Page 13 of The Game

“I’m here to learn about Walk Safe. What else would I be here for?” She steps in a little closer and the stubborn set to her jaw tells me exactly why she’s here. Her eyes dragging down my skin might have turned me on once, but now they leave an uncomfortable trail behind that leaves me itching in my skin.

I cross my arms over my chest, keeping her from getting right up in my face. “Fine. Go take a seat.” She pushes her lower lip out in a pout as I toss a chin at the seating area. “Go on. Ihave to start the meeting.” I’m not going to convince her to leave, so I may as well ignore her and get this thing going.

A Charlene-induced tremble has me clasping my hands together to still them. There are too many feelings swirling around in my mind, and I’ve lost all of my hard-won composure. The carefully planned words are gone, vanished in the cloud of anger, sadness, and frustration that’s fighting to engulf me.

Unfamiliar eyes are fixed on me, and everyone is murmuring and looking at each other while I stand at the front trying to get a grip on myself. I skip from face to face, avoiding only one as I search for something, anything, to help me through this, and then. A jolt of warmth hits me in a much more pleasant surprise when I meet a pair of liquid chocolate eyes staring at me with expectation and concern in their depths. She’s wearing her hair down tonight. The shiny black curtain of it falls over her shoulders, complementing her smooth, light brown skin. The smile does it for me. Her lips are painted a bronze gold color and when they curve up at the corners, it reaches all the way up, crinkling the corners of her eyes. It’s my coffee girl. The coffee girl. I’ve no idea where that came from. Her name is spelled out in loopy hot pink letters on her nametag. Jazz.

It’s hard to tear my gaze away from hers, but I give her a nod, glancing back down at the bulleted list of notes I made for myself. The familiar face is enough to ground me.

“Welcome, everyone, to the Walk Safe orientation. Some of you may walk out of here deciding this isn’t the volunteer opportunity for you.” I give Charlene a long look as I say thosewords. But she misses the point, basking in the attention. She leans forward to give me a view of her cleavage peeking out from the low V-neck of her tight shirt. My eyes seek Jazz’s again. Better. Much better. “And some of you may sign up right away. I’m going to tell you about how it works, and the required commitment and answer any questions you might have. After that, it’s up to you whether this is something you’re interested in.”

I make it through my entire list of prepared points with only the occasional tremor in my voice, but it’s all thanks to the girl that my eyes keeping returning to. It’s good to have a touch point in the crowd to keep myself from getting flustered and losing track of my words.

“That’s it. Anyone have any questions?”

A few students raise their hands, including Charlene, who I ignore until she shouts out her question without waiting for me to acknowledge her.

“Do we get to choose our own partners for our shifts?”

I’m frozen for a minute, not sure how to answer. The answer, in fact, is yes. You can choose specific partners if you want and if it works with the overall schedule. Since there’s no chance in hell I’m ever going to put myself in a position to roam the campus after dark with her for a three-hour shift, I don’t know what to say.

“Yes. If both parties agree. It is a possibility, but as a new volunteer, you’ll get paired with a more experienced member of the team. You’ll work consistently with them for the first couple of months until you’re comfortable with the process.”

My eyes stray to the barista I’ve now crossed paths with a few times. She drops her lashes down, fidgeting with the bright purple pen in her hands. I know who I want as my new recruit this semester.

“Great.” Charlene’s voice slices through my thoughts, bringing me back to my new dilemma. I need to find some way to get her to leave me alone.

“Ok, everyone. If you’re interested in committing, come on up to the front at the end and we’ll get you signed up. If you need some time to think about it, that’s fine too. We’ll be taking applications until the end of the week, or you can always sign up next semester if you’re not ready now. Training sessions start next week. Thanks for coming out.”

Bags drag across desks, feet shuffle on the carpet and the students either file out the back door or join the line down the middle of the row. I’m shifting from one foot to the other behind the table with the sign-up tablet on it. Occasionally, I dip my head or give a strained smile to the handful of new recruits.

Charlene shot to her feet before I finished talking, but she still ended up at the back of the line. She’s tapping her foot and peering around the tall girl in front of her.

Jazz gives me a shy smile when she gets to the front of the line. “Hi. I wanted to say thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. That’s what I’m here for.” She winces at the loud pop of my knuckles, and I immediately stop cracking them. “Sorry.”

“No worries. And I didn’t just mean for the other night with Walk Safe. You stepped in with that customer at the coffee shop. I really appreciated it. Not many people would… you know, help like that.”

My chest tightens. People suck. It’s disgusting how anyone can stand by and watch someone else get verbally abused by some asshole who thinks he has the right to act like that. “Nobody should ever be allowed to talk to you like that. But I know you’re not allowed to tell customers off, no matter what bullshit they say.”

The murmurs behind her are increasing as she reaches out a hand to grab the tablet I’ve got clutched to my chest. I pass it over, getting a little tingle when her fingers brush mine. They’re a little dry, rasping across my hand, and I glance down to see that her long fingers are red and chapped. She needs some lotion. I’m sure the constant hand washing leaves them dry. Reminds me of my dad’s hardworking hands.

“You know I can stand up for myself.” She’s not looking at me as her fingers tap away, filling out her information on the screen. “Well, maybe not so much myself, but for my employees. If I hear anyone talking to one of the other baristas like that, I will ask them not to return. They’re not going to fire me for defending someone. And if they do, I guess the job isn’t the one I want. When I have my own place…” Her voice trails off and she glances down at her hands.

I want to delve deeper. Ask her to tell me more. There’s something so soft and vulnerable about her, but she showed strength too. Stepping in so the other barista didn’t have to deal with the customer’s assholery. It’s a bonus that she clearly has no interest in my hockey status. I’m finding myself wanting to connect with another person for the first time in over a year, but the loud clearing of a throat lets me know this isn’t the time.

I drop a hand over hers before she can release the tablet. My eyes flick up to catch Charlene staring me down, and the words spill out. “Hey, do you wanna grab a coffee after?” I laugh. “Or maybe something else. You probably don’t want to go to a coffee shop on your day off.”

Her mouth falls open, and a tendril of disappointment unfurls at the apology in her eyes. I can spot a no when I see it. “I’m not really doing that right now.” Her voice pitches up at the end as if it’s a question.

My brow stretches to my hairline. “Drinking coffee? Or going places?”

She laughs. “Going places like…” she gestures a hand between us, “with guys. Like dates.” She winces, throwing her hands over her face. “Oh god. You didn’t even ask me on a date, and I just assumed. I’m sorry.” She’s pretty cute when she’s flustered.

“I didn’t mean as a date, not that I wouldn’t want to… but I’m not dating right now. Listen.” I look up at Charlene again. “You’d be doing me a favor. Remember the other night when that guy was bothering you? Your ex?” She nods. “I’ve kind of got a similar situation going on and I could use a rescue right now. If you could help me out, I’ll buy you a drink and we can chat for a bit and move on. No pressure. Just friends.”

Her weight shifts from one foot to the other, and she’s staring over my shoulder at my messy notes on the whiteboard. It’s not fair expecting other people to piece together the sad hieroglyphics that pass for handwriting in my world. Freaking Kenneth.

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