The Penalty Box (Vancouver Wolves Hockey #3)(103)

I looked at the flushed barista for the first time. Another barista friend hovered behind her.

Shit.

I leaned forward. “I am. But I’m just here to drink coffee like every other patron.”

In other words, don’t make a fuss.

“Could I get your autograph?”

“Sure.” I took the proffered pen and signed a paper napkin. I needed to move this along before everyone else in the cafe figured out who I was. Vancouver, as I was finding out, was as crazy about hockey as a small town in Saskatchewan. They were loyal, relentless fans that treated their team like royalty.

“How much do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house.”

I shoved a twenty in her tip jar. “Thanks.”

“I’ll bring it out to you.”

“Thanks.”

Back around the corner, punk rocker was working away at my laptop. I sat down beside her.

“I’m just setting up categories for you.”

“Okay.” Recalling vaguely that Frank had spoken of such things.

She glanced over at the shoebox of receipts. “Sort those into the following groups: medical, travel, housing, moving and everything else.”

The barista appeared at our table. “So, who’s having the hot chocolate?”

“She is.”

“Oh,” the barista said, shock laced her voice when she looked at the chick beside me. “I… okay.”

She set down our drinks. When she was out of earshot, I asked, “You come here a lot?”

Defiant. “It has clean washrooms.”

“Huh,” I said. Didn’t all coffee shops have clean washrooms?

“Just sort your receipts, okay?”

“On it.”

We worked in silence together. After I sorted, I read them off to her while she typed. We were halfway through the box, which was a fucking miracle as far as I was concerned, when she looked up in alarm.

“I have to go,” she pushed my laptop back towards me, and then shrugged into the most beat up little leather jacket I had ever seen.

“You’re leaving me?” I sounded as panicked as I felt.

“I have to catch the bus.” She turned to walk away.

Without thinking, I reached forward and grabbed her wrist. It felt like a tiny doll wrist in my huge hand. She yanked hard, and I instantly let go.

“What the fuck!” she glared at me. True anger etched on her face.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

“What?”

I spoke fast, “I’ll pay you. To help me.”

“How much?”

“Uh… twenty bucks.”

She looked tempted and then backed away. “I can’t. I have to go before I’m late.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks if you help me and then I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.” I gave her the most charming smile I had in me. Which usually melted panties off, but in her case, she glared at me like I was the scum on the bottom of her beat up doc martin boots.

“You going to make me beg?” I tried another smile.

She stared at me. Unmoved. “I can do twenty minutes for twenty dollars. And you pay me up front.”

Okay then. I pulled out a twenty and set it on the table.

She slid back in her chair. “Let’s move it. I can’t be late.”

We got through almost the entire box when she suddenly gave a cry. “Oh, no!”

“What?”

She stood up, yanking her jacket over her shoulders and pulled a knapsack up from beneath her feet. “It’s been forty minutes. I’m going to be late.”

“Calm down,” I said, standing up, dumping my receipts into the box. “I can take you wherever you want to go.”

“I told you I couldn’t be late,” she sounded anguished. “Hurry.”

I grabbed everything and took off after her.

I started my SUV. “Tell me where you need to go.”

“East Hastings and Gore.”

“Can you give me directions?”

“Do a U-turn. Stay on this street and then cross the bridge.”

I felt bad. I had no idea what she was running late for, but it obviously upset her. She hunched in the seat beside me, chewing the fingernail of her thumb. I sped when I could, going through lights that were more orange than yellow.

“Turn here at Hastings,” she said.

Where the hell were we? The entire street was crawling with society’s down and out. People with all their worldly belongings pushed rusty shopping carts up the street. People screamed. Two men were brawling on the corner. Others, so drugged they reminded me of zombies, lurched down the street.

“Are you sure this is where you want to be?” I said, slowing the vehicle to a crawl.

“Pull over here,” she said, flinging open the door before I could even come to a full stop. She slammed the door. I pulled against the curb and then watched as she ran across the street, weaving between oncoming traffic, narrowly missing getting clipped by a truck before racing up the steps of a church. She stood on the steps. It looked like she rang a bell. After several moments, a man came to the door and talked to her. Something agitated her in her conversation. He leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder. And then he went back inside and shut the door.