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Granny flips me the bird as she descends gracefully from the car. It’s not until I’ve rounded it to take her arm in the crook of mine that she leans up and whispers in my ear, “Yeah. Was trying to get a handhold on the mission you’ve got underway without really asking. Mission thinking with your balls to the point of no return. It’s the Atlas apocalypse.”
I pretend I don’t hear the words as I steer Granny to the middle of the sidewalk by the front door. It’s a big wooden thing with a huge stained-glass window. No design, just random glass. It’s very pretty and old, and it looks like it could have come from a church or something.
Maybe a castle.
Maybe a vampire’s castle.
Damn it. Granny’s got vampires and zombies stuck in my brain.
“Well, if my hacking skills weren’t up to par, I would genuinely be surprised at the moment, but since they’re absolutely stellar, I’ll feign surprise and pretend I don’t already know what she looks like.”
I’ve been studying my shoes, but of course, Granny’s words bring my head up hard. Victoria is walking toward us. My knees start quaking, and my mouth goes dry as sandpaper. No, maybe just sand. Is that the same thing? Her white blonde hair is down in loose waves, dazzling in the sun and framing her lovely heart-shaped face. She’s put on makeup today, which she hasn’t done the past few days, and I’m struck by how dark and full her eyelashes are over her soft brown eyes and how red her lips are because she’s gone for something bold and scarlet that I want to taste with my tongue. Her plaid button-up shirt and jeans are boyfriend-cut, but they somehow emphasize her slim waist, the swell of her breasts, and the curl of her hips.
My brain pretty much goes for a vacation—tropical, piña coladas, sand, and sun, see you later style. The air is buzzing like a power line just detached and fell onto the sidewalk right beside us.
“Hi,” Victoria says shyly. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and turns to Granny. “You must be Atlas’ grandma. I didn’t know you were coming today, but it’s good to meet you.”
“Hmph,” Granny says. “I got brought along because this one thinks I’m an expert on old things because I’m old. So he says.”
“Oh!” Victoria’s eyes go wide, and she gasps. “I…I don’t think you’re old. I mean, maybe in years, but I can tell you’re a young spirit. Plus, your outfit is amazing. Holy crap, is that designer?”
“Vintage designer, yes.”
“It’s cool that you wear black. Black is a good color.”
“Technically, it isn’t a color, but….”
“Granny’s just crotchety because she hasn’t had her morning coffee yet. She says it makes her jittery, but really it just makes her breakfast cereal shitty. I mean, pissy. That was supposed to be a metaphor. Although, if someone did either of those on one’s breakfast, I’m assuming one would be very grossed out and angry, no matter what food was being abominalized. Is that a word? I meant abomination. I was trying to get smart with that.”
Victoria hides her smile as she turns her face to the side and offers Granny her hand. “I’m Victoria. Just Victoria. Please don’t call me Vickie, or I think I might throw up.”
I have to say Victoria pretty much walked right into this one, and Granny’s next move is no surprise at all, even if it makes me want to groan. I said she couldn’t use Glocks and had to behave, but she’s only taking my advice on the former. So far. Behaving isn’t exactly in her lexicon, especially when it comes to her boys. She’s as overprotective as an ornery mother of, well, just about any species, I suppose.
“Okay, Vickie. Good to meet you.”
To her credit, Victoria brushes off Granny’s terrible, sarcastic attempt at humor and faces the store. “Looks promising. I like the building.”
“It would make a good bunker,” Granny adds.
Victoria laughs. “That it would. Should we go in? I can’t promise I’ll find anything, but I do have a few leads for used stuff on some online groups that I found. Bloomington has a few good thrift stores too. They don’t get a lot of furniture, but sometimes, I guess it’s hit and miss.”
“I never miss,” Granny says snidely.
I’m braced for a Glocks show, but nothing happens, and I slowly uncoil my tensed muscles and get my butt in gear to move to the front door, which I hold open for both women.
The air in the place is dusty, musty, and maybe even a little crusty. It smells like old things—old things in abundance, old things gone wrong, old things just being old.
“Wow,” Victoria breathes, letting her eyes sweep over the massive displays, the old plank wood floors, and the countless shelves lined with trinkets, dishes, books, jewelry, and a thousand other old things.
