One is a Promise(39)
With the certified check in hand, I breeze through the side door and find Father Rick taking inventory of the food supplies in the kitchen.
“Danni!” He sets down the clipboard and smooths his mustache. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be in today.”
“I’m not staying to dance tonight.” Not with Trace and his withering conjecture hovering at my back. “Just wanted to drop this off.”
Rick accepts the folded check, his gaze locked on Trace. “Are you going to introduce your friend?”
“Trace Savoy.” Trace steps forward and offers a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Trace. I’m Rick.” They shake, and Rick directs his grin at me. “Danni’s our very own bona fide angel. Her ability to make people smile is a gift from God.”
“I don’t know about that.” I point my gaze at the eternal scowl on Trace’s face. “Seems I have the opposite effect on some people.”
Rick glances back and forth between us with grooves rumpling his bald head.
“I need to go,” I say. “But I’ll be back later this week.”
Trace holds the door for me, and I almost make it outside before Rick makes a choking sound behind me.
“What is this?” he whispers.
A glance over my shoulder confirms he’s staring at the check.
“It’s a donation.” I pat Trace’s rigid arm. “From Trace Savoy.”
Rather than playing along, Trace strides over to Rick and glares down at the check. A glare that blisters with disapproval as it lifts to me.
“Give us a minute,” I say to Trace. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
His jaw works, as if fighting back a retort. He straightens the collar of his button-up with a sharp, angry yank and charges out the door.
“Don’t worry about him.” I shift back to Rick. “We bicker like siblings.”
“That man doesn’t look at you like a sibling.” Rick narrows his eyes. “Are you okay, Danni?”
“I’m great.” I grip his forearm and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Trace bought the restaurant I dance at. We just have some disagreements to work through.”
“And this?” He holds up the check.
“It’s honest pay.” I back up, retreating toward the door. “You’re going to do amazing things with this place.”
His cheeks redden. “Thank you, Danni. There’s a special place waiting for you in heaven.”
“Don’t write me off yet, Father Rick.” With a laugh, I slip through the door and brace myself for Hell in the form of fiery blue eyes.
“Ten grand?” Trace whirls on me the instant I step outside.
So much for waiting at the car. I shake my head and walk past him.
“That’s over half your paycheck.” He grips my elbow.
“My paycheck.” I yank my arm away. “To spend however I want.”
“You need to—”
“Save it.” I quicken my gait and climb over the passenger door and into the car without bothering to open it.
“I will not let—”
“Shut the fuck up, Trace.” I rest my head back on the seat and close my eyes. “I don’t want to hear it.”
I keep my eyes shut during the short drive from the shelter to the casino. The silence is volatile, building and darkening like a thunderstorm.
I’ll drop his ass off and go to my sister’s. Because going home to a house of broken memories sounds even less appealing than hanging out with a cantankerous casino owner.
I know I’m impulsive with money and men and pretty much everything, but why does Trace care how I live my life? How could he possibly be offended by anyone donating money to a good cause?
Maybe I shouldn’t give him this time to gather his thoughts. His unspoken judgment charges the air around me, strengthening, galvanizing. When he pulls into the underground garage, the noise from the wind dies and he opens his mouth.
“You live in a shit hole, drive a shit car, and wear…”
Opening my eyes, I twist in the seat to face him. “Go ahead. Finish that sentence.”
His eyes are stark beneath the overhead lights. He swerves the car into a reserved spot beside a sleek gray sports car and shuts off the engine.
“You wear sandals,” he says to the windshield, “from the clearance aisle in a drugstore. You need money desperately, yet you give it away like it’s nothing.”
“If I embarrass you, get your pretentious ass out of my car and go back to your fancy penthouse where you never spend a night alone.” My toes curl in the discount flip-flops, and my heart pounds at the base of my throat. “Fire me or don’t fire me, but stop casting judgment on my life.”