food was love, both of which she offered freely. Which is probably why my ass fits perfectly into the mold she left behind.

Thanks Nanna.

I turn the key in the ignition, ready to hear the engine cough to life. Instead, I get the radio blaring crackly pop music from the old speakers, but nothing else. I turn off the radio and try again. It clicks, but still nothing.

"Fuck." I open my handbag, rummaging through it for my phone before remembering that I left it on my kitchen counter before heading to work.

There was always the café phone. But the thought of going back into Insomniacs after this hellish night seems worse than walking a few miles home. Besides, I had two muffins and a mocha for dinner tonight, so walking is probably the best idea.

I look down at what I'm wearing, regretting it immediately; a rainbow tank top that I chose because the blue was the exact shade of my current hue of hair, the black mini skirt that hits at my thigh, fishnet stocking, and my silver platform boots with chunky heels and rainbow trim. I might have more curves than all these skinny bitches in Sunset Bay, but I know how to rock fashion. My motto is the more colorful, the better. With the SoCal weather, there's no need for extra layers.

Except when you have to walk a few miles home because your damn car broke down.

Luckily, I have an overcoat I'd stuffed in the backseat a few weeks ago, and also luckily, I can handle a few miles in these boots.

I slip on the jacket, then start the long journey home.

Sunset Bay at night is not a bad place to be. A total tourist trap, the boulevard along the coastline is full of cute boutiques, surf shops, and other coffee places similar to Insomniacs. Best of all, there are about a dozen trendy restaurants lit up against the star-filled night sky and ocean backdrop, some of the most delicious smells wafting from the kitchens, and full to the brim with crowds of people around my age.

I keep walking, even as my stomach rumbles. Two muffins probably have more calories than a juicy hamburger, which makes my mouth water just thinking about it. Which also makes me want to kick myself for wasting all my calories on stupid muffins. I could have waited and had a real meal instead of those tired gluten bombs .

I pass a group of guys, and immediately feel their eyes rake over me. For a second, my breath catches in my throat, a memory from long ago creeping over me. I shake it off, reminding myself that not every encounter will end up like that.

"Check out that ass," one of them says. "Hey sweetheart."

My stomach curdles, the hamburger forgotten as I feel my heart lurch at the slick voice. I don't look back, quickening my steps.

"I don't think she heard you, Lee. Maybe you should get closer."

They're following me, I realize. I do my best not to panic, trying to be aware of my surroundings and the best route for escape should this escalate beyond catcalls. This is nothing. It's just nothing. They're drunk tourists having a laugh at my expense. Nothing is going to happen.

A memory from the past pushes its way into my thoughts, and I fight the urge to vomit. A hand on my mouth. A hand pushing down my pants. A hand pulling my legs apart.

A hand grasps my shoulder and I whirl around, backing up out of reach as I face five guys grinning at me like jackals.

"Whoa there, honey. I just want to talk." The first guy towers over me, a smirk on his face, a look in his eyes that says talking is not what he wants. "We're here for the weekend and thought you could show us around."

"I'm not…" I start, almost tripping as my shoulder hits the brick wall of the building beside me. The street is dark, the glow from downtown feeling miles away. "I mean I don't…" Fuck, Nina. Stop panicking. "I'm…"

"Emily!"

I hear the call to my right, and I turn to see a man jogging across the street. There are visible sweat stains on his jogging suit, his cheeks are flushed, and his dark hair clings to his forehead. Even more, he's built like a truck. Despite the baggy suit, his muscles are massive, like fucking tree trunks .

And he seems to think I'm someone he knows. Either that, or he's fucking with me too, and I'm about to get murdered by these assholes.

I remember my pepper spray at that moment, and I slip my hand into my purse as he slows to a stop near us. His eyes stay on mine, but he doesn't touch me. My hand finds the spray, and I grasp it tightly.

Then I see something in his expression. It's so subtle, but I see it. A look that says, play along. I got you. I'll keep you safe.

I pause for a beat, my eyes remaining locked on his. He gives the slightest tilt of his head. I loosen the spray, but my fingers remain on it.

"Didn't you hear me calling you?" he demands. He moves closer to me, and I realize I've made a step towards him, too. "We were supposed to meet at Mission and College half an hour ago. What the hell have you been doing?" He turns to the guys, and I glance over too. They look uncomfortable, almost sober. "Women, right?"

This stranger, my savior I suppose, turns to me again. "Shall we?" He reaches for my hand slowly, as if asking permission. I have a split second to think about who I trust more—the guys who appear to have second thoughts, or this stranger who is calling me by the wrong name.

"I'm sorry, I got turned around," I say, letting go of the pepper spray and slipping my hand in his. It's warm, slightly sweaty from his run. But safe. He squeezes my hand and guides me away from the men and across the street. They don't follow, and when I look over my shoulder, it's as if they were never there.