"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.

As we stand at the cas.h.i.+er'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 s.h.i.+ning in tears.

"f.u.c.k, 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."

I try to brush off her concern. "It's not important."

"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 relations.h.i.+p. 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.

"G.o.d, 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-f.u.c.king her a.s.s.

Obviously, our versions of 'sweet' do not correlate.

"Let's go get that drink for you then. I'm sure Mags and Earl are patiently awaiting your arrival."

"I love Earl!" She laughs and pulls me with her toward the car.

It's Friday night and in a town as small as ours, it's safe to a.s.sume the college crowd has invaded it during their winter break. For years, kids have always flocked home to their waiting parents. Before I left, this was a time I avoided any scene in which I guessed they'd be part of.

As we walk in, I don't recognize the usual faces around the bar but can already hear the loud banter s.h.i.+fting from one table to the next.

College kids wear me out. Their wandering eyes, their alcohol-induced courage, and their roaming hands on the female patrons instinctively cause me to pull Em's back to my chest.

I wind my arm around her waist and whisper loud enough I'm able to make my point clear. "If anyone gets out of line tonight, you tell me and I'll handle it."

Turning to me and giving me a disappointed look, she replies, "Don't look for a fight. Nothing will happen."

Her accusation and the way she's worded it is wrong. Personally, I don't look for fights. The men who linger around her will, though, and I'll consider whatever idiocy they bring as an invitation.

"Just stay near me," I add for good measure.

"Fine," she complies.

As Em orders her drink from the waitress who gets to our table first, I scan the room and take inventory of our surroundings.

I don't find anything out of the ordinary other than a gentleman I've never seen who's sitting at the bar. He's wearing a suit and it causes him to appear out of place. He's a middle-aged bigger man with dark hair combed back. His focus moves back and forth from the bartender and then to the mirror in front of him. When his eyes meet mine, he lifts his drink in the reflection as a form of greeting. I don't answer with anything other than a curt nod.

But I'm suspicious.

It's possible I've let my dealings within Creed take hold and even though I haven't been there in some time, I've continued to let it fester under my skin. I'm with Em, and the guy looks enough out of place that I won't allow my guard to be let down.

"Max?" Emma calls out. When I turn my eyes to her, she points to the waitress. "What do you want to drink?"

"Beer." I answer before pulling out my chair and taking a seat beside her.

"I called Tommy while you were taking an age to get ready."

My eyebrow lifts hearing her smarta.s.s tone. "First, I don't take an age to get ready," I explain. "Second, why'd you call Tommy?"

Lifting her drink and hiding her smirk, she replies, "I asked him to meet us here."

"Thought we were having a night out together?"

Setting her drink on the table, she loses eye contact with me and I feel my shoulder being slapped.