Captured Again (13 page)

“Obviously. Geesh, yeah... er, no. It didn’t burn me. But you’ve ruined my best chartreuse designer shirt, man,” the stranger whined furiously, sounding as though he had a cold. “What kind of idiot doesn’t watch where he’s walking?”

“Look, I said I was sorry. I’ve never been in this place. I wasn’t expecting... Well, the cool paint job caught my attention. I’ll pay for your shirt,” Dusty offered while wondering what the hell chartreuse was. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Really, man.”

“Yeah, you said that... twice. Forget about it,” he snapped, then turned toward the elevator and poked the button—hard—rudely dismissing Dusty, who curled his lip behind him at his perfectly pressed khaki pants and shiny Sperry loafers.
This guy’s a shirt. That’s what Dad always called them, rich nerds who dressed too nice, never got dirty—get upset about getting dirty. What a jerk, snobbish, rude, and probably what most girls would consider good-looking, with his aristocratic nose and chiseled good looks. But still a jerk,
Dusty thought.
If I wasn’t such a nice guy, I’d punch him in the throat.

The doors opened and Dusty followed him in. “Two please,” Dusty quietly said, not wanting to speak again, but he couldn’t reach the buttons, and didn’t want to risk touching this guy again by reaching around him.

“Duh. There’s only two floors in this building and you’re already on one,” the dude snarked back in a bored voice, sounding even more like his nose was plugged.

Dusty’s face reddened.
Now I really look stupid.
He stepped back, trying to keep the guy from seeing his embarrassment. If he’d only arrived on time, not early, he could’ve avoided this entire situation. He hoped the guy was going the opposite way when the doors opened.

Ding!
The elevators opened up to a flurry of activity. Dusty could see dozens of cubicles, most containing people working. The walls were short, and with Dusty’s height he could easily see over, allowing him a view of most of the room, a spectacle that from the top looked like an oversized scrabble board from where he stood.
How can people work like that?
he thought.
Looks claustrophobic.

He waited until the whiney asswipe had stepped completely out of the elevator until he walked out, almost getting squeezed between the closing doors, or so it seemed, before they registered the resistance of both his hands slapping them in reflex, and reversed their direction. Asswipe, hearing the sound of Dusty’s hands smacking the doors, turned around. He rolled his eyes at Dusty and sighed.

“Who are you looking for?” he asked impatiently, tilting his head while waiting for an answer, his lips pressed together in a thin line of disapproval and disdain.

“Emma,” Dusty answered, tipping his head down again in embarrassment.

“That’s where I was headed,” he said. He looked Dusty up and down and then sighed again, a long exaggerated sigh. “Follow me. She’s all the way in the back of the building. I’ll take you there.”

Shit,
thought Dusty as he hurried to catch up to the guy already quickly walking away.
Can this date possibly start out any worse? I hope this jerk doesn’t tell Emma I’m responsible for the drenched “chartreuse” shirt, or any of the other goofs he’s witnessed. Emma will probably think I’m a dumb, clumsy ogre.

This time, keeping his eyes closer to where he was going, Dusty looked into the cubicles as they were passing. He passed four or five people, each in their own little square, bent over sketches. Others he saw were staring at computer screens, typing, and some on computers in the process of coloring in drawings, using a mouse.
Pretty amazing stuff,
he thought.
I’m actually seeing cartoons before they become... cartoons.
He realized he’d never asked Emma what her job was. Was she an artist? That would be cool. He had just assumed she worked a desk in some type of clerical position, maybe even receptionist, but an artist would be cool—he could see that... Emma could be an artist.

They rounded the corner, leaving the cubicles behind, to end up facing a section of glass broken into two small rooms, one on each side. The first room on the right was empty, but he could see it looked into another glass room where all he saw was two microphones on stands. They walked toward the left glass room, where he saw a man in front of an impressive board of lights and dials, probably the sound guy, facing a glass wall that looked directly into another room—where he finally saw Emma.

“There she is,” his irritated guide said before he opened and entered the glass room, leaving Dusty standing outside alone, staring with his mouth hanging open.

Dusty was mesmerized. There was Emma—behind the glass—laughing while running in place and spinning around where she stood, only to face the microphone again to laugh or squeak out the cutest voice he’d ever heard. She was wearing a tight pair of yoga pants, leaving nothing to the imagination, and a purple spandex tank top. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but wisps of curls had escaped and were hanging loose from all of her movement. Even with the glass room between them, Dusty could still hear her contagious laugh, like bells tinkling, and the high-pitched lilt of her voice reading her lines from a large monitor facing her. The other girl—a plain-faced and serious-looking young lady, stood stonily and still while she read her own portion of the script.

Dusty almost held his breath waiting for Emma’s turn again. He was enthralled at this version of Emma he was seeing and hearing—a happy, carefree, and nimble Emma! He looked into the glass room to see the coffee-victim dude and another man sitting in front of the sound boards, also rapt with attention, their eyes seemingly focused only on Emma, hypnotized by her graceful movements and beautiful, lithe little body.

Emma spoke another line—actually, she sang this portion, and then did a little dance in front of the microphone, spinning around while singing, her ponytail flying up to flash her dragonfly tattoo.
That’s it!
he thought as it finally struck him.
She reminds me of a beautiful, graceful dragonfly, captured behind the glass, flittering around. A thing of beauty, like her tattoo.
Dusty looked to see if the two guys were still watching. They were now sitting up in their seats, leaning almost against the glass. He could almost feel the sexual waves coming off these guys toward Emma, and he was surprised to feel a bit possessive.
Shake it off, Dusty,
he said in his own head
. She’s not yours.

But he wanted her to be—as if he’d had any doubts before. She’d had him at
how much do I blow?...
and only reinforced it the next day after class when he saw the little spitfire throwing a fit that her car wouldn’t start. He knew he wanted to be her hero and fix it even though he had no illusions that he could. But he felt like he must have at least gotten a partial point by having his buddy fix it and taking her on her important errand. That had to count for something. Now if he could just get her out of here before the dude drooling over her yoga pants told her what an idiot he was.

Emma and her partner were finished. The guy from the elevator jumped up and opened the separating door and threw Emma a towel—her friend didn’t need one—and Emma wiped her face first, then each armpit before teasingly throwing it back at him. He caught it and held on.

“Emma, that was awesome as usual, superstar,” he gushed at her as she tossed him a smile over her shoulder and headed toward the door. He grabbed a backpack off the floor and followed right on her heels. “Don’t forget your bag. Want me to carry it downstairs for you? Will we see you the same time tomorrow? We can get a wrap on the next episode and send it off. Cool?” he asked, as Emma stopped directly in front of Dusty.

“Yeah, Rick. That’s cool. I’ll be here,” she answered while reaching to take her bag from Rick’s hand, staring at Dusty and not breaking her gaze. Ignoring any further conversation with Rick, she said, “Dusty, you didn’t have to come up here. I’d have met you in the lobby. You’re early.”

“Um, yeah. I know. Sorry ‘bout that. I asked for you and the lady said you were on the second floor. She gave me directions to the elevator, so I just headed this way,” he explained.

Rick was still standing by, glaring at Dusty. He couldn’t stand there any longer feeling his skin burn under Rick’s scrutiny, so Dusty asked if Emma was ready to go.

Before she could answer, Rick butted in. “You’re going out with
this
guy now, Emma? Seriously? Hoss messed up my shirt while
loitering
downstairs, then didn’t know what
floor
he was on, and finally was nearly crushed to death by the elevator doors while he just
stood
there in the doorway,” he whined to Emma, who was listening to him with raised eyebrows.

Dusty could feel his ears starting to burn. He hoped the fire he was feeling rushing up his neck was so hot it melted him directly into the floor, never to be seen by Emma again, but he manned up. “Look, dude, I apologized for the coffee. I offered to pay for your shirt—three times now—and I had no idea where I was going... true that.” He shrugged.

Emma looked from Rick to Dusty and back to Rick. She shook her head and laughed. “Rick, meet Dusty. Dusty, meet Rick,” she said.

Dusty stuck his hand out. Rick paused, looking at it, then reluctantly grabbed and shook—
feels like a limp fish,
thought Dusty. He looked Rick in the eye and gave his limp hand a firm squeeze.
Maybe the little dweeb will learn something from me.

“Come on, Dusty, let’s go,” Emma said, grabbing his other hand and pulling him down the hall away from the nasally impaired Rick. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rick. Go out and have some fun!” she called out over her shoulder as she hurried toward the elevator, dragging Dusty behind her.

Dusty looked back over his shoulder to see Rick standing in the middle of the hall, arms crossed and scowling. He gave him a wink before turning back to Emma, who still held his hand as she led him back toward the elevator.

CHAPTER 18

GABBY
settled into the comfortable chair facing Dr. White, ready for yet another failed attempt at breaking through to her locked memories.

“Gabby, let’s talk about your husband,” Dr. White said expectedly.

She looked off into space, remembering, but not letting herself go back to the night of the accident, instead focusing on their previous date night. Jake always knew she was more comfortable at home, but he'd continued to coax her to keep their date night routine, always reminding her they needed to keep their marriage fresh and not fall into the grasp of disconnected boredom, as so many of their friends had.

The weekend before the night of the accident, their last successful date night, she'd called him at work to check on their plans, trying to talk Jake into staying home. But he'd come in from work, seemingly in a hurry, and threw a “be ready in fifteen, casual attire required,” over his shoulder as he rushed into the spare bathroom with a hastily gathered bundle of clean clothes for himself.

Fifteen minutes, showered, dressed, and smelling so Jake, he hovered over Gabby's shoulder in their master bathroom, poking at her, telling her she didn't need all that primping, grabbing at her rollers and plucking them out, one at a time, letting the long locks fall limply back into their original place before they'd had time to set. Finally, annoyed, she'd given up. She'd mirrored his casual clothes with her own pair of worn but comfortable jeans, but sprucing them up just a little with a clingy sequined tank top and some flashy flip-flops.

She'd headed toward her car, as they usually drove it if they were going out. Jake had quick-stepped up beside her, grabbed her hand, and led her to his truck, opening the door for her, as usual.

“We're taking your truck, Jake?”

“Yep. Climb on up into your carriage, my princess,” he'd answered, grinning ear to ear.

She'd played along with the game to humor him because she loved that he still did that, never wanting to lose the coveted playfulness they had.

Jake climbed into his side, wasting no time putting the truck into gear and backing up.

“Wait, my prince! You forgot your royal harness,” Gabby had reminded him, stretching her own seatbelt away from her chest, then letting it fall back into place.

“We're not going far enough to need it,” Jake answered, glancing over at her with a smile.

And they hadn't gone far, not even far enough to need a vehicle. He had pulled straight into the front yard and backed his truck as close as he could get to their big oak tree.

“What are you doing, Jake?”

“Just wait right there... five minutes, Gabby. Don't move—and don't peek!” Jake reached over and turned up the radio before hopping out of the truck, leaving her to listen to the beginning of one of his favorite CDs, an unusual collection of love songs by long-haired rock bands.

Gabby remembered the torture of not giving in to the impulse to turn around and see what Jake was doing as she felt the weight of him stepping into the bed of the truck, then jumping down again. But she'd promised, and she'd never want to spoil his surprise.

The second song had just finished as he'd come around to her door, opening it and gallantly extending his hand again to help her out.

“Are we not going—”

“Shh. Just come with me.”

Gabby had let him lead her behind the truck, where she found he'd spread out a red-checkered blanket scattered with throw pillows. He’d placed a wicker basket on the corner of the blanket, a few feet from her swing. Around the gingham blanket, he'd also placed over a dozen mason jars, half of which were filled with brightly burning candles, welcoming the twilight that was quickly unfolding, serving as the perfect romantic backdrop.

“Jake, this looks beautiful! Where did you get this stuff?”

“Well, Mama helped a little. You keep sayin' you’re happier stayin' home... So we'll just have our date here—your favorite place. Is it okay?”

Gabby remembered feeling a lump in her throat, not being able to answer him. Instead, she'd thrown her arms around him and kissed him.