Page 1 of Wham Line (The Last Picks #10)

“Bobby,” I said. “Validate me!”

Bobby, God bless him, only said, “Okay, babe. How?”

It was a cold February night on the Oregon coast, which meant it wasn’t objectively cold—I mean, most days, it didn’t even get down to freezing.

But the damp and the gray skies and the wind cutting in off the ocean meant that it felt cold, and as we crossed the parking lot, Mizzenmast glowed ahead of us with the promise of warmth.

Hastings Rock’s newest restaurant occupied a standalone building on a small rise in the heart of the tourist district.

Its roof perched like a particularly ugly hat, and its plywood siding could—at best—be considered unpretentious.

It had obviously been built at the creative intersection of architectural daring and very little money.

And, in the year and change I’d lived in Hastings Rock, it had been home to a steakhouse, an all-you-can-eat-shrimp restaurant, and an artists’ colony.

It was the kind of place that, somewhere else, probably would have been torn down to make room for someone’s expensive beach house because it had a prime location and looked out over the water.

And now it was Mizzenmast—locally sourced seafood, farm-to-table vegetables, and a Michelin-star chef.

It was kind of a big deal.

Tonight was the soft open, and somehow, we’d gotten a table—all of us, Keme and Millie and Fox and Indira and Bobby and I—because of Nalini.

Indira’s niece had been staying with us for weeks now, an extended visit that had never been fully explained.

She had apparently gotten bored enough, though, to pick up a part-time job at the new restaurant. To our benefit, as it turned out.

Right then, though, I had more important things to worry about. “ How? ”

Keme snickered.

Fox snorted.

Even worse, Millie made a consoling sound and patted my arm.

Indira checked her watch.

Bobby gave Keme a quick look, seemed to do a mental backtrack—although how he had managed to tune out Keme heckling me on the drive over about my general lack of good boyfriend qualities, I didn’t know—and finally said, “You’re a great boyfriend.”

“Nice save,” Keme said, not quite under his breath.

I chose to ignore that. “See?”

“It doesn’t count,” Fox said. “You literally told him to validate you.”

“That’s a communication preference. Bobby appreciates clarity.”

“Name three things that make him a good boyfriend,” Fox told Bobby.

Bobby opened his mouth.

“I packed all those snacks for his lunches,” I said.

“Yeah,” Keme said, “but Bobby doesn’t like coconut.”

“And you opened some of the snacks first to sample them,” Millie reminded me.

I made a sound that can only be described as Betrayal —with a capital B. “I write him cute notes. I slip them in his pocket so he finds them later.”

“He slipped one in my pocket,” Fox informed the parking lot at large—I assumed that Fox, at a young age, had internalized the saying, All the world’s a stage . “Thankfully, I do have, quote, ‘lion-like thighs.’”

“One of those notes ended up in my lunch,” Keme said. “It made me puke.”

“Wow,” I said. And the tone was Wow —with a capital W.

“You know,” Bobby tried, “I don’t think—”

“Oh, remember when Dash accidentally sexted me?” Millie asked (with, I must note, one hundred percent innocence).

Fox choked on their spit.

“It wasn’t a sext,” I whispered furiously, glancing around the parking lot. “It was a picture of a quesadilla.” I couldn’t keep myself from adding, “And I apologized.”

“But it looked like a—” Millie glanced at Indira and flushed. “Um, and the text was very explicit.”

“I said I apologized!”

“I think we’re done now,” Bobby said. “Dash, you’re a wonderful boyfriend.”

I beamed.

“Keme,” Bobby said, “stop trying to make Dash feel insecure.”

Believe it or not, Keme beamed.

“And I,” Fox declaimed—and it was obvious to all of us, in that moment, that they wished they had a cloak they could fling dramatically over one shoulder—“shall refrain for the rest of the evening. But only so that I can eat my weight in shrimp.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, resting a hand at the small of my back before I could step into a puddle. “Here we go.”

Indira’s niece was standing at the hostess station when we stepped inside (there’s probably a less sexist name for it—I’m going to look it up).

She was beautiful: slender, with a Cupid’s bow mouth and a cascade of dark hair that came almost to her waist and shimmered in the restaurant’s low light.

Even in her uniform of black pants and white shirt, she could have tempted a saint. (Well, not the gay ones.)

And temptation, as I’d learned over the last few weeks of Nalini’s stay, was definitely on the menu.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” The words emerged with an enormous—and perfect—smile. Nalini darted around the hostess stand (I’m going to call it an attendant stand!) to hug Indira and kiss her on the cheek.

Then she did the same to Keme.

Here’s the thing about Keme. He’s a savvy young man.

He’s taken care of himself for a long time.

For the most part, up until a few weeks ago, I would have told you that he knows which side his bread is buttered on.

(God, I immediately regretted writing that—does it have another meaning?) So, it was physically painful to watch the silly grin spread across his face as Nalini hugged him.

Bobby nudged me, and I stopped my subvocal groaning.

“You look so handsome,” Nalini was saying, running her hands down the sleeves of Keme’s bomber (on loan from Bobby). “Doesn’t he look handsome, Millie? You’re so lucky to have such a handsome boyfriend.”

Millie didn’t look like she felt particularly lucky. Millie looked like she was thinking about reenacting that scene from that movie when someone screams and everything made of glass within a mile radius spontaneously shatters.

“I saved you the best table.” And without waiting for a response, Nalini looped her arm through Keme’s and led him deeper into the restaurant.

Millie’s feet didn’t actually leave the floor, but if you’ve ever seen a representation of a dark goddess—you know, the rage and the smiting and the lightning in their hair—that was pretty much the vibe.

“How much longer is she here?” Bobby murmured.

“God, don’t even ask,” I said as I started after them. “It’s like a fairy tale, or a dentist’s visit—if you think about it, it lasts a hundred times longer.”

“I’m going to have to talk to Keme.”

“Great. That sounds wonderful. While you’re at it, mention that my Pop-Tarts are mine . They’re not community property.”

Bobby, as usual, didn’t even bother engaging with that last bit. “I mean, he’s got to know, doesn’t he?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but Nalini’s enchanting giggle floated up, and I caught a glimpse of her collapsing against Keme so that he had to hold her up. Keme wore a rare smile, somewhere between embarrassed and delighted.

I did a quick scan of the area around Millie for knives. “You tell me.”

Fortunately, Nalini recovered from whatever bout of witticism had left her helpless, and she managed to stand on her own two feet again and keep moving.

Indira touched my arm, dragging my attention back to our group. “You two go ahead,” she said. “I want to take a quick look around.”

And before I could answer, she was gone.

Fox—who had dressed tonight in a black cardigan, a wreath of paisley scarves, and one of those World War I helmets with the spikes on them—trailed after her.

They had tucked the helmet under one arm, presumably out of good manners, and the whole thing was like Professor Trelawney meets the Kaiser.

So, Bobby and I headed after Nalini and the others.

The restaurant was larger than it had appeared from outside, and it had the comfortably low lighting that made anyone over forty reach for their reading glasses.

The nautical theme wasn’t exactly original, but it was tasteful, and the little glimmers of brass and the black-and-white photos of old ships went well with the crisp white table linens and the dark-stained beams. The bar was near the door, on the inland side, followed by a large stone hearth where a fire was burning—gas, but still cheery and warm.

The rest of the space had been given over to tables and booths, with the premium seats located near the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the water.

Our table was definitely premium—it might have been, as Nalini had said, the best in the house. It was centered on one of the plate-glass windows, below which ran a thin strip of sand and the crashing surf.

“You’re going to love the rolls,” Nalini said. “Let me get you some.” And then she squeezed Keme’s hand before darting off.

I must have been groaning again because Bobby nudged me harder this time. Millie was staring daggers at Nalini’s retreating form, and Keme had the faintly pleased-but-puzzled look of a sixth-grader at his first dance.

Bobby nudged me again.

I nudged him back—or I tried to. But by then, he was politely pulling out my chair for me, so I missed.

“So,” I said. “How was everybody’s day? Millie, how was—”

“Fine,” she snapped. And then she unrolled her silverware and got a good grip on the knife.

That was the end of that.

For a boy who had kept himself alive all these years basically on his own, Keme seemed to have zero sense of self-preservation, because he chose that moment to take out his phone and start scrolling.

I decided now would be a good time to look somewhere else—mostly so that I wouldn’t have the inconvenient responsibility of being a witness when this inevitably escalated to murder. I took another look around the dining room.