Текст книги "Out of Play"
Автор книги: Nyrae Dawn
Соавторы: Jolene Perry
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Chapter Two
Penny
Adrenaline rushes through me as I fly behind the enemy’s goal with the puck in my possession. The screaming crowd barely registers over the sound of my breathing and skates against ice. This game could get us into the semifinals, and we’re so close to the end.
Ten seconds left.
I know where each player is—most of us have been on the same teams for years—and I can pick out any of the guys by the way they move on the ice.
I barely dodge the opposing center, and Mitch is weaving up the middle. He’s about to veer to the left and will be in front of the goal in perfect time. He just has to get around the defense. I’m watching out the corner of my eye as I keep the puck close. Mitch and I have more assists and goals than anyone else in the state, and that’s really saying something. There’s a lot of talent up here.
Okay. Focus.
Time slows as it always does when I’m moving this fast. Each push of my skate, each hit of my stick against the puck registers in my brain so I don’t screw up.
Five seconds left.
Just before number eight tries for a steal, I snap my stick and shoot the puck straight to Mitch who slams it toward the goal. Number eight rams me into the wall, forcing the air from my lungs, but I don’t tear my eyes from the net. The goalie reaches up and makes contact with the puck on the tip of his glove. I hold my breath until it falls just to the inside of the red line.
Despite my protesting ribs, I throw my hands in the air and scream as the buzzer rings. Number eight wasn’t fooling around. My side’s killing me. Mitch crashes into me for a hug, and the rest of the team mauls us.
All the shit I get from outsiders for being the only girl on the team is totally worth it for this.
…
“Pen-ny! Pen-ny!” the guys chant as I step out of the girl’s locker room. I love this—the high from the game, from the crowd, from my guys. My white-blond hair is still soaked from the shower, and my whole body aches. They were a rough team, and I wonder how many bruises I’ll have tomorrow. I shift my huge hockey duffel higher on my shoulder, sending another wave of pain through my left side.
“Party’s at Matt’s place!” Mitch tosses an arm over my shoulder, making me shift my bag again as we head for the door. He’d never insult me by asking to carry it. “You coming?”
“I’ll be there.” There’s a part of me that wishes the guys were online gamers or D&D nerds or something so I didn’t have to deal with the partying, but at least they’re serious enough about hockey to not get into anything major. They also don’t say a word when I take their keys.
“Heard back from Michigan yet?” His smile is wide, and his dark hair flops over his forehead. “Their women’s team is pretty hardcore.”
My chest sinks because even Mitch doesn’t understand that I really want to keep playing with the guys. I don’t want to go to Michigan. I don’t want to go to Illinois or Washington or Wisconsin. I’ve given up explaining that I actually do want to stay in Alaska and go to UAA or UAF, so I usually give the most non-committal answers possible. To Mom, to Gramps, to everyone because apparently they all have a plan for Penny Jones that doesn’t include my input. “Not yet.”
“Do you have to check in at home first?” Mitch asks quietly.
“Yeah. Mom’s working tonight, so I definitely need to stop by.” I love Gramps, and it scares me to leave him at home for too long. So far, his confusion hasn’t gotten dangerous, but I still worry. He was too tired to come to my game, and that doesn’t happen often.
“When’s your mom going to hire someone to stick around him?”
I can’t think about that yet. It’s too drastic. “Not until we have to. He’s had a lot of good days lately.” Even as I say the words, I know he’ll go downhill no matter what we do.
Mitch gives me a squeeze because he’s known me long enough to understand what I need. “Want me to do your check-in with you?”
“No.” I know Mitch would, but I also know he’d probably rather not. I’d rather him not because he’ll bring his girlfriend with him and watching them might kill my buzz from the game. I want to head straight to the party, even though I’m not a drinker. Someone has to be there to make sure the guys don’t accidentally kill one another playing some daredevil game while wasted.
“I’ll be keymaster until you get there, cool?” He gives me another squeeze.
“Thanks.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Mitch gets my need to keep our friends safe—even when they’re too shit-faced to give a crap either way.
I glance at the door where Mitch’s girlfriend, Rebecca, is scowling at me. Like she always does when I stand close to Mitch. She’s perfectly dressed and perfectly made-up with her tiny, curved body and perfectly smooth brown hair. The exact opposite of the kind of girl who could understand Mitch. Whatever.
He gives me a peck on the side of his head before dropping his arm and his bag and running to pick her up. This always appeases her, and generally makes me realize that I might not be as okay with him and Rebecca as I’d like to be. He’s dated before, but Rebecca’s different. She’s been around longer, and he shows no sign of wanting to move on to someone else. It sounds crazy, but Mitch has always been a given with me. He’s my best friend, and I’ve never had a doubt that someday there would be a Mitch and Penny.
The little pang of longing or loss or jealousy is brief, but only because I’m good at pushing it away.
“Good game, Jones.” Freddie and Chomps—well, David, but we all call him Chomps—slap me on the back as I step around Mitch and Rebecca who have just become a twisted-up mess of hormones in the doorway. Chomps is defense and about as big as you’d expect a guy with a nickname like Chomps to be. He and his girlfriend aren’t this obnoxious. It might have something to do with the fact that they’ve been dating since, like, eighth grade and are likely to get married within two months of graduation, but still.
“See ya, Lucky Penny!” Mitch manages a short wave before he’s again sucked in by the vacuum that is Rebecca’s lips. Or maybe it has more to do with her boobs.
“Shove it, asshole.” I grin as I push open the second set of doors even though I’m not feeling it. The thought of losing Mitch makes it hard to breathe. I just need to get home and do my check-in so I can meet up with everyone, then I’ll be fine again. I’m sure.
The snow’s coming down hard, and there’s probably already a foot of the heavy, wet stuff in the parking lot. Good thing Matt lives close to me, because if he didn’t, there’s no way I’d drive in this mess just to watch the guys get trashed.
Bitty, my red truck, spins sideways out of the parking lot, and I give her a bit of extra gas just to kick up some snow and keep her sideways a bit longer. Once she gets traction again, I shove her in four-wheel drive for the trip home.
I flick on the radio to my favorite rock station and crank it up—anything to keep my high from the game for a while.
When I glance behind me, Chomps’s truck is on my tail, filled with guys, also skidding sideways and spraying snow. It sucks to have to check-in at home instead of riding with them. It’s bad enough I miss the locker room talk. Then again, they probably talk about girls whenever I’m not around, so maybe I should be glad I’m not there.
What matters is they take care of me on the ice, and I take care of them. A team. At least for a few more games. And then comes the part I don’t want to think about because I’m not ready for anything to change.
…
I live in the crazy house off the corner near the river.
This is Alaskan direction speak. My Gramps and Gramma lived in a trailer, and then they built around that. And then they added on to that, and then they added on again. Gramps lives in the trailer part that’s now shielded by our house, but it still looks like a trailer parked in the basement when you’re inside.
At last count, we had five different kinds of siding on our three and a half story house, in five different colors of brown and blue, and a half junkyard’s worth of cars off the left side for Gramps’s hobby. To the right are the perfect, tidy little log cabins and manicured yard (now buried under several feet of snow) that Mom and I rent out in the summer. Two of our small cabins have lights on, and I remember we have guys up from California.
Hopefully, the renters won’t stick around for long. It’s annoying having to worry about guests during hockey season—especially rich ones who expect special treatment just because they’ve rented out the whole place during winter. It’s our off-season. Who else is going to be here?
I put my truck in park and see Gramps line-dancing in the second story kitchen. Gramps in the kitchen usually means he’s not all present, but he’s happy. It’s his normal. Mild dementia, and what the doctor says might turn to Alzheimer’s, hit two years ago when Gramma died. In his lucid moments, he tells me it’s better this way. He doesn’t miss her as much as he would if he always knew what was going on. It both breaks my heart and relieves me.
In his spots of drastic confusion—anything goes. Fortunately, those don’t happen often. It’s another reason I wish Dad was still around because maybe if Gramps hadn’t lost both his son and his wife, his mind would still work.
I kick off my winter boots in our large entry and jog up the wooden stairs to the second story where we live. Other than the hole I call my room, downstairs houses a bunch of freezers, Gramps’s food storage, and a big rack for all my hockey, snow-machining, and motocross gear. Gramps is big into “preparedness” even though it’s borderline paranoid. I’d blame the dementia, but he’s had this little quirk for as long as I can remember.
“Hey, Gramps.”
He stops mid-dance step with a fresh pie in his hand. His long beard touches the top of Gramma’s old white and red checked apron with frilled lace on the edges. He says the apron brings him luck in the kitchen. I’m not about to argue since I don’t know how to cook, and most of what he makes is delicious.
“Lucky Penny! How are ya, my girl!” He grins wide, wrinkling the skin around his eyes.
“I’m good.” He sets the pie on the counter with a flourish, and I wrap my arms around him for a quick hug.
“What’cha got there?” I ask as my stomach starts to grumble. I have no idea how many calories I burn in a game because I’ve never been a calorie-counting kind of girl, but I do know I’m always starving when we finish.
“Steak and strawberry pie.” He smiles proudly.
My stomach turns—first because no one should put a piece of steak in their mouth at the same time as a strawberry, and second, it means he’s not doing as well as I want him to—at least not tonight. Definitely not good enough for me to feel okay about ditching him for a party.
He picks up the faded, red hot-pads and does a few dancing steps to the god-awful country music he’s listened to since I can remember. His gray ponytail hangs halfway down his back and swings a bit as he two-steps to the other side of the plywood-floored kitchen.
“You want a slice?” he asks.
“Nah. I ate after the game.” I swallow the lump that formed in my throat, and tears spring to my eyes. I know Gramps says he doesn’t care he’s like this, but I know better. I’m wondering if it’ll hit him before or after he takes a bite of the stupid pie.
I pull out my phone and text Mitch.
WON’T MAKE IT. NOT HAVING A GOOD NIGHT HERE.
Mitch answers in less than a minute like he always does.
SAY THE WORD AND A FEW OF US WILL BRING THE PARTY TO YOU.
Maybe I haven’t lost Mitch to Rebecca. At least not totally. I lean against the large wooden picnic table set in the middle of the kitchen. I know the guys would come here, and Gramps might love it, but if Mom ends up home at a decent hour tonight, that’s not going to work. I never seem to know what her schedule at the hospital is—mostly because she picks up whatever nursing shifts she can get. And now that I’m thinking about it…it’s been probably two weeks since Mom and I spent any real time together. She must really be pushing for extra hours.
THANKS ANYWAY. C U MON AT SCHL.
SORRY PEN
I start to write back and tell him not to worry but don’t bother. He’ll worry no matter what, because he’s a good guy that way.
REBECCA SAYS SHE’LL KEEP THE KEYS
Irritation rushes through me. I’m sure she’s doing it so Mitch will be given another chance to tell me how she’s trying to get along with the team, and how I might be overreacting to the stupid stuff she does, like pressing her boobs against the Plexiglass that surrounds our rink.
THX I write back only because I can’t be a bitch and say nothing.
I slump lower in my seat and realize the music’s stopped. Gramps is staring at the untouched pie.
“Kinda weird, isn’t it?” he asks. “To put both steak and strawberries in the same place.”
I want to lie. I want to tell him that everyone makes steak and strawberry pie, but I swore to him I’d tell him the truth—even when I really don’t want to. “A little.”
He sighs and pulls off Gramma’s apron, hanging it on the hook next to the window.
“Dessert instead?” he asks, trying hard to lighten his voice.
I cock a brow. “Depends on what we’re having?”
“Ice cream.” He chuckles as he pulls open the freezer door. “It’s too bad. I think I really nailed the crust.”
I have to laugh, even though I’m blotting tears away again. Nobody as good as Gramps should ever have to deal with losing his mind.
“Don’t worry, Penny. I know how to get two bowls. I think we’re safe.” He’s trying to tease as he sets the bowls on the counter, but his hands shake as he does it. He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t realize when he does something weird, and it makes me hate again that this is happening to him. He hits the power on the radio and the horrid country oldies station blares through the house. As much as I hate the twang, it means that things are about as right as they’re going to be. There’s definitely comfort to be gained from that.
…
Mom’s at the table in the morning looking out over what’s probably two feet of fresh snow. Her blond hair isn’t as bright as mine, but she keeps it long and wrapped up in a braided bun most days. Mine hangs perfectly straight to my shoulders—long enough for a very small ponytail. I shuffle into the room, huddled in my sweatshirt.
The February sun reflects off the wood walls, making the house feel warmer, even though the frost on the edges of the windows says it’s probably well below zero.
“Morning, Penny. Heard you helped win the game last night.” She smiles over her cup of coffee.
“We all played well.” I nod. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Brandy said you passed to Mitch for the winning goal.” Her brows go up, and the corners of her mouth twitch. Brandy is Chomps’s mom.
“Yeah, I did.” I replay the pass in my head. Perfection. But my whole left side is still a bit sore. Nothing a hot tub and some Advil won’t fix.
“I got another letter from the sports director at Minnesota. It’s big, Penny.” Her smile is wide and full of pride. “They’ve been national champions more often than not in the past five years.”
I know it’s big. They’re good. Really good. I steel myself, knowing she’s trying to bait me into another conversation about college that I don’t want to have. “Both UAF and UAA have good programs, and then I’d still be in Alaska and not so far away.” And still playing with guys like I’ve been doing since I was eight.
Mom frowns. “UAA doesn’t even always have a women’s team, Penny. Don’t you wanna—”
“Can we talk later?” I ask because the fact that UAA only sometimes has a women’s team is why I want to go. Not that there’s anything wrong with a girl’s team—it’s just not me.
I stare at the table, hoping she’ll drop the subject because I really don’t know how to answer in a way that’ll keep her happy, and me in Alaska where I want to be. Mom, Gramps, and everyone else thinks it’s important to get out—explore the world, figure out who I am or whatever. I already know who I am. Running away to college isn’t going to help me learn something I already know.
Her frown holds for a moment, and then her face softens. Like she’s decided she’ll let it go for now. Thankfully.
“Did you go to the party last night?” she asks.
I sit at the end of the bench on our table, unsure yet if I want to be sitting or not because now I’m thinking about Gramps. If I tell the truth, she’ll know he’s not doing as well as I want him to.
“I take it that’s a no?” She sets down her mug, a look of concern on her face.
“Gramps made an odd pie last night.” I let out a sigh and push to standing. Thinking about Gramps hurts too much. I need food.
“I wondered why no one had cut into it.” Mom re-shuffles on the bench and takes another long drink. “You okay?”
I shrug because I’m definitely not okay, and I pull out some bread. Gramps has yet to mess up a loaf of bread.
“The cabin renters came in a couple days ago,” she says.
“I saw.” I slide my bread in the toaster. “How long are they here for?”
“Undetermined.” She holds my gaze for a while.
“Okay.”
Mom’s never wanted people living in the cabins, so whoever it is must be giving her some serious dough for her to even consider allowing someone there open-ended.
“Don’t worry. I warned them that we only do breakfasts in the summer and that they’ll be alone for all their meals. So, just the regular stuff, you know. Bedding laundry, garbage, maps, answering stupid questions like why we call them snowmachines instead of snowmobiles…” She gives me a wink.
“Okay.” It means more work for me, but also a bit of cash. Mom and I split the profit from the cabins, so while it sucks, it’s doable. I need parts for my old Corvette anyway.
“How was your night?” I ask as I spread butter across my toast, licking the extra off my fingers.
“Oh, fine.” Her eyes don’t meet mine as she stands and walks for her room. “I need a shower.”
“Oh-kay.” I stand a bit stunned at the abrupt end of our conversation as Mom’s door closes between us. We don’t have a perfect relationship or anything, but this was our first talk in a while, and it was going fine until it was…just over.
Her shower turns on, and it’s stupid to just stand in the middle of the kitchen with my toast, so I sit and rest my feet on the low windowsill. Smoke billows from the chimneys of two cabins, and the snow reflects the sunlight in billions of tiny sparkles like it does when it’s this cold. A guy steps out. One who looks the same age as I am. I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe I should’ve been paying more attention the past couple of days.
When I’m about to give up on staring and hit the hot tub, he lights up a cigarette. I scan him again. Brown hair that’s too evenly colored to be natural and a coat that probably cost more than my whole bag of hockey gear. I can see his frown from here, making me wonder why he’s spending so much money to stay here if he looks so pissed off.
I’ll definitely be doing some digging when Mom leaves for her shift.
Chapter Three
Bishop
I’ve been here for three days and it feels more like three years. Gary’s in and out of my cabin a million times a day. He checks the whole cabin and me each time like I’m in prison or something. Once in awhile, he acts like he’s just coming to visit, but I know it’s an excuse to check up on me more often. To make sure I haven’t either died of boredom, or went outside and drowned in all the snow. Who the hell would want to live in a place where it gets this cold? I freeze my balls off every time we take one of our walks. I’m still trying to figure out the point of those. We don’t even talk…just walk. I’m pretty sure I could walk in L.A. if that’s all I’m here for.
But no. That would be too easy. And I’m sure he’s torturing me with snow-hikes because he thinks I’m in here snorting cocaine or something. Which is ridiculous. That’s not something I mess with.
So I drink a little. Take a few pills here and there to help me get by. It’s not like I don’t have a prescription for some of them. This is a hard life. Don, of all people, should get that. He’s managed enough bands to know how it is. To know how you start to feel like you’re losing your mind.
I don’t have a problem.
Gary managed to miss the pills in my bag, and I’ve only taken one in the three days I’ve been here. It’s not like I can tell him that, though. He’ll blow it out of proportion and call his brother. Don’s pretty good at turning stuff around on me, and Mom goes along with everything he says.
Case in point: me sitting in this tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. She never would have made me do this on her own, and it’s definitely not what’s best. I can’t even relax inside if I want to smoke.
Trying not to shiver, I take a drag of my cigarette. Sitting on the porch with the door open isn’t giving me any heat. And they said this was supposed to be a vacation.
After putting out my smoke, I go back inside, shrug off my coat, and start pacing the cabin. I’m starting to go stir-crazy. I’m not used to sitting around like this. My hands are shaking, so I rub them on my jeans hoping it will help. The longer I stay locked behind these log walls, I feel like they’re shrinking on me. Like they’re closing in…in…in, trying to crush me. Trying to squeeze the life out of me. It feels like it does when I’m in a crowd. Like I can’t suck in enough air. It’s ridiculous. What kind of fucking rock star can’t deal with a crowd?
My head is all hot and my feet are cold. Gary said it’s because of the oil stove and heat rising. I don’t get why the people don’t just put in a regular heater. This is Alaska, not the stone ages. I’m pretty damn sure everyone in California has a regular heater, and we hardly even use the things.
I push the hoop in my bottom lip around in the hole while I pace. This is so screwed up. The longer I stalk around the room, the faster my heart starts beating. The more I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t get out of here soon.
It’s just this place. I miss my house, my drums. That’s all it is. I’ve had drumsticks in my hands for as long as I can remember. It’s crazy how I can love something and hate it at the same time. Playing is my life, the crowds suck it out of me.
Again, I try to find something to do with my hands, but they have minds of their own and keep trembling.
I lean against the kitchen counter and do that deep breathing bullshit my doc told me to do when I feel on edge. In. Out. In. Out. When it doesn’t work, I busy my hands by pushing them both through my hair and lean over.
In. Out. In. Out.
Still nothing.
The walls move in another foot, and that’s when I know I have to get out of here. Pushing off the counter, I go straight for the front door. It’s open about two seconds before I remember I’m in Alaska and my junk is liable to freeze off if I don’t stay as warm as possible.
About ten steps later, I’m in the tiny bedroom off the main room of the cabin. There’s a beanie on the chair, which I slip on. I turn for the door, but something stops me. I don’t know what it is. My anger, annoyance, whatever it is, I turn and head for my suitcase. After looking around to make sure Gary didn’t sneak up on me, I push two fingers inside the hidden spot in my suitcase. One of the small white pills I stashed comes out easily. The ones for anxiety that I actually have a prescription for, Gary’s in control of.
Right now, I need more than I’m prescribed.
It’s just because I’m trapped in this snowbound hell, I tell myself as I swallow it dry, grab my jacket from the living room, and then head outside. If I take these instead of going to Gary, maybe he’ll report to my parole officer, AKA, Don that I’m doing well and can go home.
There should not be this much snow anywhere. It comes all the way up to my knees. White and trees is all I see for…well, for as far as I can see. The drugs are starting to kick in. I already feel the tightness in my muscles start to lessen.
I glance over at the cabin next door just as Gary steps out. His cell glued to his ear, probably whispering sweet nothings to Troy or whatever it is they do. “What are you doing?” he calls to me.
Really? Walking is supposed to be part of my “therapy”. Not that he’s let me do it alone yet. Does he think I’m going to buy something from the moose on the corner? “I’m pretty sure it’s called walking. Maybe you remember it. We spoke about doing it every day. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving, Dad.”
He gives me a huge smile and a wave, like he’s the happiest person in the world.
And now I suddenly want to puke. Nice.
As I trudge through the snow, the shaking eases up, and I actually feel like I can breathe. Still, it’s not as good as the smog-filled air in L.A. Yeah, I said that. It’s almost like things are too clear up here, if that makes any sense.
Or maybe I’m going crazy. I heard people get depressed in Alaska since it’s dark like ninety percent of the time.
I head for the far end of the property and toward the freaking wilderness, wishing someone had told me to buy some boots before I got here, but the last thing I want is to end up as breaking news. I can see the headline now: Teen drummer Bishop Riley of the band Burn missing in the Alaskan wilderness, while his “babysitter” was busy on the phone with his boyfriend and his mom and manager were partying it up in the land of freaking normalcy without him.
I make a quick u-turn to avoid finding one of those sleeping bears Gary was talking about. My feet are cold as hell as I pass my cabin again and start toward the main house—if you can call it a house. I’ve never seen anything like it with all the different floors and obvious additions. I mean, it looks kind of cool, but also makes me wonder if we’re renting cabins from a bunch of nutcases.
I’m walking around the other side of the house when I see the leggy blonde standing by a kickass Corvette. Deprived as I am, I take a minute to admire them both. I’ve seen her come and go a few times. Not close enough to see her face, but the rest of her is gorgeous. Her hair is just past her shoulders, stick straight, and I swear it’s only a few shades darker than the snow.
She’s tall. Taller than I usually go for, but not too tall to appreciate. She’s curvy in all the right places. Yeah, definitely something to appreciate.
And the car? The car is incredible, too. For the first time in a while, I remember the 1970 Ford Ranchero sitting in my garage back home. It’s one of the first things I bought when we got signed. I’ve always wanted one, a piece of shit I could fix up myself. If I weren’t a drummer, that’s what I’d do: rebuild cars.
The plan is already set on what I want to do to mine. She’ll be incredible once I ever get a chance to work on her. She’s been sitting there for over a year.
Why haven’t I worked on my car?
The Snow Queen pushes off the car, and I try to turn so she doesn’t realize I was staring at her, but she catches my eye before I get a chance.
Two thoughts slam into me at once. First, she’s unreal beautiful. Not plastic in the way the girls I know are. Big eyes, slim lips and a nice little smile. And second, I totally don’t feel like talking to her. I’m out of my element here. The last thing I’m in the mood for right now is trying to befriend the locals. Plus, she might recognize me, and that’ll make things a whole lot worse. I should have grabbed the hat Gary bought me instead of the beanie. Obviously that would make a huge difference.
If I thought it would get me home, I’d tell her who I am, but knowing Don, he’ll find a way to blame me and I’ll get sent somewhere even worse. Though I’m not sure where would be worse than being in the snowy wilderness with no real civilization.
Shoving my hands in my pocket, I move to turn away when I hear, “Hey!”
“Damn,” I mumble under my breath before I start to walk her way. Maybe she can let me know who delivers all the way out here. Chinese sounds bomb.
“What’s up?” I nod my head before looking toward the ground. I’m awesome at disguises.
I hear her chuckle and glance up at her to see her eyes are on my feet. Yeah, I know I’m not wearing the right shoes. She doesn’t have to be cocky about it. “Something funny?”
“No, no.” She tries to play it off, but I can still see the smirk lingering. “Can you help me with something real quick?” she asks, while I’m busy watching her face. Trying to look for any signs that she recognizes who I am.
“Sure.” I shrug, finding the ground again with my eyes. She leads me to a huge toolbox—one of those tall, heavy ones.
“I’m Penny Jones, by the way,” she says over her shoulder. The garage door is open and she’s only wearing a hoodie.
“Bishop Ri—” Oh, shit. I forgot I’m not supposed to use my full name. I look at her as she licks her bright red lips. “Ripe.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “Bishop Ripe?”
Yeah. So I’m an idiot. Who gives a shit? “Problem with that?”
Penny shakes her head, but I can tell she’s fighting another laugh. Not that I wouldn’t be laughing in her situation.
“I need to roll this over to the car, but the wheels are messed up. Sometimes they fall off, so can you stay on the other side just in case?” Her voice is kind of a mix of snark and sweet—the sweet feels like a contrast to her strong, tall build. And somehow, I have a feeling the quiet sweetness is her camouflage. Like she’s a black widow or something and could bite my head off at any second. Or maybe I’m being paranoid because I’m in the land of Ice Road Truckers.
“I’ll push it over for you.” The car’s at the end of the garage, but it’s a slight decline.
“If only one person could do it, I wouldn’t need your help. If you wanna push, let me hold this end steady.” She doesn’t sound pissed, but maybe a little annoyed. She stands in the front like I’m actually going to need her help with this thing. I can be a little annoyed, too.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her before getting behind it and pushing. Seriously, how many people does it take to push a toolbox?
“Whatever you say.” She stands back and smirks, like she knows a private joke I’m not a part of.
Holding my end I start to walk. The thing slides as easily as it should and I start to wonder if she really just wanted an excuse to talk to me or something.
