Just Breathe (4 page)

Lined up to the side of one wall are legal boxes, one after another after another, filled with books for sale. We don’t sort them beyond fiction/non-fiction, except the mass market paperbacks get picked out and sorted into their own boxes. It’s chaos. We generally set up tables for the sales and let the patrons go nuts. There isn’t time to sort everything by genre or alphabetically; at the moment there are fifty boxes of books, and we had a sale only a month ago.

The stacks of boxes have become a bit precarious; sometimes I have visions of being crushed to death under them. Depending on the day I’ve had, and the quality of the books in the boxes, that’s either a great way to go or extremely tragic.

At the back of the room, there’s the big green bin where books go to die. Sometimes people try to donate books too damaged to sell; and who knows what they think when they donate half a book, or three non-sequential books torn from an encyclopaedia set. Sometimes library books are too worn out or damaged to go for sale. All of these books go into the recycling bin.

It makes me sad and strangely sentimental. All these books were either loved too much or not enough, and they’re going to be made into something else. It makes me sad to see a good book in there; it might be made into something depressing, like a Watchtower magazine or a Fifty Shades sequel.

Shallow breaths help me avoid sneezing as I dig through the bin in search of anything I can scavenge. There’s only a thin layer of new books on top of the pile I searched through a couple days ago, and I get grabby raccoon hands when I see a water damaged, dog-eared copy of Cold Comfort Farm. I’ve had an idea for a project that would save some of these books in their current forms, but I haven’t gotten around to actually doing it.

I also rescue a copy of Black Beauty that’s spine is not just broken, it’s severed; and a battered paperback copy of Howl that looks like a dog has worried it. Nothing else is worth salvaging. Too much damage or material that is useless for me; Reader’s Digest condensed books and tiny New Testament bibles with flimsy pages. You’d be surprised how many of those get donated every week. Not sure what that means, but somehow it makes me optimistic on both counts.

It’s far too easy to completely lose track of time while searching through discards, so I take my three treasures and make quick work of shelving the stack I brought in. Sometimes I’ll come in early to go through the bins properly; it’s not fair to disappear during my shift to add to my personal library. Turning the light off, I step back into the hallway, then lock the door behind me. Even though I hurried, it’s still been about ten minutes since I left so I haul ass back to the counter.

As I rush around the last corner my face collides with a broad chest, and I oh-so-gracefully fall on my ass. Hard. Two of my books hit the floor with muffled thunks, and the third lands corner first onto my left knee. Gravity, thou truly art a heartless bitch. I prod my face to check for damage.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going,” a sexy male voice says. My lip is tender and my knee stings, but other than that... Wait a sec. I may forget the occasional face, but I never forget a voice. Especially not one that wraps me up in its warm, satiny strength and makes me want to purr, despite my physical pain. I look up at his face, and sure enough it’s Hazel Eyes.

“Haz—hey!” I amend.

His eyes lighten and he smiles in recognition, or maybe he’s just filled to the brim with
Schadenfreude
. “Are you all right?”

“They say pride goes
before
the fall, but I think it goes just after you hit the ground.” I feel decidedly unsexy.

He smiles and offers his hand, which I take for purely practical reasons; this skirt wasn’t made for falling over in, and he helps me up. I dust off my injured...pride, while he squats and gathers my books.

“Hey! Cold Comfort Farm! You recommended this to me.”

“Yes I did.” I remember. “Did you like it?”

“Surprisingly I did! It’s not my normal reading material—”

“But that’s the best way to find new favourite books; get out of your comfort zone,” I interrupt.

“It is. And I loved it. Elle, right?” I nod and he smiles. “I’m Dominic by the way. I don’t think I introduced myself last time.” He holds out his hand, so recently released by mine. I take it while rolling his name around in my mind. Dominic.
Great handshake
.

“What was that line? ‘Curses, like rookses, flies home to nest in bosomses and barnses,’” he recites with a muddy accent.

I’d expected him to say the more famous quote, “I saw something nasty in the woodshed.” The line he quoted wasn’t in the movie, and this proves he actually read the book. I’ve had guys hit on me and have me recommend books, then clearly not read them. It is not endearing and does not win me over. Wasting my time and energy is a turnoff. “Yes! I love that line!”

The sudden look of horror on his face has me replay what I just said for something embarrassing. Nope, can’t think of what I might have said to cause that expression on his face. Must be me and my geeky book worming. Damn it. I had to take it too far and be a fan girl. I ruin everything. No wonder Jason left me. The metallic taste of shame fills my mouth, and I feel myself blush which only makes me more embarrassed, which makes me blush more. Taking my books back from him, I move for a quick getaway.

“Well, it was nice to formally meet you, Dominic—”

“No!” He puts a gentle hand on my upper arm to stop me. “No, don’t go. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be—it’s just, you’re
bleeding
!” He points to his mouth.

I touch my fingertips to my teeth and have a look. Ah, that metallic taste wasn’t shame—it was blood. No wonder my winsome grin was more horrifying than enchanting—it was covered with blood. I bet Angelina Jolie never has this problem. Prodding my mouth with my tongue, I find the culprit; a small puncture on the inside of my bottom lip.

“Ew.” I try to subtly lick away the blood from my teeth.

“I am so sorry,” Dominic says sincerely. It’s kind of cute actually, but the sight of my own blood has dried up any sexy feelings. Mostly.

“It’s okay, but I should get back.”

“Of course, don’t let me keep you. I just came to return a few books and grab replacements.” He holds up a bag I hadn’t noticed until then. Curiosity trumps propriety.

“Whatcha got in there?” I ruthlessly paw the bag open. The second book in the River God series and Yarrow, another Charles de Lint novel. “Ooo Seventh Scroll! And Yarrow! This is my favourite de Lint book. Good job!”

“Thanks! I plan to save them until I finish a couple of your other recommendations.”

“Good man.”
Good man?
I inwardly cringe.
Nice one, Ellie, are we going to high five him now and talk about the game last night?
“Well, I should go.” Best extricate myself from this before I make it any worse.

“Yeah. Sorry about the chest bump. I’ll let you know how it goes with the books.”

“Awesome.” I smile—closed mouth. He uses his teeth for his grin and leaves.

I walk back into the library and behind the counter. My semi-dazed expression paired with my swollen mouth makes Jan gasp.

“Elle! What happened?” Then her wise cracking nature resurfaces through her concern. “Did you get in a fight?”

“Yeah.” I let the memory of Dominic’s voice and that killer smile wash over me. “But you should see the other guy.”

Chapter Five

Though I refer to Kennedy and Nick as my best friends, I’d say my real best friend is Marie. She’s the only one for whom I’ll brave the cacophony of pubs on a semi regular basis, though I might not if she lived with us and I saw her more often. Our work schedules don’t mesh well to maintain an active social life together; we usually only manage to get together every few weeks or so, generally on Sundays. Thank God for texting.

Pausing outside the entrance, I take a deep breath to steel myself before walking into the pub. It isn’t just the clinking of glasses, cracking of pool balls, and other patrons that can set my synaesthesia off. The worst offender is music. Quiet pubs are the best of a bad situation for me as bars go, but they can turn torturous if someone plugs the jukebox full of “bad” songs. My game plan is to load the jukebox with enough music I can tolerate for the duration of my stay, and then find a quiet corner with Marie.

Just inside the entrance, I pause to allow my eyes time to adjust to the dim lighting.

“Elle! Hey sexy! Over here!” Marie’s loud greeting makes me cringe a little, not just because of its piercing nature, but because all eyes are now on me. Granted, there are only about twenty people in the pub, a quiet Sunday, but I’m not one for the spotlight. I walk over to her table in the corner, all too aware of my limbs. Do my arms always move this awkwardly?

Marie’s surrounded by three interchangeable guys who look like they’ve been razored into their modern yuppie suits; bluish-grey with a metallic sheen, modern European cuts. Razored and Tasered—meaning they look sharp and stunned. Artificial freshness radiates from them in Brut scented waves. They must work with Marie.

Marie is an advertizing wunderkind, but her dream job is to own a flower shop. Her sweet looks, pale complexion with rosy cheeks, deep brown eyes, and glossy black hair make you think of wholesome Disney girls, like Snow White. If you’re her friend, you’d be right. If you’re competition for her company—she’ll use that image to get right up close before she kills you with casual savagery. I remarked upon her cutthroat business nature once. She replied, “What’s the point of killing their careers if I can’t look them in the eyes when I do it?” If her contemporaries are sharks, she’s a megalodon.

“All right boys,” she says as I approach. “We’re done here. Send the waitress over on your way out.”

I have to admire the alacrity with which the “boys” jump to do her bidding. It’s like watching three impeccably-dressed winged monkeys. Almost makes me wish I had some minions. I’m sure the heady power would eventually get to me, but Marie is unfazed by it. I place my clutch on the table and slide onto the heavy mahogany low backed stool. Marie squeezes my forearm affectionately, picking up on my tension over the music situation.

“Not to worry, I’ve already pumped the machine full of Elle-friendly songs. We’ve got,” she looks at her watch, “an hour and a half of safety.”

It really is the little things that matter. That she went out of her way, pumping dollar after dollar into the jukebox, carefully selecting songs for me means more than any grand gesture. Not many people would do that and I appreciate the hell out of her.

The waitress stops at our table. “What are you having?” Marie raises her eyebrows at me to go first.

“I’ll have a virgin long island iced tea.”

The waitress looks at Marie, who clears her throat. “I’ll have what she’s having. But I want a slutty one.”

The waitress smiles. “Anything to eat?”

“Twenty salt and pepper chicken wings and some nachos please, no olives or onions.”

“You ladies sharing?” I nod to answer.

“I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

“Thanks.” Marie winks at her. She blushes and walks away.

“Marie!” I hiss when the waitress is out of earshot.

“What?”

“Stop flirting with the waitress!”

“I can’t window shop?” She fluffs her hair and freshens her lip gloss.

“You’re not gay.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get better service,” she says unrepentantly. “Anyways, how have you been?”

“Oh you know,” finally uncurling from the emotional fetal position I’ve been in since Jason disappeared, “good. You?”

“Good. New partner at work.”

“Oh?”

“Thirties, blond. Sexy in a frantic sort of way. Why aren’t you drinking?”

“My liver needs the day off. Are you going to sleep with Blondie?”

“Elle, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, you don’t sleep your way to the top. You sleep your way to the middle, then ruthlessly slay your way to the top.”

“Ah yes. So are you going to sleep with him?” I repeat.

“I give it a week,” she says seriously then laughs. “It’s recreational, not business!”

“An important distinction.”

“Indeed. Speaking of recreational sex, have you hooked up with anyone yet?”

“Marie!” I look around to see if anyone is listening. No one seems to be paying attention, but still. I will never be as comfortable as she is when discussing my sex life in public. “Can you lower your voice a bit?”

She makes a sympathetic expression. “Synaesthesia bothering you?”

“No! It’s... yeah, it’s the Synaesthesia.” She misses my thinly veiled sarcasm.

The waitress returns with our drinks. “These are on the house.” She shyly flicks her eyes at Marie.

“Awww, you’re such a sweetheart!” Marie gently touches the waitress’ forearm.

“I’ll be back with your food in a minute.”

Marie’s face is the definition of smug.

I shake my head. “You are shameless!”

“Yes, I am.” She looks at me expectantly.

“What?”

“Have. You. Had. Sex since you and Jason broke up?”

“No!” I hiss, mortified by the volume of her voice.

“How long has it been since you were thoroughly shagged?”

Thoroughly? Have I ever been? Jason and I had great chemistry, but he was sort of a lazy lover, especially toward the end. “A few months.” Hazel Eyes’ face flashes through my mind. I wonder what he’d be like in bed? Would he smoulder and burn with intensity, or would he be fun, smiling down at me before kissing down my neck, and chest. I’d pull that hair loose from its ponytail, and bury my fingers in it, pulling just a little bit, urging his kisses lower. That long hair of his would be soft and tickle against my belly while he slid down further, hands stroking my thighs as his mouth finally touched me right between my–

“There’s a new sales rep who looks like he might be fun,” Marie twinkles, yanking me from underneath Hazel Eyes.

“No thanks. Sales guys are all so...” I wave my hand, searching for the word. “Calculating.”