Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
The bookstore is less raided than the pharmacy. There’s no surprise there. Other than spilled coffee grounds and empty trays of long-gone pastries, the cafe’s not in bad shape. I spend a while opening containers and sniffing their contents, and eventually just pocket some tea and move into the book section. There’s a tipped shelf or two, but everything else seems to be in order, and it feels eerily quiet and forgotten…and lonely.
I wish Zohr was here, which is strange given that I’m so dedicated to my independence. But it’d be nice for another person to see this with me, to understand what I’m feeling. To feel less alone, I guess. Like I’m not the only person left in the world.
I am here, Zohr sends, and then his thoughts—and everything else—are full of gushing blood and fresh meat.
I chuckle to myself. Is this the mental equivalent of talking with your mouth full?
Mm. Almost done here.
I’m in no hurry, I tell him. Just saying hello.
I like that you said it, he sends affectionately.
Me too. It feels good to know he’s there, and the feeling of isolation dissipates.
I pick my way through the aisles of books. There’s so much dust, but even through that, I’m fascinated by the rows and rows of books in here. I’ve been in other bookstores in the After. Heck, even in the Before. My mom used to love getting new books, and she shared Sasha’s love of romances. I drift over to that section and pick up one “new release” with a tattooed biker on the front. Yuck. Not my thing. I put it back and grab a vampire one, thinking of Sasha. Maybe I’ll see her again. She’d love this, and the cover’s so pretty and perfect and unblemished that I can’t help but pocket it before I move on.
I drift past the cookbooks, since they’re all but useless now unless they can tell me what to do with expired beans and moldy flour. Art books just make me sad. Ditto biographies and history books. They’re all part of a world that’s completely gone now, and they serve no purpose any longer. I skip past the rest of the fiction, heading for gardening. There are a few books on homesteading and I pocket one that might have some useful information. I can’t take too much with me. My bag is already bulging and getting heavy and I’ll probably have to resort to tearing out any chapters that look interesting, which feels wrong to do inside the store. I’ll do it after we leave.
I move down the next aisle and pause, my eyes going wide at the cover there. It’s covered in a brown paper wrapper that hides the majority of the cover, but underneath, I can see the title. THE EVERYTHING SEX GUIDE. I pick up the book, feeling a bit like a giggly child, and gasp at the photos inside. There’s a picture of a middle-aged man with his mouth between a woman’s legs, and she has her eyes closed, her mouth open in ecstasy.
I’m fascinated, because now I know what that feels like. I can feel a tingle moving through my body in response.
Your thoughts are changing, Zohr sends, puzzled, then they turn sensual. Are you thinking of me?
I slam the book shut as if I’ve been caught in person. No! I’m not thinking of anything!
You are certain?
Positive, I tell him and then try to shut our link off through sheer embarrassment. I can feel his amusement, and he mentally “distances” to give me space. Thank goodness. I start to put the book back on the shelf…and then pause. I pull the dustjacket off, revealing a plain cover, and add the book to my pile. Might be a few pages worth tearing out in this one, too.
Just in case.
23
EMMA
Zohr returns to my side a short time later to find me cross-legged amongst a stack of sports nutrition books. I sense his thoughts growing closer as I flip through pages, and give him an absent smile as he approaches. He’s in human form, naked, so I do my best not to stare at anything that might bring on thoughts of that sex book.
A dead animal thumps to the ground at my feet, limp. I brought you food, my mate.
I close my book on therapeutic massages and try to look pleased at the mangled goat inches away from my shoe. “You shouldn’t have.”
It is small, because your stomach is small. His thoughts are pleased. I tried to catch you a small black and white animal, but it got away.
“Oh yeah, avoid those. They’re skunks and they smell bad.” My nostrils flare in memory of the time Jack and I accidentally ran into one and got sprayed. “Takes forever to get the smell out, too. You’d hate it.”