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"Well, I hope you find some time to relax," she says, her voice soft and genuine. “We all need time to decompress now and then, however we choose to do it…”
Before I can figure out how to salvage the situation, a loud cry pierces through the quiet store.
My eyes widen. Shit. That’s not possible. I left him swaddled and snug in the truck with the window cracked. He was asleep. Deep asleep. How the fuck is it that babies can sleep exactly when you don’t want them to, but never when you need them to?
Another scream loud enough to rupture eardrums drifts in from the parking lot, through the open front door of the store, and cuts through the awkward quiet.
Her eyes dart towards the parking lot, then back at me. “Is that a baby—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. The adrenaline from earlier surges back as I slap a bunch of cash on the counter, grab my bags, and am halfway to the door before she can react.
“Sorry, Emily, I really have to go,” I shout over my shoulder. I was supposed to keep a low profile, not almost get into a fight with a customer and get suspected as a diaper-wearing, meth-making, baby-abducting alcoholic. I’m leaving breadcrumbs to anyone from Victor Moretti’s gang that could be looking for me.
But it’s not like I could stay quiet though, either. Not after seeing what that old asshole was trying to do to Emily. Something about her drew me in, made me raise my voice, stirred this urge to protect her; I could tell someone’s hurt her before — that much shines as bright as a spotlight in her green eyes — and I’ll be damned if I let someone make her feel that way again.
“Wait,” she calls out just as I reach the door. “Nick, you forgot your diaper pins.”
Fuck, I need those.
But I’ll be damned if I stop. That’s just another opportunity to get ensnared with questions… or with Emily’s green eyes.
Bags in hand, I run to the truck and leap inside. Then I pat Charlie on the head. His crying stops a little, he giggles, and then resumes his howling.
“Hang on, little man,” I say, moving him into the car seat and buckling him in. He’s giggling and crying at the same time, and he’s shit himself, too, just for good measure. Great. How can someone so small make so much shit? I turn the key in the ignition and peel out of the lot. As I do, I catch sight of the cashier standing in the store's doorway. An urge to stop runs through me; of everyone I’ve met in these last few days of running like hell, she’s the one person who I want to avoid the least.
But as much as I want to stop, I can’t. Because I have a fifteen pound payload of shit, screams, and smiles that supersedes any other mission.
Even one as pretty as her.
“I know it sucks to leave, Charlie, but maybe we’ll see her again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Yeah, so would I.”
Chapter Four
Emily
I snap a photo of his truck as he leaves the lot. Either he really has a baby with him — which seems likely, since it’s hard to fake a baby’s cry — or else he really likes to drink, take cough meds, wear diapers, and talk to a tiny invisible friend that rides beside him. No matter the option, I’m intrigued, and might be obligated to report him to the police. Plus, if there is a baby with him, I want to make sure it’s safe, since Nick — if that is his real name — seems in way over his head.
Even if it isn’t a baby, I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. It seemed like he needed to talk, like there was something serious and wounded hiding just behind his eyes.
I open up a group text with Sophie and Harper, and I send the picture and a message. This man showed up at my work, bought a bunch of weird stuff, may have a baby, and he’s hot. I need to find him and make sure everything’s okay.
Immediately, Sophie writes back. He’s hot? If I find him first, can I have dibs?
Harper doesn’t answer. Which doesn’t surprise me. It’s Friday night, and she’s probably at work, since Friday night is the busiest night of the week for bartenders. I don’t expect an answer from her until mid-morning tomorrow, if that. She might just leave me on read for a while, which is more her style.
I answer Sophie. I just care about seeing that everything is OK. He might be in trouble, and if he has a baby with him…
My phone buzzes with Sophie’s reply. So that means I get dibs, right?
Whatever, I reply.
Which way did he go? She answers.
West on Martinson Ave.
I know where he’s probably going. There’s a sketchy by-the-hour hotel out that way near McKinnon Way. It’s a fun place, and the maintenance guy there knows how to lay pipe.
I pause for a second, looking at her answer. Why wouldn’t a maintenance guy know how to lay a pipe? Isn’t that part of their job?
