“All night long I’ve had the most terrible impulse to do something.”
—Audrey Hepburn, Sabrina (1954)
That can’t be true. I mean, not really. There’s always a way out of a place this big, right?
“Remember that day when I had to reinstall all the locks on the doors?” Porter asks.
I do.
“And you know I had to do that because we lost live off-site monitoring of our security system, and that instead of switching to one of a hundred other companies, management just decided to buy this cheap-ass system you see before you now?”
“Uh-huh?” I say, but I’m not totally following, and he’s getting really angry. Steam is practically pouring out of his nostrils.
He takes a deep breath and calms down. “What this means is that Pangborn vaped too much weed again, left his manual keys at home, took mine, punched in a code that locks all the doors for eight hours, and drove off.”
I stare at Porter.
He stares back.
“But you can deactivate this code, right?”
He shakes his head. “Pangborn is the lead security officer. I don’t have clearance for a lockdown code.” Oh, the irony. “He lives fifteen minutes from here. So we will have to wait until he gets home, and then—and this is where it gets really funny—we will try to call him.”
“Why is that funny?”
“He usually turns his home phone off at night. He doesn’t like to be woken up. ‘Bad news can wait until morning’ is his policy. And if we can’t get him on the phone . . . well, I’m not really sure what to do. I guess we could try to call one of the other guards at home, but it’s ten thirty on a Saturday night. And not only will they be pissed, but Pangborn could get fired for this. And pretty much everyone is looking for a reason for that to happen. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s kind of a mess.”
That makes my heart twist.
“Mr. Cavadini? One of the shift managers?” I suggest and immediately realize the fault in that plan. Pangborn could get fired, and maybe Porter, too, for letting him go home early.
We both shake our heads.
I sniffle and scratch my nose with the side of my hand. “So basically what you’re telling me is that unless we can get Pangborn on the phone, we’re stuck here?”
“Let’s take one thing at a time,” Porter says, but I can tell by his grim expression that he doesn’t have much hope. He leads me back to the security room, and I’m so panicked, I barely have time to register that I’m finally inside the inner sanctum: “Heaven.” It’s weird to be back here. Dozens of tiny black-and-white monitors cross two walls, all numbered, and an L-shaped desk with four computers, two of which appear to be a decade or more old.
We plop down at the desk in two rolling chairs. A swing-arm lamp casts a light over an old phone, where Porter proceeds to speed dial Pangborn’s home number a zillion times. Of course the old man doesn’t have a cell. Or he used to, Porter says, but he never charged it, and it sat in the glove box of his car for several years; it may still be there.
“Porter?”
“Yeah,” he says, completely miserable, head in his hands.
“Is Pangborn sick?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “You’ve heard rumors?”
“Yeah.”
“He had colon cancer two years ago. He’s in remission. But he went to the doctor last week, and he won’t tell me what happened, and that worries me. He’s always bragging about his appointments, because he’s got a crush on his doctor. So I’m kind of thinking maybe it’s back and he’s going to have to go through chemo or something. I don’t know.”
“Oh, no.” Grace’s intel was right.
“Yeah, it sucks. And that’s why he can’t get fired, because the last thing he needs is to be screwing around with changing up his doctors and health benefits right now.”
My chest aches. Why do bad things happen to good people? And if he does have cancer, and he’s still showing up here for these stupid ghost tours, dressing up in his little suspenders and ghost socks, turning down tips from guests . . . it shatters my heart into a million pieces.
After half an hour of calling, we give up. It’s not happening.
Deep breath. Time to evaluate the situation: (1) A cancer-stricken, nice old man has accidently locked us inside the Cave overnight. It’s hard for me to get too mad at him about that. (2) It’s not like we’re going to run out of air or food or water. (3) We’re not going to freeze or die of heat stroke. (4) We’re not in danger of being eaten by bears or tigers. (5) This isn’t our fault.
“Look on the bright side,” Porter says, obviously having similar thoughts. “The lockdown will release at six thirty in the morning, so you’ll still be able to beat your dad home from San Francisco. And if I call my parents and explain what happened, they’ll totally understand. They both know Pangborn. And I spent the night on the couch here once before when we were resetting the security system last summer.”
I glance over at the beat-up couch in the corner and my heart speeds up. “But what about me? I mean, will you tell them I’m here too? My dad would freak the hell out if he knew we were locked in here together alone all night.”
The tension falls out of Porter’s face, and the corners of his mouth slowly curl upward.
Oh, boy.
“Well, well, well,” he says, leaning back in his chair in front of a bank of security monitors. He temples his fingers together over his chest. “This is an interesting situation, isn’t it? Here we were, ready to run off to some crowded theater, but now we have the entire museum to ourselves. For the whole night. A boy prays and prays and prays, and is on his very best behavior, but he never dreams that something like this will just fall into his lap—so to speak.”
“So to speak,” I say weakly.
“Lots of room to spread out in this big place.” The side of his knee bumps mine. A question.
All my earlier boldness has fled the building along with my courage. Now I just feel trapped. I withdraw both my legs and hide them under the desk. “What about all the cameras? I mean, won’t this show up on the video footage? If someone reviews it later, or whatever?”
He chuckles. “You think the Cave pays for data storage? Think again. If we want to record something, we have to do it manually. Nothing is automatically recorded.”
I glance up at the monitors and search for the Hotbox. There it is. It’s empty now, of course, and dark, so I can’t see much, but it’s surreal to imagine Porter watching me from here. I make a mental note not to wear gaping tops to work, because that is a primo cleavage camera angle.
“However,” Porter says, “if you’re still worried, I know all the spots that the cameras miss. You know, if that would make you more comfortable.”
I give him a dirty look. “Who says I want to get comfortable? We went on one date.”
“Whoa.” He holds up both hands in surrender. “Now you’re making me feel like some sort of criminal sex pervert. Jesus, Bailey. An hour ago, you were talking about putting your hands on me in the back of a theater. I was just teasing you.”
I blow out a hard breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous and weirded out. I’ve just . . .”
“Just what?”
“I’ve just never . . . spent the night in a museum with anyone before.”
Porter’s brows lift. “Oh?”
I grimace. “Can you turn around or something? I can’t look at you and talk about this.”
“What?”
I make twisting movements with my hand. “Face the wall.”
He looks at me like I’m nuts, and then gives in and slowly swivels around in his chair, keeping his head facing me, squinting, until the last possible moment. When he’s facing the wall, I sigh and start talking to his back.
“Like I said before, we just went on one date.” I’m a coward, yes, but having this conversation is so much easier when I don’t have to look in his eyes. “And it was a great date. I mean, wow. I don’t have much to compare it to, but I think it had to be up there in the history books. And even though you gave me those hickeys and ruined my favorite skirt, I would do it all over again.”
“I’m still sorry about the hickeys, but for the record, I got grass stains on my clothes too. And every time I leave the house now, my mom teases me about going out for a roll in the hay and Pops has started calling me Grasshopper.”
“Oh, God,” I whisper.
“Totally worth it,” he says. “But please continue.”
“Anyway,” I say, trying to gather my thoughts. “We went from enemies to a first date to now having the possibility of spending the night together in a museum, and not that I haven’t thought about spending the night in a museum with you, because believe me, I’ve thought about that a lot.”
His head turns sideways, but he still doesn’t look at me. “A lot?”
“You have no idea.”
“O-oh, that’s where you’re very wrong, my friend.” His knee starts bouncing a nervous rhythm.
I smile to myself as a little thrill zips through me. “Well, what I’m saying is that I’m not opposed to such a thing. But I’m guessing you’ve spent many a night in many a museum, and you know, whatever. Good for you. But that intimidates me. And when it comes to this, I need you to let me give the green signal.”
“First,” he says, holding up a finger over his shoulder, “I want to say that I’m insulted that you’d think that I wouldn’t. So thanks for making me feel like a sex criminal, again.”
“Oh, God,” I mumble.
“Second”—another finger joins the first—“I’ve been with two girls, and one of those was a long-term girlfriend who, I might add, cheated on me with Davy, so it’s not like I spend all my weekends in museums, to use your terminology. So there’s no need for all the slut shaming.”
I’m glad he can’t see my face right now, because I’m pretty sure it’s the exact shade of a broiled lobster. Is he mad? I can’t tell by the tone of his voice. Ugh. Why did I make him face the wall? I scoot my chair closer and lay my cheek on his head, burrowing my face into his curls.
“I’m an idiot,” I mumble into the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m so, so sorry.”
His hand reaches around the chair, grasping blindly, patting around until he grabs my shirt and hangs on. “I accept your apology, but only because I’m trapped in here with you all night, and it would be awkward if we spent the entire time fighting.”
“We’re not fighting.”
“We’re always fighting. That’s part of our charm,” he says.
“Porter?”
“Yes?”
“Is the girlfriend you were just mentioning . . . Is that the girl you were arguing about with Davy outside the vintage clothing shop? Chloe?”
“Yeah. Chloe Carter. Her dad makes custom surfboards. They were really close with my family. She’s friends with my sister, so the whole thing was kind of a big mess.”
“Were you in love with her?”
He pauses a little too long for my comfort. “No, but it still hurt when she cheated on me. We were friends for a long time before we started dating, so that should have meant something, you know?”
Plus, it was with Davy, someone who was supposed to be his best friend, so it was a double betrayal, but I don’t say this.
Several seconds tick by. I sigh.
“Porter?”
“Yes?”
“This sofa is kind of small, but we have to sleep somewhere. And I do like the idea of sleeping next to you.”
“Me too.”
After a long pause, I add, “In addition to sleeping, what if I do want to see some of the places in the museum that the cameras don’t go . . . just from a distance? Maybe. Possibly. Theoretically. I mean, does everything have to be all or nothing?”
Heavy sigh. “You’re driving me crazy, you know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Bailey, I spend most of my days looking at you through that tiny square screen up there. I’m just grateful to be in the same room. And the fact that you’ll even let me touch you at all is the freaking miracle of the century. So whatever you want or don’t want from me, all you have to do is ask. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, mentally floating away on fluffy white clouds.
“Okay,” he repeats firmly, like that’s all decided, and pushes away from the wall. “Now let me call my folks.”
He makes the call on his cell, explaining everything to his mom, who, from the sound of things, is completely sympathetic about the situation. But then he waits for her to tell his dad, and suddenly he’s gesturing for me to duck under the desk because his dad is making him switch to a video call—like he doesn’t believe his story. I hear Mr. Roth’s sullen voice demanding that Porter repeat everything all over again, and Porter is showing him the computer screen, which clearly says LOCKDOWN and has a timer showing the remaining time left until the doors unlock and, thankfully, even shows the first few letters of Pangborn’s last name as being the person who initiated the command. By now, it’s eleven forty-five, and even grumpy-puss Mr. Roth admits that Porter’s options are few and getting Pangborn fired isn’t one of them.
“I could drive down the beach to his house and wake him up,” Mr. Roth suggests.
Mrs. Roth’s voice interrupts. “It’s a quarter till midnight, and the man may be sick for all we know. Let him be. Porter, baby, is there a blanket there? Can you sleep okay on that sofa?”
He assures her that he’ll find something, and she says that Lana will cover for him in the surf shop tomorrow morning if he can’t get any sleep. And while they’re winding things up, I text my dad and tell him I’m safe—that’s not a lie, right?—and that I hope they’re having fun in San Francisco. His reply is immediate and includes a geeky Settlers of Catan joke, so I assume he’s in a genuinely good mood: Having a blast. We bought you a surprise today. Love you more than sheep.
I text him an equally geeky reply: Love you more than wheat.
I have no idea where Porter’s taking me that is off camera.
First he digs up a weird old-fashioned key out of a desk drawer in the security room. Then we gather up our stuff and head to the lost and found, where we score a baby blanket. Sure, it’s gross to think about using some stranger’s blanket, but whatever. It smells fine. Then he takes me all the way down to the end of Vivian’s wing. There’s a door here that’s been painted the same dark green color as the wall, and because of the lighting, it’s hard to see. I also know from memorizing the employee map that it’s not supposed to be there—as in, it shouldn’t exist.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Room one-zero-zero-one,” he says, showing me the old key, which has a tag attached to it. “Like, One Thousand and One Nights, Arabian Nights, Ali Baba, and all that.”
“There’s another room? Why isn’t this open to the public?”
He hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and flattens his palm against the door. “Now, look. This is a huge Cavern Palace secret. You have to solemnly swear that you’ll never tell anyone what I’m about to show you on the other side of this door. Not even Gracie. Especially Gracie, because I love her, but she knows everyone, and it will fly around faster than the chicken pox virus. Swear to me, Bailey. Hold up your hand and swear.”
I hold up my hand. “I swear.”
“Okay, this is the Cave’s dirtiest secret.” He unlocks the door, flips on the lights, which take a second to flicker on, and we step inside a perfectly round room lit in soft oranges and golds. It smells a little musty, like a library that hasn’t seen a lot of action. And as Porter closes the door behind us, I look around in amazement.
Thick, star-scattered indigo curtains cover the walls. A cluster of arabesque pendant lamps hang in various lengths from the domed ceiling over a low, velvet cushion about the size of a large bed. It’s tufted and comes up to my knees, and crowning one side of it, like a half-moon, it’s surrounded by hundreds of small pillows with geometric designs that look like they came straight out of a palace in Istanbul.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Like a dream. I don’t understand why it’s not open. Are these pillows from the 1930s? They should be preserved.”
Porter dumps his stuff on the floor next to the velvet cushion. “Don’t you remember your Cave history? Vivian hated Jay. When their marriage fell apart, he wouldn’t give her a divorce, so she had this room constructed as big middle finger to him. Come feast your eyes on her revenge. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He steps up to one of the starry blue curtains on the wall and lifts a golden cord to reveal a mural on the wall beneath. It’s a life-size art deco painting of Vivian Davenport dressed up as a Middle Eastern princess, with bells on her fingers and flowers in her long hair, a sheer gown flowing over her buxom, naked body. Throngs of men in suits bow down at her feet.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” I murmur.
There are several big-eyed smiling cartoon animals looking on, like even they can’t look away from the glory that is naked Vivian.
“Is that . . . Groucho Marx?” I say, squinting to look at one of the kneeling men.
“Vivian made history come alive,” Porter answers, grinning.
“Make it stop,” I say, laughing, and he closes the curtain.
I’m scarred for life, but it was worth it. We fall on the velvet cushion together, and a small cloud of dust motes flies up. I guess the janitorial service doesn’t come back here much. Porter fake coughs and brushes off the rest of the cushion.
That’s when it hits me that this is a bed we’re sitting on. “You don’t think Vivian had crazy sex parties right here, do you?” I ask, moving my hand off the velvet. “More revenge against her husband?”
“Doubtful. But if she did, it was a hundred years ago,” he says, squinting his eyes merrily at me. “And it all ended so tragically for the both of them, what with her shooting him and killing herself, you almost hope she had some fun before it all went sideways, you know? Like maybe she actually modeled for that portrait.”
“Yeah.”
After a few moments of silence, a heavy awkwardness blooms in the space between us. Porter finally sighs, sits up, and begins stripping the radio equipment from his shoulder. My heart hammers.
He slides a sideways glance in my direction. “Look, I’m not getting naked or anything—cool your jets. How could I compete with all that wackiness on the walls, anyway? I just can’t sleep with a bunch of wires and crap attached to me. Or shoes. I’m leaving the shirt and pants on. You can leave on whatever you want. Ladies’ choice.” He winks.
His good humor puts me somewhat at ease, and I slip off my shoes next to his. He shuts off his radio and sets a timer on his phone for six thirty a.m. But when he takes off his belt, all the blood in my brain swooshes so loud, I worry I might be having an aneurism.
The belt buckle hits the Turkish-patterned rug with a dull thump. “You’re a great mystery to me, Bailey Rydell.”
“I am?”
“I can never tell if you’re scared of me, or if you’re about to jump me.”
I chuckle nervously. “I’m not sure of that myself.”
He pulls me closer and we lie down, facing each other, hands clasped between us. I can feel his heart racing against my fist. I wonder if he can feel mine.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, “of what I feel when I’m around you. I’m scared of what I want from you, and I don’t know how to ask for it.” I’m also scared that if I do, it might be terrible or not live up to my expectations, but I don’t say this, because I’m afraid it will hurt his feelings.
He kisses my forehead. “Know what I’m scared of?”
“What?”
“That I like you way too much, and I’m afraid once you get to know me, you’re going to realize that you can do lots better, and you’re going to break my heart and leave me for someone classier.”
I breathe him in deeply. “When I first came to town, there was someone else. Not Patrick,” I say, as if either of us needs that reminder.
“Your so-called other plans?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess you could say he’s classy, I don’t know. But just when you think you understand someone, it turns out that you didn’t really know them at all. Or maybe the real problem was that you didn’t understand something about yourself.”
“I don’t follow.”
I blow out a long breath. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that before I moved out here, I didn’t know I liked churros and moon muffins and Hawaiian poke and Jollof rice, and I didn’t know I would fall for you. But I did. And who wants classy when you can eat posole out of a food truck on the beach? I had no idea what I was missing.”
He slowly traces a wavy tendril near my temple with one finger. “You’ve fallen for me, huh?”
“Maybe.” I hold up my fingers and measure a small amount. “This much.”
“That’s it? Guess I’m going to have to try harder, then,” he says in a low voice against my lips, almost kissing me, but not quite. Then again. Little almost-kisses. Teasing me.
My breath quickens.
“Let’s take a quick quiz, why don’t we?” he murmurs. “If I put my hand here—”
His fingers slide under my shirt over my belly. It’s delicious . . . for all of two seconds. Then he’s too close to the off-limits area of my scar. And—no! He’s actually touching my scar. No way am I stopping this to explain that. I just . . . can’t. No.
He feels me tense up and immediately withdraws. “Hey. I—”
“No, no, no,” I quickly whisper. “It’s not you. It’s something else. Don’t take it personally, I . . . just, um.” I move his hand to the middle of my bare thigh, under my skirt. Talk about dangerous waters.
“Bailey,” he says. A warning.
“Quiz me,” I challenge.
He mumbles a filthy little curse, but his hand begins to climb upward, oh-so-slowly. “Okay, Rydell. If you’re locked in a museum all night with a guy you’re falling for, and he’s cool enough to show you the Cave’s dirtiest secret—God, your skin is so soft.”
“Mmphrm?” I murmur, moving around to give him better access.
“Oh,” he murmurs back cheerfully.
Hand firmly gripping my upper thigh, he kisses me, and I kiss him back, and it’s desperate and wonderful.
“Okay,” he says, sounding drugged. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, here.” Much to my delight, his hand continues its roaming ascent. Only, there’s not much farther it can go. He hesitates, chuckling to himself, and switches legs, repeating the same pattern on the other thigh.
Then stops.
I whimper. I’m genuinely frustrated.
Until he shifts a little, and I feel him pressed against my hip. No mistaking that.
“I’m having some trouble concentrating on this quiz,” he admits, smiling against my neck.
“Whatever you do, don’t you dare give me another hickey.”
He pretends to bite me, and then he shows me other things besides moon muffins and posole that I didn’t know I was missing, things two people locked in a museum overnight can do with their hands and fingers and a whole lot of ingenuity. The boy has every right to be wearing that HOT STUFF cartoon devil patch on his jacket.
Unlike our previous roll in the grass, this touching definitely is not rated PG, and when Porter offers to do the thing to me that I normally do for myself, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? It’s possibly the most amazing thing that’s ever, ever happened to me. I even return the favor—still pretty amazing, though much more so for him, for obvious reasons.
But wow.
All of that touching wears me out, and it’s two in the morning, which is too late for my blood. I’m wound up in him, arms and legs, and he’s the big spoon to my little spoon, and as I’m dozing off, in and out of consciousness, lights flicker. I hear voices. Not alarming voices. No one’s in the museum; we’re still alone. But he’s reached over me and wedged his laptop out of his backpack, and it’s sitting on the velvet cushion above our heads. There’s something playing on the screen.
“What’s going on?” I say, my voice sounding thick to my own ears as I tilt my head upward. I can’t quite open my eyes all the way, but I can make out shapes and moving light through my eyelids.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says in a bone-weary voice. “Is it bothering you? I can’t get to sleep without a movie or TV on.”
“S’fine,” I slur, snuggling back against him. A few seconds later, I say. “Is that Roman Holiday?”
His deep voice vibrates through my back. “It’s an indie film. They’re quoting it. Wait, you know Roman Holiday?”
“Pfft,” I say sloppily, too tired to explain my love of film. “Question is, how do you know Roman Holiday?”
“My grandma—my mom’s mother—lived with us before she died. She’d stay up late watching movies in the den, and when I was a kid, I’d fall asleep in her lap on the couch.”
How funny. That’s how he knew about Breakfast at Tiffany’s, too. “Maybe you and I have more in common than you think,” I say before I drift into dreams.
