Part 3 (1/2)
”It's a drink, Em,” I answer, and she rolls her eyes at me. ”You can be just as worried about all this s.h.i.+t there as you can here.”
Walking to her, I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it.
”You're b.u.t.tering me up,” she remarks, looking up and seeing right f.u.c.king through me. ”Admit it. You're using your charm to persuade me. It's not fair.”
”I'm not,” I lie. ”If I were using my charm, you'd be on your back with your legs spread and my face between them.”
She blushes at the image I'm positive I've left her to envision. No matter how long we've been acquainted with each other, Emilyn Richards will always be what I consider a 'good girl'.
Placing her hand gently on my face, she rubs her thumb slowly over my bottom lip. ”You're a crazy man, Max Taylor.”
Perversely, I suck the thumb into my mouth and watch her eyes widen. I let it go with a pop and reply with the truth. ”I'm also a man who needs a drink, and you didn't get all dressed up to sit around here waitin' for a call that may or may not come. I'll have my phone. Let's go.”
Em and I have a practiced way around those outside ourselves. We smile and chat. We don't hold back on conversation regarding our day-to-day lives, and we don't dwell on our circ.u.mstances.
Releasing a breath, she sighs her words. ”It doesn't feel right. Does it?”
”What doesn't feel right?”
”Nothing feels right,” she replies quietly.
”Em,” I start, using a more direct tone.
She stops me by placing her hand between us, resting it on my chest. ”I just think...”
”Stop thinking.”
Her mouth closes then opens again with her observation. ”You feel the same.”
”You know I do.”
Going out tonight needs to happen, though. She and I both need to be around people, to maintain some sense of belonging to a world outside of our own. The small bits of normalcy we're able to claim and keep for ourselves are what's kept us grounded in peace and to each other.
Casey dwells in a small room, mostly alone, and we're working to change that. If I allowed Em or myself to twist over this, the results would be disastrous.
The drive to O'Malley's is quiet except for the voices coming in over the radio. Em's eyes have turned to focus on the phone sitting on the console more than a few times. I'm ignoring my knowledge of her doing so and not giving in to her requests to head back home.
Looking out the window, putting her hands on the gla.s.s window of her car, Em calls out, ”Stop!”
I slam the brakes after hearing the urgency in her voice. ”What?”
”Pull over!” she demands. ”There's a bookstore!”
What the f.u.c.k?
”Bookstore?” I question. ”For what?”
”Just do it!” she exclaims louder as her head turns, watching us pa.s.s it.
”Jesus Christ, Em. I thought something f.u.c.king happened.”
”Would you just pull the car over before I lose my patience?” she smarts back, half-smiling but definitely already short on patience.
Emma's had to have been by this bookstore probably at least fifteen times in the last week. Her urgency to stop now, right before it closes, causes me to roll my eyes. And I'm a guy we don't roll our eyes unless we find something absolutely ridiculous.
As I try to catch up with her quick-moving steps on the way toward the building, I ask, ”What are we looking for?”
She doesn't answer as she continues to make her way to the door.
Ruby Slippers Book Store smells like paper as probably a bookstore should, although I can't remember the last time I ever stepped foot in one. The business itself has been around a long time. As a kid, my mom would bring Marie here before Christmas to purchase the latest and greatest Christmas books. The store owner, Ashleigh St. James, is a woman about Emma's age. Her grandmother opened the place years ago and after she died, I heard Ashleigh took it over.
The entire place is quiet except for the sound of children's whispers and footsteps as they run around the s.h.i.+ny red bookcases formed in lines along the yellow brick carpet of the floor. With the colored lights casting rainbows against the white painted walls, it's a safe guess it's recently been given a facelift.
Emma walks directly to the display near the window close to where we had parked. ”This one,” she says, handing me a thin, s.h.i.+ny, colorful hardback.
Winnie the Pooh.
I remember Emma telling me weeks ago during our first meeting that Casey specifically loved the characters in this story.
Looking it over, I still have no clue why we're here shopping for a girl Em hasn't seen in so long. She's either extremely confident we'll get her out safely, which I'm thankful for, or she has other ideas, which I'm nervous about.
”What's this for?”
”Who, not what,” she corrects. ”I want you to give it to Casey.”
”Em,” I hesitate, not wanting to ruin her good mood. ”I'm not so sure I can get this to her.”
”You're not smuggling drugs inside, for goodness sakes, Max.”
It's hard not to smirk with the irony in her claim. I could walk into Creed riddled with drugs without anyone taking a second look, but a kid's book may pose an issue.
Em, being Em, ignores my sarcastic expression and continues. ”It's a book. Surely you can keep it on the down low until you can give it to her.”
”Down low?” I ask.
I'd bet good money that if Aimes were standing right here, he'd high-five her in appreciation for Em's attempts to mock a bada.s.s. However, I'm left alone in my attempt to keep her from snapping.
”Down low,” she repeats in frustration. ”You get what I'm saying, Max.”
”You don't get what I'm saying.” I shake my head, trying to use my words carefully to make her understand.
Casey has nothing of value, sentimental or otherwise, in that s.h.i.+t hole.
”She doesn't have to keep it. Just let her have it for a little while and know it's from me. You can tell her I'm thinking of her.”
After considering her idea, I mentally concede it's not a bad one. ”I'll try to get it in.”
”Thank you,” she answers.