Page 95 of Grim
I notice a couple of teenagers staring at me from the entrance to a hat shop and realize I look as though I’m talking to air again. I’ve got to get better at this ghost chatter. I scan the map and speak to Kane, pressing my fingers to my ear, as though starting a phone call.
“Hello? Yes? Can you hear me? I don’t think they have a store like that. They do have a high-end boutique with women’s designer wear.”
“Laying it on a little thick there, Mayday, but I appreciate the effort. Nice work.”
“Shut up, ass,” I whisper under my breath without moving my eyes from their spot.
“Yes, take us there.”
I track the route from theYou Are Heremarker on the map and make my way. “Okay, Mom,” I say with a bright, fake laugh. “Heading there now.”
Kane rolls his eyes as I take the lead, but he follows close, like an overly opinionated shadow.
We pass the firing squad of perfume slingers, who look disappointed when I refuse to make eye contact, and Kane mutters something about “chemical warfare disguised as citrus blossom.”
I ignore him until something glittering in one of the jewelry cases grabs my attention. I pause briefly to stare at the beautiful piece. The teardrop diamond pops against a pair of sapphire rectangles, housed in rich eighteen karat gold.
“That looks just like a necklace my grandmother wore,” I murmur, caught in the gleam of memory.
Kane cuts against the wistful note in my voice with an acerbic tone, “Move it along, little lady. They’re called accessories for a reason. They’re not necessary. Shoes are. You can’t show up to a party barefoot.”
Kane continues toward the shoe section, and it’s the first time I am able to take in the fact that no one else can see him. As I trail behind him, I watch him walk past customers and store clerks. To me, he looks as real as anything; to them, he is invisible. They take no notice of his towering height. No one balks at his immaculate, though decidedly outdated, wardrobe. To them, he simply does not exist. It is disorienting.
We reach the leather couches in the back, where the women’s shoes are located. Can lights highlight walls full of flats while tabletops display more luxurious pumps and heels. Kane dismisses the shelves on the wall immediately and prowls purposefully around each of the table displays.
While he inspects, I am greeted by a young woman with enough vocal fry to zap a mosquito. “Hi,” she states, managing to make the word contain about thirteen letters. “My name is Paloma. Can I help you find anything?”
“Yes. Hi. I’m Rue. I’m looking for some shoes for an event.”
Kane interjects, speaking directly at a table rather than looking up. “You’re not looking for shoes, Mayday. You’re looking for heels that will stop the dead in their tracks. You’re looking for lift and line and elegance. You’re looking for sex in a stiletto.”
“Ma’am?” Paloma asks, looking at me askance. “Did you hear me?”
Shit, Paloma must have said something while I was listening to Kane’s admittedly hot diatribe on heels.
“Yes, sorry. What was the question?”
“Did you have anything in mind? Color? Style? Design?”
Before I can answer, Kane chimes in again, hands clasped behind his back, like a judge inspecting evidence. “Black and lifted. With something that ties or wraps around the ankle to highlight and accentuate the gentle curve of your calf muscle and the softness of your pale skin.”
“That’s awfully specific.” I shoot daggers at him.
Paloma’s eyes pop out of her head, and Kane shakes his head at me, a disappointed dad. He points to his ear, reminding me about my earbuds.
I touch my finger to my ear and say, “Mom, I’m not asking the clerk for that!” Then I whisper, turning my attention to Paloma, “Sorry, on the phone with my Mom, who’s helping. I don’t do fancy events or dress up often.”
“You don’t say,” Paloma sneers.
Kane sighs audibly, though it sounds like he’s covering a laugh. “Just ask her if she carries Manolo Blahnik.”
“Fine!” I yell at Kane, though this time at least, I remember not to look directly at him.
“You don’t need to yell, ma’am.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll ask.” I turn to Paloma. “Sorry, she’s a handful,” I say, pointing to my right ear while trying to find any semblance of composure. “And please don’t call me ma’am. I’m on the phone with my mom. I’m not actually my mother though.” I give a half-hearted laugh.
“Okay,” Paloma returns, making this four-letter word even longer than her initial greeting.
