but … you break it, you buy it.”
“Thanks,” said Shay. “I think.”
Emily pulled open a second door, giving the impression that more stuff was spilling over from the other side. Shay peeked in and her face filled with pleasant surprise.
Neat as a pin, two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, crisp white sheets, a nightstand with nothing on it but a glow-green alarm clock.
Emily grinned. “Scared you, didn’t I? Let me get you some soap and shampoo and shit.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” Shay lied.
Shay got her shower in a surprisingly nice women’s restroom with individual shower booths. She wasn’t quick about it. With the sample-sized tubes of bodywash, shampoo, and conditioner fronted by Emily, she stood for ten minutes under the pouring hot water, getting really clean for the first time since she ran.
Her jeans were still questionable, but with a room, access to a decent laundry, and a shower … the place would work.
If only until she could find Odin.
Out of the shower she dressed in her lumberjack outfit, but when she got back to the room, she found Emily pawing through bags of clothes. “The used kind that you’d pay big bucks for down at the resale stores,” Emily said. “Go get undressed. I’ll pass you the stuff.”
Emily passed her stuff for ten minutes, and Shay began to run out of patience. She had never followed fashion, and didn’t care what she was wearing on the hunt for her brother. Emily came in with another dress and started wriggling it over Shay’s head like a stylist. “Really, chica, if I had your assets, I wouldn’t be tenting them in sweatshirts and mom jeans. I’d be working it.”
“ ‘Working it’?”
“Yeah, you know.
It
.” Emily stepped back and looked at the dress. “Acceptable,” she said.
“I don’t think I can stand any more,” Shay said.
“Give me five more minutes,” Emily said. “I’m starting to see you now.”
“You couldn’t see me before?”
“Your Smokey the Bear thing threw me off. Try these on.” She handed Shay a pair of sandals with heels like spikes.
Shay shook her head. “No. Nothing higher than an inch.”
Emily looked at her impatiently. “You’re not making this easy.”
“You’re killing me,” Shay said.
But when Emily had gone again and she looked in the mirror on the back of the door, she thought,
Not bad
.
Emily came back with strappy one-inch sandals. They were acceptable.
“You’re still not L.A., but at least … mmm … you’re in Southern California. So let’s go.”
Emily carefully locked the door behind them, and Shay followed her down the stairs. They went around the corner to the hotel’s tiny—and nearly empty—parking lot.
“This is it,” Emily said. Her truck looked like a cross between a jeep and a fire engine: a red 1977 International Harvester Scout with a missing hardtop, which made it a convertible.
“It’s ugly, but at least it’s unreliable,” Emily said as they got in. “You better do something with your hair, unless you really want that windblown look.”
Shay was twisting her damp hair into a bun as they headed for a freeway when Emily shouted over the wind noise, “Not to be snoopy, but the way you were dressed—where
are
you from?”
“Oregon,” Shay shouted back.
“Ah,” Emily said, nodding as if that answered everything.
Semitrailer trucks, hot rods, pickups, limousines, and practical sedans being driven by little old ladies whipped by them on the Santa Monica Freeway. Emily’s vintage truck screamed with pain every time the speedometer touched sixty.
As Emily laughed off a bald guy in a Maserati who was giving them the finger for slowing down his lane, Shay took in Emily’s appearance, which was anything but lumberjack. She had flat-ironed chin-length hair tipped with electric blue, emerald-green eyes magnified by thick false lashes and brown winged eyeliner. Her small,pouty mouth was kept constantly peachy with a tube of Nars
“Thanks,” said Shay. “I think.”
Emily pulled open a second door, giving the impression that more stuff was spilling over from the other side. Shay peeked in and her face filled with pleasant surprise.
Neat as a pin, two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, crisp white sheets, a nightstand with nothing on it but a glow-green alarm clock.
Emily grinned. “Scared you, didn’t I? Let me get you some soap and shampoo and shit.”
“I’ll just be a minute,” Shay lied.
Shay got her shower in a surprisingly nice women’s restroom with individual shower booths. She wasn’t quick about it. With the sample-sized tubes of bodywash, shampoo, and conditioner fronted by Emily, she stood for ten minutes under the pouring hot water, getting really clean for the first time since she ran.
Her jeans were still questionable, but with a room, access to a decent laundry, and a shower … the place would work.
If only until she could find Odin.
Out of the shower she dressed in her lumberjack outfit, but when she got back to the room, she found Emily pawing through bags of clothes. “The used kind that you’d pay big bucks for down at the resale stores,” Emily said. “Go get undressed. I’ll pass you the stuff.”
Emily passed her stuff for ten minutes, and Shay began to run out of patience. She had never followed fashion, and didn’t care what she was wearing on the hunt for her brother. Emily came in with another dress and started wriggling it over Shay’s head like a stylist. “Really, chica, if I had your assets, I wouldn’t be tenting them in sweatshirts and mom jeans. I’d be working it.”
“ ‘Working it’?”
“Yeah, you know.
It
.” Emily stepped back and looked at the dress. “Acceptable,” she said.
“I don’t think I can stand any more,” Shay said.
“Give me five more minutes,” Emily said. “I’m starting to see you now.”
“You couldn’t see me before?”
“Your Smokey the Bear thing threw me off. Try these on.” She handed Shay a pair of sandals with heels like spikes.
Shay shook her head. “No. Nothing higher than an inch.”
Emily looked at her impatiently. “You’re not making this easy.”
“You’re killing me,” Shay said.
But when Emily had gone again and she looked in the mirror on the back of the door, she thought,
Not bad
.
Emily came back with strappy one-inch sandals. They were acceptable.
“You’re still not L.A., but at least … mmm … you’re in Southern California. So let’s go.”
Emily carefully locked the door behind them, and Shay followed her down the stairs. They went around the corner to the hotel’s tiny—and nearly empty—parking lot.
“This is it,” Emily said. Her truck looked like a cross between a jeep and a fire engine: a red 1977 International Harvester Scout with a missing hardtop, which made it a convertible.
“It’s ugly, but at least it’s unreliable,” Emily said as they got in. “You better do something with your hair, unless you really want that windblown look.”
Shay was twisting her damp hair into a bun as they headed for a freeway when Emily shouted over the wind noise, “Not to be snoopy, but the way you were dressed—where
are
you from?”
“Oregon,” Shay shouted back.
“Ah,” Emily said, nodding as if that answered everything.
Semitrailer trucks, hot rods, pickups, limousines, and practical sedans being driven by little old ladies whipped by them on the Santa Monica Freeway. Emily’s vintage truck screamed with pain every time the speedometer touched sixty.
As Emily laughed off a bald guy in a Maserati who was giving them the finger for slowing down his lane, Shay took in Emily’s appearance, which was anything but lumberjack. She had flat-ironed chin-length hair tipped with electric blue, emerald-green eyes magnified by thick false lashes and brown winged eyeliner. Her small,pouty mouth was kept constantly peachy with a tube of Nars
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