Page 3 of The Keeper

I need your help

CHAPTER 2

CARINA

“I know, I know! I’m late!” I yelled as I rushed through the kitchen. “Don’t tell Lloyd!”

I didn’t wait for anyone to respond before I burst through the swinging doors and into the dining room. “Dining room” was too elevated a term for the sticky floors and cracked leather stools and booths lining Lloyd’s Pub (named after the owner—very original), but it was technically correct. And I was, technically⁠—

“Five minutes late again.”

Speak of the devil.

I closed my eyes briefly before I took a deep breath, pasted on a bright smile, and spun around to face the owner in question. “Yes, I’m sorry. But⁠—”

“What did I tell you about being on time? We’re running a business here.” Lloyd shook his head. His mustache quivered with disapproval. “This is your second offense in the past month. I’m starting to think you don’t want to work here.”

Well, working for you isn’t anyone’s idea of a dream job, I almost said, but I kept my mouth shut. Although I had a steady daytime gig as an executive assistant at the Royal Academy of Ballet, I needed the extra cash from waitressing. I’d cycled through many side gigs over the years, and I was tired of constantly being on the job hunt. Lloyd sucked, but the money was decent, and the pub was within walking distance of my flat.

I could tough it out for two more months. That was how long I’d need before I had enough money for a trip to Antarctica. Then, I could quit and never think about Lloyd or his walrus mustache again.

“Of course I want to work here,” I lied. Keep smiling. “But there was a plumbing issue at my flat, and⁠—”

“I’m not interested in excuses. Just make sure you’re not late again, or don’t bother coming back.”

I bit my tongue and nodded.

Two more months. You only have to deal with him for two more months.

He wouldn’t have been sympathetic to my story anyway. After I left the ballet academy, I’d dropped by my flat to change and had been confronted with a spontaneously exploding toilet. (Seriously. The building had constant plumbing problems). Luckily, one of my roommates had come home mid-disaster, and I’d passed the problem over to her before running here.

Yeah, Lloyd definitely wouldn’t have cared. I could’ve been in the hospital, and he’d have berated me for not using an ambulance to clear the roads to work.

Thankfully, he moved on to micromanaging the bartenders, and I was quickly swept up in the dinner rush. Lloyd’s was especially popular with football fans, a large group of whom were yelling at the current match on the telly.

I went on autopilot as I wove in and out of the tables, taking orders and trying not to spill anything due to the fans’ enthusiasm. There were lots of gesticulating arms and sudden movements.

Bits and pieces of their conversations made their way into my ears.

“I reckon England could take the whole thing this year,” a man in a Blackcastle shirt said, referring to the World Cup. “Donovan’s in his prime, and we have the strongest team in decades.”

“We’ll see. France…”

“…only have Dubois and Guillory…”

“That’s if Guillory can play…got injured…”

“The US only has Wilson, and goalkeepers rarely get on the scoresheet…”

I stumbled and nearly spilled a beer on the last speaker. I apologized profusely to the irate customer, but my mind had latched onto something he said and refused to let go.

Wilson. As in Noah Wilson.

A memory flashed through my brain, quick as lightning but hot enough to make my skin warm.

Dark room. Rough hands. Rougher voice.

A moment that remained etched in my mind over a year later.