“Thank you.” I sip the creamy beverage and sigh. “For the coffee, not the comment.”
“Eggs are almost done.” She turns back to the stove.
She’s not here to cook me breakfast. She wants the scoop on the date, and I’m surprised she hasn’t asked yet.
Dressed in her usual gear—baggy gym shorts, tank top, hair in a high ponytail, complete with an elastic headband—she takes her role as a soccer coach’s wife seriously. Eighteen months younger than me, she shares my height, build, facial features…everything. Only she’s darker. Darker complexion—fake bake. Darker hair—L’Oreal No.5. If she embraced her naturally pale skin and blonde hair, we’d pass as twins.
“You didn’t get the D last night.” Gray eyes—same as mine—squint at me over her shoulder.
I had two chances to get laid. Final score 0-2. Man, I suck. But she only knows about the one.
“You don’t know what happened.” I finish off the coffee with a couple of aspirin.
“You woke alone and grumpy.” She prepares two plates of eggs, bacon, and toast. “I know what didn’t happen.”
“I’m always grumpy before coffee.”
“Not if you got the D,” she sings and casts a glance at Angel, who glowers from a shadowed corner in the hallway.
“I wasn’t impressed with the guy you picked.” I might’ve jumped on the other D, if he weren’t such a… Well, a dick.
“Eat.” She slides a full plate in front of me. “And tell me what happened.”
“Mm.” I grab a fork and shovel in a fluffy scrambled bite of eggs. “Another guy happened.”
She chokes around a mouthful of bacon. “Anuffer guy?”
I hop onto the counter and gesture at the watchful silhouette in the hall. “You gonna feed the little person?”
“Angel already ate.” Bree wipes a paper napkin across her mouth. “What other guy?”
I launch into the story, starting with Mark’s arrival, his groping, and Marlo Vogt’s appearance. As I reach the part about the casino owner trespassing in my house, a noise from the hallway distracts me.
Angel sits with her back against wall and hugs her knees to her chest. With her head tilted down, she stares up at me, whispering something under her breath.
I try to ignore her. “Trace Savoy bought Bissara and offered me a job with a pay raise.”
As I explain the terms of the contract, Angel’s indiscernible muttering grows louder.
“Jesus.” I set my plate aside. “She’s really distracting.”
“She’s practicing her alphabet.” Bree smiles at her daughter. “Aren’t you, sweetie?”
“Mm-hmm,” Angel says without moving her judgmental gaze from me.
The whispers begin again. I strain my hearing and don’t detect a single recognizable syllable.
“It sounds like Latin.” Not really, but I love to give Bree shit about Angel’s disturbing personality. “Are you sure she’s not knee-deep in demonic possession?”
“Stop with the demon references, Danni. I’m not okay with it.” Bree puts her plate in the sink a little too roughly. “You’re giving her a complex.”
Can a sociopath get a complex?
“Anyway…” I finish walking through the events of the prior night and end on a sigh. “Trace left with that stupid scowl on his face.
Bree blows out a breath, her expression pinching. “Sounds like Cole.”
“Cole never scowled.”
“Except when his temper flared, which was all the time. And he was always on you about locking the door.”
“What’s your point?” I slide off the counter and pour another cup of coffee.
“Can you separate business from pleasure? I don’t want you to…I don’t know, to get involved with this guy just because he reminds you of Cole.”
She was never a huge Cole fan. He was too mysterious and rough around the edges for her tastes.
“I’m not doing anything, Bree.” I stir cream into the coffee as a twinge stabs in my chest. “Trace is nothing like Cole, and I’m not accepting his job offer.”
“But you need the money.” Her voice is soft and motherly, scraping on my nerves.
“I’ll find other jobs.”
“Paying jobs?”
“Yep.” I sip the coffee, relishing the bold flavor.
“Are you going to Gateway today?” She pins me with her school-teacher glare.
“Of course.” I go to the homeless shelter every Saturday. What’s the big deal? I turn toward the demon-whisperer in the hall. “You want to go dance at the shelter with me?”
“No.” Angel hunches into a ball, peering at me over her bent knees.
“You can wear one of my tutus.”
Her eyes widen with interest. Got her.
“No way.” Bree steps in front of me, hands on her hips and blocking my view of Angel. “You’re not taking her downtown.”
“It’s good bonding time.”
“Whenever you bond with her, she comes home with bad habits.”
“Is that true?” I ask Angel.
“Redrum,” she whispers in a fiendish voice, curling a tiny finger in front of her face like she’s holding an imaginary finger puppet. Exactly how I taught her.
Laughter snorts past my nose. “Come on, Bree.” I yank her ponytail. “It’s funny.”
“Whatever. It’s time to go, Angel. Give Aunt Danni a hug.”
“Nuh-uh.” She jumps to her feet and spins away, arms folded across her chest.
“Angel,” Bree says sternly. “Give your aunt a hug. With arms.”
“No thanks.” I mimic Angel’s pose. “I don’t want forced affection.”
Bree makes an irritated noise in her throat. “Fine.”
I walk her out, rubbing the chill from my arms and bouncing in place as she helps Angel buckle up in the backseat. With her bent over and leaning into the car, I can’t resist jabbing my toe into the back of her knee and forcing her leg to bend.
With a huff, she straightens and steps around to the driver seat. “Grow up, Danni.”
“That sounds horribly boring and lame.”
She rests a hand on the open door and looks at me over the top of the car. “What are you going to do about the meeting at the casino tonight?”
“I’ll go if I feel like it.” I shrug. “I have a counteroffer that’ll make his ass clench.”
Her disapproving glare rolls off my shoulders. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Not knowing what I’m doing is kind of my superpower.” I grin.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Look at all those smiles.” Father Rick Ortez leans against the wall beside me, his own grin twitching his gray mustache. “I’m always amazed at how many of them you can get on the dance floor.”
It’s not easy. No one at a homeless shelter has a reason to dance or smile. But I’m persistent, because when they finally give in and participate, they focus on learning the steps and laugh at their fumbling feet. In those small moments of levity, they forget about the tragedies that thrust them onto the streets.
Rick runs the shelter, and he doesn’t wear his white collar here, so it’s easy to forget he’s a priest. Which is the point. He wants all people to feel welcome, no matter their religion, race, or background.