The Bucket List

4.1 The Warning

"Ivanov," I say through gritted teeth. The balding man behind the counter stares at me through his spectacles, unimpressed.

I take a deep breath. This isn't the time to lose my head. But it's hard to keep my composure when I've been waiting at this specific dry cleaner's for over thirty minutes—despite showing up at exactly eight o'clock, hurrying down the sidewalk in a pair of black stilettos and the only pencil skirt I own. Apparently, half the city likes to pick up their dry cleaning on muggy Wednesday mornings. Who knew?

I should still be in bed, sleeping off the wear and tear from a long night behind the bar. But not today. Today, I have a job to do. Hence the lack of proper sleep. The poorly-concealed dark circles hovering beneath my eyes are a testament to that.

"Identification?" the cashier asks, bored.

I deflate. "Identification?" Nicholai never mentioned a damn thing about identification in the text he sent last night.

The phone behind the counter trills. The man sighs. "One moment, please." He picks up the phone. "Mary's Clea—"

His watery eyes widen. I watch, fascinated, as his lips begin to move, mouthing the words yes and sir.

"Of course," he whispers finally, lurching out of his chair. He shoots me a frightened smile. "I'll be with you right away, ma'am."

I can't help but gawk at his reaction. He quickly rifles through a rack of garment bags, moving faster than I've seen from him all morning. When he returns to the counter, he's sweating profusely. "I apologize for the wait," he says, brandishing a black garment bag.

I sweep the bag into my arms, taking care not to wrinkle the designer wear inside. "Oh. No problem."

He hurries around the counter to help me with the door, reiterating how very sorry he is for the inconvenience. Bewildered, I thank him and make a quick getaway, trotting across the street with the garment bag draped across my arm. Task one: complete.

I fish around in my purse—an understated knockoff Gabby managed to snag for my twenty-third birthday from our favorite thrift spot. Even I have to admit the bag makes a good dupe. My fingertips brush the edge of my phone, buried somewhere between the checkbook I never use and a pack of stale gum. I pull it out and check the time, just as my bus turns the corner.

Damn. It's already past nine. This bus driver better step on it.

Pocketing my phone, I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and board the bus, barreling straight to the back. There. I made it in one piece. With forty minutes to spare, no less.

And it probably won't be enough.

I resist the urge to check my phone every five minutes. On a good day, the ride from Hermosa down to Manhattan Beach takes no more than ten minutes. An easy ride. And a pretty easy walk, too. But the pit stop at the dry cleaners cost me. What should be a straight shot down the road is turning into a rather convoluted trip around the block.

I spend the next twenty minutes in agony—alternating between chewing on my bottom lip and berating myself for the bad habit—until I finally stumble off the bus, almost busting ass in my six inch stilettos.

"Alright. Sixteenth street...sixteenth street..." I stride down Ocean Drive, bypassing fourteenth and fifteenth street. Already the day's proving to be a warm one. Terrified to spend the first official day on the job with sweaty armpits, I try to air out my blazer as I walk, flapping my arms like a deranged seagull.

"Okay. 1608." I rattle off the street number several times before I manage to find the right building. If the word building can be applied to the glassy seaside palace I'm now goggling.