Chapter 14 Griffin #2
The hope that lights inside me at that idea is a dangerous thing. It’d be too easy to let it grow into an inferno of something much more than friendship. At least for me.
I tamp down my feelings the way I have so many times before, deliberately hardening my face into barely controlled annoyance as I approach her. “Penny?”
She turns light-filled amber eyes to me, her smile bright and her whole body relaxed until she sees me and my stony expression.
The light dims, her smile fades, and her shoulders inch up toward her ears.
“Hey! Thanks for coming.” She turns back to the dog, “Sorry. This is my friend I was telling you about, so I have to go. You’re such a good boy.
You have a good walk and a good day, and make sure you get two yummy treats when you get home.
” The dog wags his tail like he understood every word, and I realize she wasn’t talking to the owner, offering friendship I greedily wish I could have, but rather the dog.
Meanwhile, the dog’s owner is eyeballing me like I’ve interrupted the meet-cute with Penny that he’s going to wax poetic about at their wedding reception.
I meet his glare with an unveiled threat in my cold eyes, silently ordering him to get the fuck out of here.
Little does he know, I’m saving his life.
Because if he doesn’t leave, and take the admittedly cute dog with him, I’m going to kill him.
But he heard Penny’s dismissal and has taken in my considerably larger size and hostile warning and wisely, albeit with disappointment, walks away.
“You couldn’t sit here for thirty minutes without flirting with some rando?
” I accuse. I know I sound jealous as fuck, but I can’t help it.
I am jealous . . . of anyone who gets the relaxed, happy, vibrant version of Penny that I want.
Especially when I get the bratty, annoyed version.
It’s what I deserve, but it still stings.
“Clover came up to me,” she replies, throwing her hands wide.
“Not the dog. The guy.” I’m assuming the guy’s name wasn’t Clover, though, these days, who knows?
I went to school with a guy named Pine. He was a hell of a math whiz who helped me cheat my way through trigonometry, so who am I to judge?
But seriously, that guy’s name isn’t Clover, like the weed, right?
She looks down the sidewalk where they disappeared like she’s only now realizing that the dog had a guy holding the other end of the leash.
She has no idea how gorgeous she is, how her radiant spirit shines out of her, attracting the attention of every Tom, Dick, Harry, and Clover in a one-mile radius.
Most of all, she has no idea that I see that beauty in her.
That’s how it has to be. It’s for the best.
When she looks back at me, I see how tired she is, and I twist inside.
I should be helping her, and instead I’m a fucking vampire, sapping her strength.
“This was a bad idea, wasn’t it? Never mind.
I’ll be fine. You can go back home or wherever you were, to whatever you were doing.
Just return to your regularly scheduled programming, and I’ll figure this out on my own. ”
I snort out a humorless laugh. Fine, I’m a vampire, but I won’t let that continue. I need to fire her up again. “If you think for one second that I’m letting you talk to criminals by yourself, you’re crazier than I thought.”
“Letting me? Nobody lets me do anything.” She stands up, bowing up to me in the fiery way that is such an unbelievable turn-on.
“And I’ll take crazy as a compliment, thank you very much.
Capable, relentless, awesome, zesty . . .
um, yee-haw’er. Okay, that last one needs work, but you put me on the spot, so give me a break. ”
I stare down at her, my breathing too quick for the short exchange, and consider my options. Whether I’m leaving or staying isn’t up for debate. Instead, I’m pondering how to get her to let me stay by her side for the sketchy shit on her agenda today.
“You’re right. You can do whatever you want, but I would like to help. Please,” I force out, the conciliatory tone foreign and difficult to fake.
“That’s more like it,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder haughtily. A moment later she caves, offering, “Because I really think going alone was a bad idea, not that I would ever admit it.”
She totally just admitted it, but I don’t call her out, having learned my lesson for the day. “I was going to talk to some of them today too,” I confess. “When you called, I was already looking at the list.”
She backhands my chest with a beaming smile. “Great minds, huh? It’s like we’re on the same wavelength!”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, thinking alike, that’s us.”
It’s so not us.
On the way to Johnny K’s, she tells me more about her conversation with Mad Dog, claiming he’s a misunderstood good guy with ethics and morals and business standards.
“He said he wouldn’t work with an unknown source he hadn’t personally vetted.
” She makes that sound like high standards, not a bar on the floor to keep from getting arrested in a sting operation or scammed by another criminal.
I’m expecting a seedy, bars-on-the-windows-type place at the address she has for Johnny K, but I’m wrong. I even confirm the address with the rideshare driver because I’m nearly certain he’s dropping us off at the wrong place.
“Ooh, fancy-schmancy!” Penny coos as we get out of the car.
Johnny K’s isn’t a sketchy place at all. Or doesn’t appear to be. It’s a storefront, with vinyl lettering on the windows proclaiming “By Appointment Only” and fake topiary trees on either side of the gold-handled door. It looks bougie, not dangerous. But sometimes that’s the biggest mask of all.
I look like someone people should fear. But for the most part, I’m not.
I may throw hands here and there, both on and off the ice, but I wouldn’t consider myself unsafe.
I have a code of ethics that I follow—mainly don’t fuck with what’s mine, and I won’t fuck you up.
On the other hand, Miles Conniver doesn’t look like someone you’d worry about.
I’ve seen his picture in the paper, and he appears to be a typical wealthy guy—precision haircut, white teeth, tailored suit, and manicured hands that have never seen a day of work.
Yet, of the two of us, he’s the one who’d kill you, or have you killed, so the “store” look of Johnny K’s place isn’t all that reassuring.
Penny, on the other hand, is getting more and more excited, like she might find a new favorite shopping locale.
“Stolen merchandise,” I remind her quietly as we approach the door.
“I know. But this is a bajillion times better than Mad Dog’s corner,” she explains. I’m not sure she’s right. This place is a pitcher plant, one of those places where flies go in and don’t come out.
The door is locked, and through the window, the place looks deserted.
One glance around, though, and I spot a camera above the door.
“You said this guy’s a hockey fan, right?
” When Penny nods, I step up to the camera, lifting my chin so my face is fully visible.
“Hey, I’m Griffin Mahoney. I play for the Hawks.
I wanted to see if we could have a conversation about jewelry.
” I pointedly cut my eyes toward Penny, implying I want to buy her something.
If Johnny K is a salesman, I just showed my whole hand, and hopefully, that’s not something he can resist.
“One minute.”
I’m not sure where the disembodied voice came from, but it elicits happy claps and a few hops of joy from Penny. “It’s here. I can feel it. It’s gonna be here,” she chants. And though I’m not nearly as sure as she’s trying to be, I hope she’s right.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, two guys come into sight.
One stands behind the glass cases, which are shaped in a U facing the door.
The other guy is obviously the muscle and comes to open the door and greet us.
“Welcome in, Honey. We’re big fans. Loved the way you put Patterson on the boards last night. ”
I nod my appreciation—they’re clearly not bullshitting if they know my nickname—but focus on the man we’re here to see. “Johnny?”
“Johnny K? Mr. K? Or just Johnny?” Penny asks, rushing forward with her hand extended. “Thank you so much for seeing us. I really appreciate it.”
For his part, Johnny looks taken aback by Penny’s effusive greeting, but after a quick visual check-in with me, he shakes Penny’s hand politely.
“Of course. How can I be of service?” I can see the facade of customer service slipping over Johnny K’s core thoughts of what-the-fuck Twilight Zone have I entered into?
He’s a man accustomed to dealing with rich people, that much is obvious, but there’s a sinister aura to him despite his expensive slacks, designer shirt, and gold chains.
Honestly, I feel like he might be a bit of a kindred spirit.
Rough to the core but forced to play dress-up and act nice in an unfamiliar world, like me with the Richie Rich team owners, who want us to monkey dance for their entertainment; the media, who expect the players to perform verbal tricks in interviews fawning over the opportunities we receive; and the fans, who think we owe them something because they bought a shirt with our number emblazoned on it.
For me, I play along because hockey was my way out, and for that, I love it.
For Johnny, I think he just loves money, which can also be a way out of whatever situation you’re in.
“We’re looking for a ring,” Penny tells him, glancing down at the jewelry in the glass cases. “A special one.”
She’s getting better at this, not jumping right into accusations and hopeful demands for her ring the way she was doing at the pawnshops. It’s working too. Johnny smiles warmly at her, respectfully saying, “Of course. Everything here is special . . . to the right person.”