“It’s one night, Emory. You can come out for one night. Your books will still be here waiting for you when you get back.”
A group of people I didn’t know touring around a crowded city. I’d have to make small talk. I didn’t do small talk. Not because I found it superficial. I just…couldn’t. Literally. People asked me a question. I answered. Was it my fault the answer only consisted of one word? But then the conversational ball was in my court. Let the awkward silence ensue as I mentally scrounged for another topic. It was painful.
“I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”
Tate’s face kind of did a little convulsing thing. The muscle along his cheek twitched, and his eyes spasmed. He licked his lips. Swallowed. Looked away. Looked back.
I should have become suspicious when the confidence returned to his demeanor. When he raised that blasted brow above his right eye in challenge. “I bet you can’t do it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I bet you can’t do it. You read all these great stories about heroes and heroines who do all sorts of things while you’re safely tucked inside your apartment. You live vicariously through them, but that’s not living, Em. You envision yourself as the characters you read, relating to them on different levels, maybe even sometimes wishing you were more like them.”
The defense on my tongue felt flat, unbelievable even to me.
“I bet you can’t take yourself down from this literary tower you’ve built around yourself and actuallydothe things your characters do. Experience life. Experience the people around you.”
My gaze snagged onThe Huntress, and I grabbed it, thrust it between us as my evidence. “Of course I can’t do the things these characters do. I’m not a bounty hunter, and I don’t plan to have guns shoved in my face.” And the trigger pulled? Man I needed to get back to the scene to see if Amelia was shot or if she’d somehow disarmed the perp.
Tate settled back, the seam of his shirtsleeve riding up over the curve of his tricep as he pinched the book between us and returned it to the table. “That isn’t the only book you’re reading.” Not a question. He knew me too well. Probably knew about the novel in my purse that I read on the bus during my commute to and from work and the one on my nightstand that I read right before bed.
Fine. “You think you’re so smart, but you didn’t bet me anything. You issued a dare. And I’m not twelve.” Although the annoying desire to prove him wrong pooled in my chest. Blast. Well, if he wanted to challenge me, needle me, try to psychoanalyze me to the point he thought he knew me better than I knew myself, I could play that game too. “A bet is when two people put something on the table.”
He leaned forward, victory already in his eyes. “I’m not the one hiding.”
Neither was I. Reading wasn’t a hiding place, it was an escape. A place to decompress, to wrestle with issues in real life, a means to cope. But he was wrong on another thing. Hewashiding. “I bet you can’t send out a demo tape.” For as long as I’d known him, he’d done open mic, karaoke, and live performances in restaurants. Never once had he ever sent a demo to an agent or recording studio.
His confidence drained out of him like I’d pulled the plug, but then just as quickly he thrust out his hand. “Deal. Each week you’ll tell me what book you’re reading and something about it. Setting or the character’s occupation or an adventure they went on, and I’ll set something up for the weekend. For every outing, I’ll let you pick the studio or agent to send a demo to. Deal?”
I placed my hand in his, and we shook.
If only I’d known what I was getting myself into.
Two
The line moved forward as I flipped another page in my book. By my estimation, I had at least two more pages before it would be my turn to place an order. Even with going past the closest Starbucks to my apartment—the iconic, tourist-ridden one right by Pike Place Market, the first Starbucks ever—I still had to wait in a line five people deep. It was Seattle, after all. But it beat the line that at times could wrap around the block at Pike Place. Not that the coffee there was any different than any of the other locations, but the simple word offirstbrought the tourists in droves.
The smell of fresh roast caused my lips to curve, as did the person ordering in front of me. I’d found that there were two types of people who ordered at Starbucks. The ones who knew exactly what they wanted as soon as they woke up that morning, and the ones who’d never spent more than a dollar on a cup of coffee and had never tasted their brew accompanied by anything other than cream and sugar.
Reminded me of the scene inYou’ve Got Mailwhere Joe Fox is explaining in his email to Kathleen Kelly that the purpose of Starbucks was not really the coffee but a place where people who couldn’t make decisions could make six decisions at one time.
The line moved again, and I peered over the pages of my book to watch the barista smile at the woman directly in front of me.
“What can I get you?”
“Venti black-and-white mocha. One pump white chocolate, one pump dark. Decaf, please.”
I smiled, knowing this woman was not a Starbucks virgin, as she’d ordered a drink not even on the menu. The woman moved to the side, and I stepped forward, ordering a tall caramel macchiato.
As I waited for my drink, I put my book back in my bag. This one wasn’t quite as edge-of-my-seat exciting asThe Huntresshad been, but I also didn’t have to worry about a beloved character getting shot point blank.
She didn’t. Amelia Walters, the bounty hunter, didn’t get shot. After I’d managed to shoo Tate from my apartment, I’d hunkered back down in my favorite chair and finished the book. She’d managed to disarm her bounty with a quick move she’d learned in a Krav Maga class. Impressive, if you asked me.
“Emory!” The barista on the other side of the counter called my name and handed me the warm cup with a friendly smile. I blew into the tiny hole on the lid, a deep whooshing sound barely registering over the din of chatter from the patrons lounging in leather armchairs and steel-back seats. The first sip elicited a sigh. Now I could head into the chaos of work.
Of all the occupations I’d used to answer theWhat do you want to be when you grow up?question, special event coordinator was never one of them. To this day, I wasn’t quite sure how I ended up here, but I was glad I did. I believed in the foundation I worked for, one that strove to build awareness and help provide services like housing, counseling, and prevention to youth and their families within the city. Mostly I planned the fundraiser events, but at least once a quarter I shed my office and shadowed those more in the trenches, so to speak. Unfortunately, now was not one of those times.
I stepped into the building and rode the elevator up to the eighth floor. Morgan, the receptionist, smiled a greeting, which I returned before heading to my office near the back. A long day loomed before me. One with endless phone calls, waves of people making their way through my office like a current, bringing fires to be put out and details that had been missed and needed to be fixed.
