Trust Me, I'm Trouble (10 page)

“What?”

“Nothing.” I pocket my phone. I have better things to do than wonder what Mike is up to anyway. “I’m going for coffee. Anybody want some?”

“I thought Dani said no Ballou,” Murphy says. I level a glare at him, and he throws up his hands. “All right, all right. It’s your funeral.” Bryn smacks him in the chest. “Ow. You know what I mean.”

When I walk through the door to the Ballou, Yaji, my barista buddy, takes one look at me, cuts off his chat with the customer at the register, and heads directly to the espresso bar. Good man.

Two and a half minutes later, I’m sitting in the far corner of the café, huddled over my cup like I’m all the passengers on the
Titanic
and it’s the only life vest. I lay my cheek on the plastic lid and close my eyes. For the briefest of moments, I manage to push away all the stress and fear and unanswered questions, and there is only the cup and me. It lasts for a mere handful of heartbeats, but it’s enough to slow my breathing and clear the mental clutter. It’s enough to make space for my inner grifter to take stock.

One:
Lily. What is she up to? Why would she want to work for me while keeping who she is a secret? Did she transfer to St. Agatha’s just to take me down? If so, why help me by getting the dean to let me into the NWI internship?

Two:
The contract killer. Who would put a contract out on my life? The only person who hates me that much is Petrov. And while I’m not naive enough to think that Petrov wouldn’t have influence outside of his jail cell, I just can’t see him hiring someone to kill me. It’s personal between him and me. If he ever gets even with me, he’ll pull the trigger himself. So then who? Someone who doesn’t want me getting too close to NWI? It’s possible, I suppose. The Chevelle wasn’t vandalized until after I first met Mrs. Antolini. And the first hit attempt happened after I wandered out of Bar63, which is somehow connected to NWI. But it’s not like I’ve gotten very far. I haven’t even made it to the NWI office yet. Besides, the timing might not mean anything.

I take a long swig from my coffee cup, and then rub my forehead. Too many connections, too many coincidences, too much going on at once. Like…

Three:
The blue fairy. I’m no closer now to figuring out what that means than I was when Mrs. Antolini first mentioned it. Does it have to do with Victoria Febbi? And if so, does it have anything to do with my mom or that tuition check I got in December?

Or maybe it has something to do with…

Four:
The Morettis. The dean is keeping a giant file on me with dossiers of people I’ve never heard of and can’t track down. On top of which, I have no idea how I fit into that picture. I can’t ask my mom. My dad either doesn’t know or isn’t telling me. And the dean sure as hell isn’t going to clue me in until she’s already tightening the noose.

The itch of someone watching me causes me to look up. Standing just in front of the coffee bar is Victoria Febbi, the dreadhead bartender from Bar63, holding a Ballou cup. She walks over and pulls a chair next to the couch I’m sitting on. She’s wearing jeans, a leather vest over a puffy cream-colored peasant shirt, and an uncertain expression.

“Look,” she starts, rolling the coffee cup between her hands. “I’m sorry about what happened at the bar the other day. I heard about it on the news.”

I lean back, confused. Why are we having this conversation? But then I realize it doesn’t matter
why
we’re having this conversation.
We’re having a conversation.
Perfect opportunity to pump her for info.

“No apology necessary. Unless you’re the one who put a hit out on me.”

She snorts dryly. “Nope, not me.” When she catches me studying her, she says, “Wait. You’re serious. Someone put a hit out on you?”

I shrug, careful not to reveal too much.

“You don’t know who?”

“I’m still working on the who.”

“Strange for a Loyola drama student to have made that serious an enemy.”

“It’s possible I wasn’t as honest about myself as I could have been.”

“It’s possible I guessed as much.” She smirks at me.

“I suppose that’s what makes you a ‘world class’ bartender.”

She huffs in irritation. “That stupid article. It wasn’t my idea. But the boss thought it would be good publicity.”

“The boss?” I ask. “I thought you owned the place.” I didn’t really think that, but I need to transition the conversation over to her side.

“Nah, I don’t own it. I’m just a peon.”

“Why Bar63? It’s kind of a weird name.”

“Why so curious all of a sudden?” she asks, raising a dark eyebrow.

“Just making conversation.” I bump up the wattage on my smile. “That’s what drew me, actually. The name.” Pro tip: A little truth goes a long way.

“Well, hopefully this doesn’t disappoint you, but it’s named after the address: 6341 North Broadway.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat deflated. I regroup quickly, though, thinking of Mr. Antolini’s receipts. “And you’ve been open since March?”

She nods.

I peel the sleeve off my cup, feigning nonchalance. “I heard about the bar from a friend who went before it opened. In February sometime. He said the booze was fifty percent off because you hadn’t gotten your liquor license yet.”

She snorts. “Your friend lied to you. Our first patron was served—legally—on March fourteenth. You should get better friends.”

The denial is not surprising. No one would admit to a stranger that they’d done anything illegal. And it’s entirely possible that the bar served Mr. Antolini and his NWI associates without Victoria’s knowledge. But there’s something twitchy in her answer—a microexpression that seems off. I surprised her just now, and she’s doing her best to hide it.

“Well, I should go. Try not to die, kid,” she says as she stands to leave.

“I always do,” I say. “Nice talking to you, Victoria. I’ll see you around.”

“Tori’s fine,” she says. “And no, you probably won’t.” She walks out the door without a backward glance.

I check my phone for the time. No fewer than three texts from Dani at varying levels of panic asking me where I am. I totally forgot I’d texted her to come pick me up. At school. She knows me, so she’s probably on her way here, which is not going to end well for me.

I jump up, sloshing foam onto my hand. I swing my backpack onto my shoulder and head to the door. But before I get there, someone else walks in. I drop the cup and coffee splatters everywhere.

It isn’t Dani.

“Sam,” I say.

D
ani comes in on Sam’s heels. Her angry expression turns surprised when she sees Sam. I barely notice her entrance, that’s how shocked I am myself. I didn’t realize until just now that some part of me thought I’d never see him again.

“Sam.” I clear my throat, which is clogged with so many conflicting emotions—fury, hurt, fear, hope—it doesn’t know which feeling to swallow first. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee,” he says, his eyes as riveted to me as mine are to his. “And looking for you,” he admits.

My heart both shrivels and soars. I’ve missed him more than I thought. “I mean, why aren’t you in Georgia? At school?”

“I—” He blinks, his expression shuttering to guarded. “School ended last week. I met my parents in New York over the weekend. I just got back.”

“Why didn’t you text me that you were coming home? Or, you know, at
all
?”

“I’m here now.”

I’m distracted from needling him further by the catalog my brain can’t help but make of the differences this Sam has from my Sam. This Sam is roughly the same height but broader in the shoulders, with shorter hair and a haunted look. He’s torn. He’s harboring secrets and he’s not happy about it. He breaks eye contact first, bending to pick up my forgotten coffee cup. He even moves differently, with more purpose. More like Dani. I don’t like it. I want my Sam back. I want my Sam to never have left.

Dani skirts the spilled coffee to reach my side. “Why are
you
here? You were supposed to wait for me in the lobby.”

“Bad day,” I say, recalling the vigil. “I needed coffee. And then the bartender showed up and I lost track of time.”

“What bartender?” Dani asks, her expression turning stormy again.

“From Bar63. But she’s not—”

“Julep, can we talk?” Sam asks as he returns from dumping the coffee cup in the trash.

I open my mouth to answer, but Dani speaks before I do. “Not here,” she says, grabbing my hand and shouldering past Sam.

“Why not?” Sam hurries to catch up.

“Keep him out of it,” I say to Dani. “It’s enough that Murphy’s involved.”

“Keep me out of what? Involved in what?”

“
You
involved him by being somewhere you should not have been,” she says to me. “It is out of my hands.”

“What’s going on?” Sam’s voice booms. I wince. Sam is not supposed to sound like that.

Dani finally lets go of me when we reach the Nissan. “Get in,” she says, sliding in on the driver’s side without looking at me. She’s definitely pissed this time. I’m not that sorry, though. The conversation with the bartender might prove useful.

“You’re not the boss of me,” I remind her. She’s only three years older than me, and in no position to judge. I climb into the passenger’s seat anyway, but only because I want to.

“No, I’m your bodyguard. Stop making my job so”—insert Ukrainian curses here—“difficult.”

Sam gets into the backseat without asking. “Somebody better start talking to me, or so help me, I’ll put you both on the FBI’s most wanted list.”

I heave a loud sigh. “Some idiot put a hit out on me, and Dani’s overreacting.”

“Overreacting? You think I am overreacting? Someone shot bullets at you not two days ago. Bullets. You should know better than anyone the damage that bullets do.”

I glower at her. That was a low blow, especially after having to endure Tyler’s vigil.

“Shit,” Sam says under his breath.

Dani pulls out into traffic. “I’m calling Ramirez,” she says.

“Don’t even think about it! He’d bury me so deep in Witness Protection I’d never see any of you ever again.”

“Maybe it would be better that way,” she mutters.

I take a deep, shuddering breath. How does she get under my skin like this? Anyone else, I would have shifted into grifter mode at the first sign of dissension. But Dani derails me the way Tyler used to. She’s always been protective, since the day my father asked her to look out for me, protect me from Petrov. But she’s taken it way past Petrov. And somehow in the process, she managed to get unrestricted access to my inner workings. Most of the time, she greases the cogs, makes me run better, smoother. But she’s equally capable of mucking up the machine when she wants to.

“Fine. I’ll call him myself,” I say. “I’ll text him right now.”

I pull out my phone and open up a string of texts I sent to Mike a while back. I type,

There’s a contract out on me. Please come back and fix it.

Then I tap Send.

I show the sent message to Dani. She reads it, glancing up to the road and then over at my face. She’s suspicious, but she drops it. I don’t tell her Mike recently changed his phone number, and I sent the text to his old one.

“Welcome home to me,” says Sam from the backseat.

• • •

“Pass the
jajangmyeon.
”

I hand the box of Korean black-bean noodles to Angela without comment. On my right, Sam silently dishes some
bulgogi
onto his plate. On my left, Angela eyes both of us as we quietly seethe. Okay, maybe it’s just me doing the seething. Now that my first flush of mixed feelings on seeing Sam is past, my anger has ratcheted up.

Dani dropped us off twenty minutes ago. Angela, who had never actually met Sam and didn’t know about all our drama, invited him to stay for dinner, which took my day from fabulous to just freaking outstanding.

“So, Sam. You’re home for the summer?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says after swallowing a forkful of beef. “The colonel wanted me to go with him on a business trip to Abu Dhabi, but I think I successfully talked him out of it.” He cuts a look over at me before taking another bite.

“The colonel” is what Sam lovingly calls his father. Sam’s dad hates that Sam is friends with me. Admittedly, I’m a horrible influence on Sam. And after I got him arrested last year, the colonel insisted Sam go to military school. Sam didn’t exactly fight him on the issue, though, giving me that line about needing to find himself or some crap. Whatever.

In any case, Sam mentioned him on purpose. He’s telling me that he’s back to stay. He’s saying that he’s choosing me. Or at least that’s what the old Sam would have meant. I can’t be sure of anything with this new Sam.

“Why don’t I give you two some time alone to catch up? I’ll be in the family room if you need me.”

I watch Angela go, both grateful and annoyed that she’s handling me. Sam opens his mouth to talk, but I beat him to the punch.

“What do you think is going to happen here, Sam? You left, remember?”