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How did he find me? And why?
“Hey.”
His clipped tone feeds my suspicion. If this asshole is about to accuse me of messing up his car, he picked the wrong woman to scam. I just raised the hood and didn’t touch anything in his engine.
“I don’t expect to get the money back, but I need my driver’s license.” His glare tells me he thinks I know what he’s talking about, but I have no idea.
“We didn’t exchange any money. I opened your hood and then we left.” I cross my arms and glare right back at him, making sure he knows I’m not intimidated.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. I’m a hockey player, and I had to leave the arena on a game day just to come get my wallet. I’m flying out on a road trip tomorrow, and I have to have my driver’s license.”
A customer at the bar meets my gaze in a silent request, so I grab her cup, scowling over my shoulder at the Mustang driver as I refill her Pepsi. “Why would I have your driver’s license? I stopped to give you car advice.”
He shakes his head. “Cut the act. Your accomplice stole my wallet. When he ran into me.” He air-quotes the words. “You guys must be new to robbing people, though, because your apron told me where to find you.”
My lips part with surprise. Accomplice? Robbing? It’s all I can do to set down the customer’s drink before I grab Mustang’s arm and drag him outside.
“Listen, asshole,” I hiss. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life, so go scam someone else.”
He arches his brows. “Oh, so you’re throwing the kid under the bus?”
“That kid is my son, and he didn’t steal your wallet, either. Wasn’t the ’97 Caravan a tip-off about my net worth? I wouldn’t be driving a hunk of shit and working at a diner if I was some master thief, would I?”
Some of the venom drains from his expression and he sighs. “Okay. I assumed it was both of you, and that was wrong of me. But I had my wallet when I got into my car this morning. I took it out to give someone some cash and then I put it back. And when I got to the arena this morning—no wallet.”
Zane wouldn’t steal. I’ve raised him better than that. But now his comment this morning after we pulled over to help this guy is nagging in the back of my mind.
That guy’s shoes cost more than our rent. Zane has a thing for high-end tennis shoes, not that we can afford for him to own any. He’s not a car guy like my dad was. He’s a shoe guy. And his biting comment had an undercurrent.
“I’ll ask him about it,” I say.
He scoffs. “Yeah, like he’s going to admit it.”
I narrow my eyes. “I know how to get the truth out of him. And if he took it?—”
“He took it. And I don’t even care about the cash, but I need my driver’s license. This is life or death. I have to be on that plane tomorrow at seven a.m., and I can’t fly without my license.”
I can feel this guy’s desperation to get his license back. But there’s still a chance he’s wrong and Zane didn’t take his wallet.
“If you give me your number?—”
“No way. What time do you get off work?”
“That’s none of your business.”
His glare returns. “I want to be there when you talk to your kid.”
That’s not happening. I can hear my grandma’s voice in my head, telling me no good deed goes unpunished. Why did I stop to help this guy this morning?
“No. You’re not coming to my house. I don’t even know you.”
He takes out his cell phone. “You’re leaving me no choice but to call the cops.”
My heart rate kicks up. “No. Don’t do that. Just try to understand where I’m coming from. I don’t know you. You could be trying to scam me right now.”
He sighs and returns to his phone, typing something. After a few seconds, he turns the phone screen around to show it to me.
“This is me. Dominic Locke. I play for the Colorado Coyotes.”
