The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind (The Frost Files)

by Jackson Ford

  I try to remember to leave any empty bottles I have out on the kerb for him, so he can get the deposit back, and they’re always gone a few hours later. I kind of wish I could do more for him, but I don’t really know how to start. It’s one of those things I need to get better at.

  My spot is actually a tiny construction at the back of the bungalow on my right, built by my landlord to rent out. As I turn towards it, my subconscious, which has been trying to get my attention for quite a while, grabs hold of me a little more forcefully.

  There’s a car cruising down the block towards me, headlights splitting the night. One I’m pretty sure has been following me since I left the Thai place.

  It’s one of those things you’re aware of but don’t think much about: the same car always in your rear-view, making the same turns you do. Maybe it’s because we spend so much time on freeways in this city, where cars can sit behind each other for an hour or two, or maybe it’s because I’m so damn tired, but I just didn’t spot it.

  A drop of lead falls into my stomach. Yeah, it’s definitely been tailing me. I recognise those headlights, even if only at the back of my mind. I stand frozen, takeout bag clutched in one hand. Shit. Is it because of the Edmonds? Some other job we pulled? A loose end we didn’t tie up?

  Unless it’s Tanner’s people.

  Don’t be stupid. There’s no reason for Tanner to take me out, and if there was, she’d be a little more forceful than this detective-novel bullshit. But if whoever is in that car does make a move, what the hell am I going to do? I don’t dare use my ability in public. Not if I want to actually remain in public.

  And at that moment, just behind me, there’s the sound of very soft footsteps.

  TEN

  Teagan

  At that point instinct grabs hold of my worry about not using my ability in public and knocks it the fuck out.

  I spin round, the takeout bag swinging, already wrapping my mind around the first thing I see: an empty plant pot at the edge of a nearby driveway. And there is someone behind me, a figure looming out of the darkness.

  I grab the pot, start to lift it—and stop cold.

  “Nic?”

  Nic Delacourt lifts both hands, a bemused expression on his face. “Whoa. Hey.”

  I blink at him, utterly stunned. There’s the sound of an engine, and the approaching car accelerates past us. The driver is a thickset, bald, middle-aged dude. He doesn’t look in our direction, just coasts off into the night.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” Nic says. He’s wearing a black button-down over dark jeans. His shaved head gleams under the street lights, as does the slim silver band on his left index finger.

  “Wha…” I’m having trouble working my tongue. “Wh-what are you doing here? It’s like one in the morning.”

  “I actually arrived at about nine?”

  “Nine.” I stare at him. “You’ve been waiting here since nine.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Four hours.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Just sitting here.”

  He looks sheepish. “Yeah, I kind of fell asleep.”

  “Fell asleep?”

  “On your doorstep.”

  “You didn’t maybe think to call? Or text?”

  “Uh, did you maybe think to check your phone once in a while?”

  “There’s nothing on my…” My phone. My dead phone. Which had a billion notifications and app alerts on it anyway, and which I haven’t exactly been paying attention to tonight.

  “I put it on silent,” I say.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

  “And I thought you were supposed to be in Vegas this weekend?”

  “I was.”

  “So why—”

  “Look.” He holds out his hands. “You weren’t answering, so I decided to come knock on your door. When you weren’t here, I figured I’d sit and wait. But it was a long drive back today and I just drifted off. I know that’s creepy, but I swear I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

  “Dude…”

  “Can I come in? Just got something I want to run by you.”

  I blink back at him. “Um, OK? That sounds kind of ominous.”

  “It’s not. I promise.”

  The adrenaline is draining out of me now, leaving me hollow and sore. I have to stifle a yawn. “Dude, it’s good to see you, but is there any way we can do this tomorrow? I’m really tired.”

  “Five minutes. That’s all I ask. And I promise you won’t regret it.”

  “Nic…”

  He spreads his arms wide, flashing a huge, winning smile. I know that smile well. It’s one that has got him past countless park rangers who want to see his climbing permits. The same one he uses on surfers in the line-up, at far-flung spots up the coast where the unwritten rule is locals only. On hostesses who claim not to have any tables left. It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eye. He looks like Chadwick Boseman from Black Panther, only with a shaved head and a sense of humour. I loved that movie, but T’Challa wasn’t exactly Mr. Good Times.

  I’ve known plenty of people with a smile like his. The difference with Nic is that it doesn’t vanish when he’s got what he wants. It’s one he wears all the time, no matter who he’s talking to. There’s no deceit behind it. No slyness. It’s as honest as a cup of coffee, and about as impossible to resist.

  “Come on,” he says. “I camp out on your doorstep the whole night, and you’re not even a little bit curious?”

  I close my eyes. Which is a mistake, because the temptation is to keep them closed and just pass out right there.

  “Fine. But if you take too long, I’m gonna crash and burn on you.”

  The smile gets even bigger. “Yes! Thank you. I promise you won’t regret this.”

  We head across to my place. It’s through an archway on the side of the house. We have to be quiet, as the path goes right by my landlord’s bedroom window. I’m in a little extension, accessed via a flagstone courtyard.

  As we make our way through, I have to tell Nic to walk a little more quietly. He’s a big dude, six four at least, and he has this way of walking where every footstep sounds like he’s trying to kick holes in the ground.

  I do have a few friends outside work. Shocking, I know. Nic is one of them. He’s a local, born and raised in LA, the son of two schoolteachers from Pico Rivera. I’d grabbed a spot at the counter of a new bar in Little Tokyo and was busy slurping a pretty good bowl of ramen (with kimchi in it—unusual, but not a deal-breaker) when Nic and his girlfriend Marissa sat down.

  We got talking, and then we got drinking, and then we were exchanging numbers. Unlike a lot of people, they weren’t too bummed out by the fact that I wasn’t on Facebook or Instagram. And the one big thing we had in common was food. Both of them were obsessed with food.

  Marissa—a sound designer for one of the big studios—has always been a little cool with me. Perfectly polite, just distant. Nic, though? We clicked. It was like we’d been friends for our entire lives. He is incapable of saying no to anything, ever. Whether it’s eating something seriously out there like cricket stir fry—surprisingly OK, once you get past the wings—or taking a last-minute trip up to Joshua Tree to go bouldering, he wants in. Even though he probably twisted an ankle on the last climb. He’s enthusiastic, but not very good.

  When he’s not climbing sheer rock faces and jumping out of aeroplanes and surfing massive winter swells, he works as a special assistant in the district attorney’s office. A lot of my surprise at seeing him tonight is because I wasn’t expecting to run into him until Monday or Tuesday. He was supposed to be at a law conference in Las Vegas this weekend with his boss.

  “Why didn’t you call out or something?” I say over my shoulder. “You scared the shit out of me.” And I almost brained you with a flowerpot.

  “I did. Said your name like three times. You didn’t turn round.”

  “Sorry. Been kind of a long night.”

  “Out w
ith the guys?”

  “Yeah, um. Annie had us over for dinner.” Jesus. The only way Annie would have me over for dinner is if I offered to renovate her kitchen for free.

  “Annie? The psycho one from Watts?”

  “Yeah. She’s surprisingly OK when you get to know her.” Ugh. “How come I didn’t see your car?”

  “Parked round the block. Didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

  “What surprise? I still don’t get it.”

  “You’ll see. Hey, if you went for dinner, what’s with the food?”

  I’m fumbling with my keys and don’t quite catch his question. “Huh?”

  “The takeout. Didn’t you say you ate at Annie’s?”

  Dammit.

  “Just feeling hungry on the way home.” I put my key in the lock, glad that it’s dark, and he can’t see the flush creeping up my cheeks.

  He sniffs the air. “Bangkok Central? 64th?”

  “How did you—”

  “You’re predictable, Frost.”

  I crack the front door, reaching out to flick on the hallway light. Behind me, Nic scuffs his feet heavily on my doormat.

  My government salary isn’t huge, but it’s OK. It lets me afford a place slightly nicer than the LA average. When Nic asked about it, I just told him I got lucky with the rent. I could probably save more if I moved to San Pedro or the North Valley, but I like the neighbourhood, and I like my landlord. I put up with the tiny living room and the kitchen that’s more like a broom closet and windows that need a major coat of paint.

  There’s a full clothes horse against one wall, and a whole stack of boxes I haven’t unpacked from my move a year ago. Anand was cool with me painting the walls an amazing scarlet, but the paint pot is still in one corner, long since crusted over.

  The couch is old but comfy, with a good-size coffee table in front of it—one which, I’m a little ashamed to say, still has a plate with the remains of the carbonara I cooked last night. There’s no TV, mostly because I never got around to buying one. What I do have are boxes and boxes of records next to a vintage turntable on a battered dresser. I get them from thrift stores, and from the amazing Fat Beats. The speakers—a big black pair of Yamahas I got for nothing at a yard sale—are probably the thing I care most about in this place. They’ve got a particular sound that I love, which I’m sure is the result of years of dust and grime building up inside them.

  Also cookbooks. Everywhere. Plus every restaurant memoir I can get my hands on. I read odd passages while I stir risotto, or while I’m waiting for my coffee to brew. Also while I eat, and while I’m walking around my apartment. There are even one or two I keep in the Batmobile, to read when I’m stuck in traffic. A dog-eared grease-spattered copy of Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential lies face down on the kitchen counter, spine broken.

  There are a few books of poetry scattered here and there, too. I’m a sucker for old-school poets—Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot. That crowd. I still don’t really know why their poems get to me, but they do, and I like to keep them around.

  In one of her few moments of not being a bitch, Tanner said I could pick a new name for myself when I moved to Los Angeles, if I wanted. My first name took a lot longer than I thought it would. Eventually I picked an Irish name. Teagan means “little poet,” which was silly—I don’t have a drop of Irish in me—but I liked it. I chose Frost as my surname, after Robert Frost, who is at number-one position on my Top Five Dead or Alive list.

  And as it turned out, the universe wanted me to pick that name. It was Carlos who told me about one of the pioneers of LA hip-hop, Kid Frost. After I heard that, the deal was done. No way I was picking any other name. Even if the big song that Kid Frost is known for, “La Raza,” has not aged well. To enjoy it, you have to be really drunk and in the mood for stupid karaoke.

  We crash on my couch, Nic with his legs stretched out, me cross-legged, digging at the plastic bowl of pad thai with a pair of chopsticks. “So you’re done with the conference?”

  “Kind of. It’s only wrapping up on Sunday.”

  “I don’t get it. Aren’t you gonna have to go back to Vegas?” I pull out my phone, glance at the clock. “You need to have to leave in like four hours.” Another thought, one that makes me frown. “Where’s Marissa tonight?”

  He shakes his head, not meeting my eyes. “They don’t need me there.”

  It doesn’t escape my notice how neatly he dodged the question about his girlfriend. “Really? I thought they told you—”

  “Look, what are you doing tomorrow night?” Nic leans forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Um… nothing, I don’t think. What—”

  “Cool. Listen, I’ma pick you up at like four-thirty. And we gotta dress smart.”

  “OK.” I swallow a mouthful of food, trying to keep the confusion out of my voice. “What are we doing?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  I flick a tiny bit of sauce at him from the end of my chopsticks, and he ducks, laughing. “Tell meeeee.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you a clue. Plum granita. And don’t you dare google—”

  “N/Naka.” Thank God I’ve already swallowed my latest bite of pad thai, because my mouth drops open. “We’re going to N/Naka?”

  “What? How the fu—” He throws up his hands. “Of course. You’ve been perving the sample menu on the site. Should have known.”

  “You got a table at N-fucking-Naka?”

  “It’s an early reservation—like five-thirty. I did a favour for an attorney I know, one Niki Nakayama sometimes uses, and…”

  I nearly upend the takeout as I start screaming, knowing I’ll probably wake my landlord up and not caring. N/Naka. One of the best restaurants on the planet, with tables booked years out and an endlessly shifting Japanese kaiseki menu. It’s the Los Angeles Holy Grail, the Great Mission that Nic and Marissa and I have talked about for months but never actually pulled the trigger on.

  I’ll have to figure out how to pay for it. N/Naka isn’t cheap. Obviously. With drinks and tip, you’re looking at five hundred bucks—not easy on my salary. But fuck it; I don’t want to let a chance like this slip away. He was right: this was totally worth camping out on my doorstep for.

  “Marissa must have flipped her goddamn lid.” I collapse back against the couch, already tasting the plum granita and otoro tuna and wagyu beef.

  He doesn’t say anything. When I look over at him, his eyes are on the floor between his feet. The smile is gone.

  “Wait. You did tell her before me, right?”

  “She’s not coming,” he says.

  “What? Dude, if you could only get a two-seater, it’s totally cool. I don’t mind if just you guys go.” It is not totally cool, but I am also not a complete asshole.

  “No, she’s…” He sighs. “We’re taking a break. Maybe a long one.” He lets out a breath in a long, slow sigh. “We had a fight before I went to Vegas. She wants to move up to Vancouver—they do a bunch of filming up there, and you know she was born in Ontario, so… anyway, I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  Oh no.

  “But I’ve been thinking. About you and me. Because I love hanging out with you, Teagan, and I think we work well together. So I figured, why the hell not? I was going to burn the favour with Jerry Hale at some point anyway, and I just thought, you know?” He’s speaking quickly now. And he’s got this look in his eyes: like he’s eyeing the horizon, watching as a wave builds and builds, already planning how he’s going to ride it. “I was kind of hoping I could ask you there, maybe see if you were up for it… and of course you spend all your time stalking sample menus online, so…”

  Shit. Shit fuck ass goddammit.

  This is why he showed up unexpectedly. I’m not exactly sad to see Marissa go, but I didn’t think he’d…

  Who am I kidding? Of course he’d do something like this. I just didn’t want to see it coming, because now I’m going to have to tell him no, and I’m going
to have to lie about the reason.

  God. Fucking. Argh.

  He’s waiting for a response. Slowly I put the pad thai down on the coffee table.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because… because you shouldn’t give up that easy. You and Marissa… you guys are good for each other.” Really, Teagan? Really?

  “Yeah, but…” Now he looks like the wave has dumped him and is busy dragging him across the seabed.

  “I just feel like you need to give it a chance. She’s angry, you’re angry, everybody’s angry.” I’m flailing now, constructing an argument on the fly. “I know how you feel about her. Don’t let one fight mess things up for you.”

  I grab his hand, grip tight. “I do appreciate you asking. Really, I do. But I… We’re friends. I’m not really ready to take that step yet.”

  There’s a silence. A very long, very awkward silence.

  “So.” Nic won’t look at me. “Do you want me to cancel N/Naka, or…”

  “What? No. Definitely not.” I force a smile. Last thing I want is for him to burn this favour for good. “We’ll go. Just… as friends. I’ll be there.”

  “OK. Cool.”

  Another silence. Nic’s face is impossible to read. Looking at him, I feel a little part of me wither and die. Because he’s right. We do work well together. He would make an amazing boyfriend. God knows, I’ve thought about it before.

  And I can never, ever have him. Or tell him why.

  The worst thing is, he won’t ask again. Or at least, not for a long time. I’ve seen how Nic treated Marissa, how much he respected her. He’s not one of those douchebags who refuses to believe that no means no, who thinks having a woman is their right. Those fuckers can go die in the street. If I’ve said no, he’ll respect that. But…

  I shouldn’t feel guilty. That way lies madness. At the same time, it’s going to change how we relate to each other from here on out. What is it going to mean for our friendship? I have friends outside work, but we’re not talking double digits here. I really, really want to keep the ones I have. Nic is a good dude, but he’s also human, and he isn’t immune from feeling rejected.