CHAPTER 3 #2
Safari hat speaks first. “You ready, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Dude, call me OC.” He pats the tall guy on the back. “I’m more than ready. Bring me to those giraffes.”
I hold back an intense eye roll. Not sure what glitter bomb crawled up his ass, but I plan on staying far away.
“Ready, Bennett?” the other zookeeper says as she pulls some ChapStick out of her fanny pack and coats her lips.
“Yup.” Bennett heads in her direction, leaving me with Maple.
Just like the other day, she’s wearing a pair of khaki pants, a green polo, and hiking boots, with her blond hair pulled back into a high ponytail, the loose strands braided.
Her jet-black eyelashes highlight her electric blue eyes, while her cheeks are sun-kissed with a pink hue.
There’s a spot on either side of her mouth where it seems like she has dimples, but from the scowl in her glare, I’m going to guess I won’t be able to find out if that’s true or not.
Not that I would want to.
Sure, she easily has one of the prettiest faces I’ve ever seen, and one hell of a curvy body, but that means nothing because she holds the key to my torture. And from the set in her shoulders and the attitude brimming in her body language, I can tell she’s going to have fun torturing me.
“Do I need to call you Mr. St. John, or can I just call you Graydon?”
I push off the fence and move toward her. “And here I thought you were going to call me douche bag.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she answers. Yup, she’s ripe.
I offer up one insult to a flock of fucking birds and now she has a vendetta against me?
Not that I really care.
I don’t care how people feel about me.
I don’t need to win over their affection or friendship. It’s better if they hate me. Actually, I prefer it since it means I don’t have to talk to people I don’t care about.
She opens the door to the building in front of us, and I grab it from her, allowing her to step under my arm and into the building.
Her eyes widen in surprise at the gesture, confirming that I’ve been an asshole. She didn’t expect something so simple as holding a door open for her.
And I hate to admit it, but that makes me feel…kind of shitty.
I’m the first to acknowledge, I’m not the nicest guy.
I’m grumpy.
I’m hard to work with.
And I have a truckload of baggage that no one wants to unpack, leaving me grouchy most of the time.
But not holding a door open? I’m not that big of an ass, right?
She slips past me and Jesus, for someone who works with bird shit on the daily, she smells fucking amazing. Like so fucking good that I find myself wanting to get another whiff.
She heads into the building, her braid swinging across the top of her shoulders, and I can see that she wants to thank me, but instead, she snags two Nalgene water bottles full of ice water off a table.
As she hands me one, she says, “Here. In case you get thirsty. You can leave it here or you can take it home with you. Just know that if you forget it, it’s the water fountain for you.”
I take the bottle with the zoo logo etched on it and my name scrolled across a piece of tape right below the logo. Whereas mine is brand new, Maple’s looks like it’s been through hell and back, with scrapes and gouges across the top, bottom, and sides.
“This way,” she says, directing me out a door and to a two-person golf cart with a flatbed on the back. She takes a seat and nods at me. “Hop in.”
As if it’s that easy.
I move to the other side of the cart and bend down to try to fit my body inside the damn thing.
My shoulders nearly take up the entire width of the bench seat, my head kisses the top, and my right leg has to hang off the side because there is absolutely no way I can squeeze into the minimal space provided.
When she glances in my direction, her eyes widen in surprise before they find humor in my situation and she stifles a laugh.
“Okay, taking note that I’ll have to ask for the Gator to better accommodate your size.”
I adjust, gripping the hood and attempting to get comfortable, but there’s really no use.
“Can we just walk to the flamingo exhibit?”
“Normally,” she says. “But today, I have to give you a tour of the zoo.”
“Is that necessary?”
“I would think so since you’re probably going to have to talk about it at some point, but if you’re confident enough to just wing interviews without an education on the topic, then I’m more than happy to hop out and walk to the flamingos.”
Smart-ass.
“Just drive,” I huff, hanging on to the cart and my water bottle as she jolts it into motion.
Jesus Christ.
We make a left-hand turn, tilting on two wheels as she directs the cart toward the front of the zoo, braking haphazardly by a rather large, blooming bush.
Visitors move in and out of view along the walkways, some with strollers and freshly purchased stuffed animals clutched in children’s arms, others exhausted and decked out in reusable cups dangling from their necks by lanyards. It’s giving amusement park vibes without the rides.
“We house over two thousand animals here, with two hundred and fifty species.”
Shit, that’s a lot of animals. I keep that to myself.
“The San Francisco Zoo is best known for Koko the gorilla. Are you aware of Koko?”
“Does it look like I’d be aware?”
She scoffs. “Right, what was I thinking?” She shifts, her shoulder touching mine.
Even with how petite she is, there is absolutely no room to spare between us in this fucking thing, which also means I get a front-row seat to her scent.
What the fuck is that? Jesus Christ, it smells so damn good.
“Koko was born here and was an avid communicator in American Sign Language. A real treasure on this earth.”
I nod.
“She also loved kittens and adopted and cared for many throughout her life. A very popular, sweet, loving animal.” She glances in my direction with an irritated gaze. “Not that it seems like you’d care, but she passed away in 2018. It was a devastating loss to so many.” She somberly sighs.
Unsure of what to do, I clear my throat. “Sorry for your loss.”
“I can tell you really mean that,” she says with sarcasm as she puts the golf cart into drive again and jolts us forward.
I mean, I sort of did mean it. Probably not as much as someone else would, but you know…a gorilla dying is sad.
“The zoo spans over one hundred acres, making it the biggest zoo in Northern California.”
“One hundred acres? That’s it?” I ask as my fingers dig into the top of the roof, keeping me locked into this miniature golf cart while she jolts around, moving from side to side like a madwoman. Who gave her the keys to this thing?
“That’s a lot of acreage.”
“Yeah, but not for a wild animal. They’re used to all the land they want.”
Her head snaps to look at me with those devastatingly beautiful eyes. Jesus, they’re even more blue when she’s angry. And crazed while driving.
Please look at where you’re going. For the love of God!
“Do not be one of those people.”
“What do you mean?” I nod toward the front of the cart, letting her know that she should be paying attention.
“The kind of person who puts down zoos by claiming the animals could be better off not held in captivity.”
“I mean…can’t they?” Why am I distracting her?
“For your information…Graydon…most of the animals we host here have been rescued from the human species, given a second chance in life to thrive, and provide us with the opportunity as zookeepers to educate others on the importance of conservation.” She brakes harshly at a four-way stop, nearly slamming me into the windshield, and then she pushes forward again, flinging me back in my seat.
What kind of horsepower does this thing have?
“But then again, maybe your football-addled brain can’t quite comprehend such a thing. ”
Hey, that’s fucking rude.
“And I’ll have you know, we’ve spent hundreds of hours studying these animals, creating an environment for them that is natural to what they’re used to.
” The cart skitters across the pavement, making my stomach drop as we tilt at another turn, her anger clearly turning her into a crazed Cruella de Vil driver.
“Hey, maybe you should slow—”
“And we’re constantly studying them, coming up with ways to assist in their population growth and making sure they don’t go extinct because of ignorant people like yourself.” She snorts at me and tosses her hand to the side in disgust.
Then, with a whip of her head—I’m sure her version of a mic drop—she sharply maneuvers the cart, making a left-hand turn and jolting me so much to the side that I lose my grip on the roof, my entire upper half whipping out of the cart.
Like one of those wind sock guys at a car dealership, I thrash around, arms flailing, feet pressed into the floorboard while my hands grasp for anything solid, anything to keep me from having to perform a tuck and roll in front of a stroller brigade.
But I come up short.
And just as I’m about to fly out the side, right into a child eating Cheerios from an elephant-shaped container, my hand connects with a rope and I grab hold of it, hanging on to it like a lifesaver.
“Ahhhhh!” Maple cries as I yank myself back up and the cart comes to a halt. We both fly forward against the plexiglass windshield and then bounce back in our seats.
“Jesus Christ, I almost flew out of the cart. Who gave you permission to drive this thing?”
She grips her head and turns to me, fury in her eyes. “That was my hair you pulled on.”
“When?” I ask, adjusting myself back in the seat and trying to figure out a way that I can wedge myself in to guarantee I stay in the cart at all times.
“Just now.” She rubs the side of her head.
“That wasn’t rope?”
“No, that was my hair, and I do not appreciate having my hair pulled.”
I pause and slowly give her a once-over, letting my eyes travel over her khaki pants, up to her tucked-in shirt, to the curve of her breasts, and all the way up to that gorgeous face of hers. “Clearly you haven’t had the right guy tugging on your hair, then.”