Love Beyond Words (City Lights, #1)(4)
Farewell, my love, Natalie thought. You were great last night. An abashed laugh escaped her but faded quickly. She went out, closing the door softly behind her.
#
Niko’s Café was a different place in the morning: bustling, loud, full of conversations, burbling milk steamers, laughter, and the constant ding of the cash register. Louder than anyone was Niko Barbos. His booming voice filling the café as he talked and laughed with customers and two of the baristas who worked the day shifts. His apron hung from bony shoulders, and his salt and pepper hair looked as if it were trying to fly off his head. He appeared, Natalie thought fondly, more like a mad scientist than a café owner.
“Natalia!” He approached her with open arms and engulfed her in a hug before she could make it halfway across the café. “My little night owl. You’ve come for your schedule, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Petra!” Niko called, as they approached the counter. “Natalia wants her schedule.”
The baristas, Sylvie and Margo, waved hello. Sylvie—a light-haired young woman with a warm smile—thanked Natalie profusely for cleaning the grate under the icemaker. “That was on my list of cleanup duties and you know it,” she scolded cheerfully.
Natalie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Um, yes, well…I had the time. You guys are so much busier.”
“Busier? Yes, let’s talk busy.” Petra Barbos’s voice boomed from within an expansive bosom as she emerged from the back room. The loose folds of skin under her arms jiggled as she flapped a piece of paper at Natalie. “Here’s your schedule, glyka.
No changes, but you tell me if it’s too much for you to do alone. Too busy,” she raised an eyebrow, “or too dangerous. No one bothers you, yes?”
“Yes. I mean, no. No one bothers me,” Natalie replied. “And no, it’s not quite busy enough that I need help.” She smiled briefly at Sylvie and Margo. More than once, they’d asked her to join them for a movie or drinks, but Natalie had always declined. In another lifetime, they might’ve been friends—good friends even—but Natalie kept her distance. She worried that Niko would catch wind of any friendliness and conspire to pair her up with another barista on her shifts, and that was too horrible to contemplate.
Natalie smiled wider. “I don’t need any help. It’s definitely quieter than mornings, but business is steady.”
“I can see that.” Niko beamed. “Your registers are perfect, as always! Speaking of such numerical things, how are your classes? Studying hard? Of course you are, my good girl.” He patted her cheek. “Next week is month’s end. You help me with the books again, yes?”
Natalie glanced with longing at the schedule still clutched in Petra’s hand. “Yes. Of course.”
“Brilliant! Now, you eat. Come.”
“Oh stop, Niko, look at the girl. She’s itching to go.” Petra handed over the schedule. “Study time?”
“Yes, I’m off to school. Last day of summer courses.” Natalie skimmed the schedule, satisfied. It was the same as it ever. Five 4pm-to-closing shifts, Wednesdays and Sundays off. She tucked the paper into her bag. “Great, thanks. Um…Bye.”
She slipped out of the café, thankfully spared another of Niko’s fatherly embraces. But she could feel their affection—his and Petra’s—on her back as she left, like a warm wind. She hurried out into the unusual summer heat that was infinitely more bearable.
#
Natalie spent a few hours in the San Francisco State University library, working on tax preparations for imaginary clients. The library was quiet during the summer months; she saw no one from her classes, and no one spoke to her. She worked steadily, satisfied when her numbers added up in orderly rows. On her old laptop, she “filed” the tax documents with the school’s simulation program, and rested her chin in her palm, grinning as they were “accepted” with no errors.
Another A grade, another step closer to graduation. Natalie thought her mom and dad would be proud.
#
Club Kyrie was a tiny space under a sprawling bar called De Luxe. It had once been a prohibition-era speakeasy, a reputation its owners took great pride and care to sustain. Natalie, armed with a password from Liberty, approached a sly-looking bouncer in the alley beside De Luxe.
She showed her I.D. and murmured, “Velvetine.”
“Much obliged, baby cakes.”
He held the door for her that opened on a staircase leading down. Natalie descended carefully in her modest heels into a small, single room painted a conch shell pink and lit by fanciful sconces on the walls. Twenty small tables draped in lacy cloths, each with a little candle cup burning in the center, faced a minuscule stage while two waitresses circulated offering drinks. The atmosphere was secretive and knowing, each patron exuding a sense of privilege for being aware of Kyrie’s existence, or for participating in something illicit. As far as Natalie could see, there was nothing illicit about Kyrie except that it allowed smoking long after the state had banned it in public places. She found Marshall Grant front and center—broad-shouldered, ginger-haired, elegantly handsome in his expensive suit—and hurried to join him.
“She lives!” Marshall exclaimed. “And here I thought you’d stand me up.”
“Never.” Natalie kissed his cheek and eyed her friend up and down. “What’s with the suit? Did you just come from work?”