by A. C. Bextor
“I know you do. We all hate it for you,” Tommy replies.
“Em and I should be enjoying each other. Not that we aren’t, but there’s so much shit to constantly worry about. Casey is everywhere in this house, and she’s not even here, if that makes any fuckin’ sense.”
I imagine my longtime friend shaking his head at me through the line. “It does. You’ve already done more for her than anyone in this town has.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Aimes is doing what he can. He needs time. He loves Em, too.”
I hear the growl release from my throat at hearing those words in any reference. Tommy hears it, too, because he laughs.
Clearing his throat, he tries to backpedal. “He doesn’t love her. Not like that, anyway. C’mon. Get over that shit. I’m just sayin’ Aimes and Low are good at what they do. They’ll help.”
As Em comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed and looking extremely annoyed, I cut Tommy off before he’s able to say anything more. “I gotta run, Em’s in a mood. We’ve got shit to do.”
Tommy laughs in return. “Get her unhitched from that asshat and make her yours. Sounds like she’s already your ball and chain.”
“Right,” I flip back. “She’s starting to be.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Out.”
Chapter Five
I’ve learned she’ll be a good mother if she ever has children of her own.
“I thought I heard someone in here,” Anna’s voice interrupts Casey and Cilas as she walks into the kitchen, wearing only a black silk robe and red fuzzy slippers. Her hair is done up in curlers and her makeup is heavier than Casey’s ever seen it.
She looks so pretty.
“Ci, what are you bothering her with now?” she asks, leveling Cilas with a curious stare.
When Cilas brought her lunch today, it was the same as the day before. He motioned for her to get up and follow him to the kitchen, where they started to prepare an evening meal for others. Casey was happy to assist him. The simple but quiet companionship was welcome, and it was better than sitting in her room with nothing else to do.
Cilas, of course, says nothing in response to Anna’s question, but takes the bread in Casey’s hand away. When her eyes move to his dark brown, almost black ones, she finds a hint of amusement radiating into the room.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Anna whispers, wrapping her arm around Casey’s shoulders and pulling her toward the dimly lit hallway leading to the bathroom.
Before exiting the kitchen completely, Anna stops their forward momentum to turn back. “Cilas, honey, if Viktor sends someone looking, can you try to explain we’ll be ready after his dinner?”
Cilas nods briefly then goes back to his task as Casey and Anna walk out together, now arm in arm.
Once in the bathroom, Casey finds Anna’s makeup and hair supplies strewn about its large basin. She notices a set of girl clothes, possibly her size, hanging over a door at the end of the long counter.
“We don’t have time to wash your hair again, so we’ll put it up.” Anna smiles and walks toward her.
“Okay,” Casey says out loud, speaking for the first time this morning.
“Viktor has another guest coming and he’d like you to meet him.”
“Guest?” Casey asks, hearing the term for the first time in regards to those who mingle in and out of her room at all hours of the day.
Pulling up Casey’s long, unruly, dark hair, Anna runs the brush beneath it. It’s full of tangles that hurt when caught, but Casey doesn’t wince. She’s come to know Anna wouldn’t hurt her on purpose. She trusts the beautiful woman so much, she wishes for her to have been her mother.
“Remember,” Anna starts to explain. “You’re with Viktor. You’re not to be touched or handled. Don’t be afraid of them.”
“Why are they coming?” Casey questions, studying herself in the mirror then moving her eyes to focus on Anna in the reflection.
Anna exhales, finishing a quick braid and positioning it in a bun on top of her head. “You don’t need to worry about that right now, okay?”
Turning Casey around by the shoulders, Anna bends her knees slightly to stare into her face. She uses a small cold cloth to wipe the dirt Casey had collected since her shower yesterday, and then she smiles. Casey inhales the clean scent of the lavender soap as she smiles back.
“Do you like pretty clothes?” Anna asks Casey, her eyes shining with anticipation.
Casey nods, moving her gaze toward the clothes she saw when she came in.
“These are for you,” Anna explains after walking to them, grabbing the hanger, and coming back toward her.
“Me?”
Anna smiles. “I picked them out myself. They’re pretty, don’t you think?”
Casey looks over the pale pink dress with care. She’s never worn a dress, only nightgowns and pants that stretch around her small frame. The shirts she’s often dressed in are ratty and torn with age, and there’s no telling how many women or children wore them before her.
“Change for me. I need to finish getting ready,” Anna insists as she hands over the hanger.
Casey feels her face warm with worry before asking, “Are you going to be with me when I meet the guests?”
“I am,” Anna replies as she looks in the mirror and starts to remove the curlers from her hair.
Casey watches Anna with admiration. Her usually straight, black hair turns into long locks of curl with each pin she removes. Casey further studies Anna’s movements as she slips off her robe, leaving her in a black, lace bra and panties.
Anna’s body is flawless. Small and petite, yet toned and soft in all the places Casey isn’t. Her breasts spill over the cups of the bra holding them. Her waist is trim, fitting snugly into the material of the black lace matching panties.
She watches with the same fascination as Anna slips into the black gown that seems to fit her body like a glove. The soft curves around her hips, thighs, and chest leave Casey breathless. She knew Anna was beautiful before, but now she finds her absolutely breathtaking.
Anna is truly stunning.
Momentarily, Casey’s mind ponders on Cilas. She wonders if he sees the same when he looks at her, too. A smile she tries hard to hide escapes at the thought of Cilas and Anna being anything more than what she’s always known them to be. The idea of Cilas caring for Anna in any way warms her chest in an unexplainable way.
Moving her gaze to her left, Casey studies her pale and tired expression in the mirror. With her hair up, she notices her collarbone at the bottom of her throat as it protrudes more than she ever remembers it doing before.
She also notes the change in her own body. Her neck is longer, her lips are fuller, and her breasts are starting to feel heavier. Everything about her is changing.
Anna calls Casey from her self-assessing stare. “Come on, sweetheart. Get dressed. Then I’ll add some color to your face.”
Casey does what she’s told, not feeling as exotic as Anna appears, but she feels pretty nonetheless. She’s still not used to these kinds of clothes and appreciates the feeling of cleanliness they’re giving her.
As Anna uses various powders and brushes on her face, she talks about Viktor. Anna tells her about what life back home, in Russia, was like. Casey listens with bated breath to every detail Anna is so willing to share: presents brought in daily, food in endless supply, and other girls who live there who Casey longs to have as friends.
“I want to go to wherever Russia is,” Casey hears herself boldly interrupt.
“I understand, and maybe soon you will.” Anna replies. “Let’s go so we’re not late for Viktor. Leave all this here; I’ll come back for it later.”
Although she’s nervous about what the day will bring, Casey can’t help but feel thankful for all she’s been given.
Chapter Six
“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think we should go out. What if someone calls? What if someone has news?” E
mma tries to explain to me as she stands at the door. It’s painfully apparent she’s still deciding if she’s willing to spend an evening outside of this apartment.
For the most part, she’s remained strong; however, there’ve been times I’ve expected her to second-guess. And she’s doing that now.
“It’s a drink, Em,” I answer, and she rolls her eyes at me. “You can be just as worried about all this shit there as you can here.”
Walking to her, I take her hand in mine and kiss the back of it.
“You’re buttering me up,” she remarks, looking up and seeing right fucking 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 circumstances.
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 glass 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 fuck?
“Bookstore?” I question. “For what?”
“Just do it!” she exclaims louder as her head turns, watching us pass it.
“Jesus Christ, Em. I thought something fucking 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 shiny 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, shiny, 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 badass. 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 shit 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.
As we stand at the cashier’s counter waiting for help, I notice Em taking in all the kids still running around the store. They grab handfuls of books then carry them to their respective tables where proud parents wait in wonder at what their child could’ve picked for them to read.
Keeping my gaze on hers, I note Emma’s face displaying not happiness, but uncertainty. I know she’s thought of having her own children one day, but she married a man who didn’t want them. Since they’ve separated and she’s been with me, she hasn’t had an opportunity to truly envision what the future looks like, with or without children in it.
Putting my hand on her shoulder, it interrupts her study of the kids and her eyes come to mine. I find they’re shining in tears.
“Fuck, but I was afraid of that,” I tell her.
“Afraid of what? That I enjoy watching parents spend time with their kids?”
“Yes and no.”
“Then what is it?”
Thankfully, just as I’m about to dodge an explanation, the bookstore owner walks up and we’re forced into silence long enough to pay for the book, along with several pencils of different sizes and designs. Writing utensils weren’t part of the plan, but for Em, I’ll go with it.
Once we walk back outside, she pulls at my arm and wraps hers around my lower back, holding me to her by the waist. “Tell me what you were going to say back there.”
“It is,” she insists.
“Kids, Em,” I clip out. “You want them.”
“I told you before that at one time, I did, but I also told you I’m thirty-three and I’m not sure I’ll ever have them.”
“You should. You’d be a good mother.”
“I’m a terrible aunt,” she contests. “I don’t know that…”
I stop her from walking by turning around and pulling on her hand. She fumbles a bit, but regains her footing and straightens her posture in challenge. This is not how I wanted to start the evening. This is also the exact reason I knew we needed to be out.
This life in search of helping Casey is sucking us both in. It’s bleeding into every facet of our relationship. It’s understandable that it does, but for one night, I want Em to live without these thoughts haunting her and testing her resolve.
“You’re not a terrible aunt. You’re doing all you can with what you’ve got.”
“I want kids more than anything,” she confesses quietly, as if it’s a state secret. Looking to the ground, she studies her feet. “Greg didn’t, but I always did.”
“Then have them. Thirty-three isn’t a reason not to have as many as you want.”
Looking back up at me with a smirk, she smiles while saying, “Any objections to being a father at your age? You’re forty-three.”
I hate being made fun of, but she’s smiling and I won’t allow the strike to my ego to take that away.
Moving her hair from blowing in the wind and into her face, I lean in for a quick kiss in front of everyone on the busy Friday night sidewalk.
“God, you’re sweet,” I whisper, leaning my forehead to hers before I let her go.
“I’m sweeter with a Long Island ice tea in my hand, if you remember.”
That’s so not how I remember her last drinking episode.
What I do remember is a sad woman, who dwelled on the fact she was having a good time while her niece was being held captive. Then I remember taking home said sad woman and distracting her with my hands and being accused of finger-fucking her ass.
Obviously, our versions of ‘sweet’ do not correlate.
