Yeah. How’d that work out for you?
I mounted my bike, put on my helmet, and started the engine.
Riding a bike with a hard-on sucked. Fortunately, my boner had pretty much deflated and no way was I going to think about Finnegan O’Sullivan’s ass while I drove home.
I had two choices. Either Golden Ears bridge, Maple Ridge, and then Mission City. Otherwise, I could take the TransCanada highway to Abbotsford, through that town, and then over the Mission-Abby bridge. About equidistant, but I didn’t want to do the big highway at this time of night. People sped everywhere, but someone was clocked at nearly two hundred klicks last week. Stupid teenager with just a learner’s permit and his mother’s red Ferrari.Doubt he’ll be behind the wheel legally anytime soon.Also, I’d done a story about the son of a bigwig business guy in Vancouver. The son had crashed a Lambo.
I headed toward Golden Ears.
Interestingly, I’d done a follow-up on the son. Kellan something. He’d turned his life around—enrolled in the University of British Columbia as a psych major. Moved in with his boyfriend. Some scientist he’d met after the Lambo debacle. A real phoenix rising out of the ashes, that kid. That said, his bigoted father had rejected him.
I’d delved into that and found the father had been involved with some shady shit. Felt good to bring that asshole down a peg or two and get the tax authorities interested in him.
I watched my speed carefully as I navigated the sparse traffic I found on the bridge. Soon I took the off-ramp and cut my speed as I headed down the Lougheed highway. Businesses and trailer parks guided me until the Haney Bypass.
Still not thinking about the fact I’m going to fly past the turnoff to the street that leads to Finn’s cabin.I’d only been there once, but the memory of how to get there burned bright in my memory. Something I’d never forget.
One of my greatest regrets.
And I had more than a few—so that was saying something.
I catalogued all the things I had to do as I headed toward downtown Mission City. Yesterday’s paper had gone out without a hitch. My reporter Spring was covering the hockey tournament this weekend. Pretty much the most exciting thing in town. Next weekend was the turkey dinner for the homeless. Which reminded me—I hadn’t made a donation yet. I wasn’t flush with cash, but I could contribute to a Thanksgiving dinner for those less fortunate.
I hit the remote and drove into the underground parking of my condo building. Selling my beautiful place in Vancouver so I could buy something in Mission City hadn’t been easy. From soaring concrete in the sky—seventeenth floor looking over Coal Harbor—to a fourth floor looking out over Cedar Valley and beyond. Not quite the same. Still, I’d done so well with selling my little piece of heaven—emphasis onlittle—that I was mortgage free in Mission City. At first, I’d resisted. I wasn’t staying, after all. This was just a blip before I made it back to a big-city paper. Now I’d come to see I’d run out of options. Going back to Vancouver wasn’t likely. And that hurt.
I parked in my spot and dismounted. I pursed my lips. Buying here was an acknowledgement that I likely wouldn’t earn in income what the appreciation on this place would be and, more importantly, I wouldn’t be paying rent to some random landlord. I owned my place. That had to be good enough.
Still,this was a step down.
The elevator took me to my floor, and I slipped into 412. I liked my neighbors. Well, what little I saw of them. Many had dogs since the building allowed two pets per unit, and the pooches could be any size.
I could get a dog. God knows, I mostly work from home and I could certainly take the dog into the office when I go.Spring would lose her mind. She was always carrying on about the therapy dog, Tiffany, at her sister’s ranch, Healing Horses.
At first, I’d thought they rehabilitated horses.
Nope. The horses were therapy horses. The dog was a therapy dog. The patients were humans in need of help. Out of curiosity, I’d checked their website. Notable testimonials. Those could be faked, of course. Still…I’d been impressed.
Then my intrepid junior reporter would carry on about her other sister, the dog trainer, and how successful she was.
Again, I’d dug up the website for Torah Dixon and her training business. These testimonials came with pictures of dogs and their owners. So that’d felt more plausible.
I shucked my jacket, hung it up, and headed for the kitchen. A realization hit me right between the eyes.
Goddamnit.
Jesus.
I hadn’t paid for my fucking drink. I’d been running a tab because, after my beer, I’d planned on switching to ginger ale.
I closed my eyes. The last thing I wanted to do was drive the forty-five minutes back to Langley to pay ten bucks for a beer. Plus, a tip. I yanked out my phone, located the number for the bar, and dialed.
The phone rang for a long time before someone answered. “Hello.” A clipped female voice answered.
“Uh…is this…?” I scrambled to check the bar’s name.
“Yep, that’s us. How can I help you?” The woman sounded positively frazzled.
“I forgot to pay for my beer.”
