Sweet Venom
Page 72

“Never.” I smile, a real and true smile.
At least some things remain the same.
“What can I show you today?” she asks, swinging her arm in a broad gesture at the walls of shoes lining either side of the shop.
“I need a new strappy date shoe,” I explain. “One of my silver Jimmy Choos—” Well, I can’t exactly tell her it got lost in the Bay when a giant serpent creature tried to drown me. Not unless I want a one-way ticket to the psychiatric ward. “It’s beyond repair.”
Kelly Anne gasps. Shoes are her life, and telling her that one is damaged is like telling someone you ran over their dog. Only with more tears.
Before she starts crying, I say, “I’m feeling colorful today.”
She nods, swallowing her grief. “I have just the thing.”
She slips into the back and I sink against the chair. With my eyes closed and new shoes on the way, I almost feel back to normal. What I need to do is will the monsters away. I’m a strong believer in mind over matter. Surely, if I focus my willpower on the issue, I can make the monsters disappear back into my subconscious.
I kick off my Ralph Lauren espadrilles, wiggling my toes against the plush white rug, and harness my mental powers. Fall will begin officially in a few days and I’ll have to put my warm-weather wardrobe away. But for now, I’m holding on to the last bit of summer. And my last bit of sanity.
Soon, schoolwork and extracurriculars and other responsibilities will overwhelm me on a daily basis. I’ll have limited time for shoe shopping, let alone more important things. Like Kyle.
The other night, when I bailed on him, he bought the phoned-in “I got marinara sauce on my top” excuse and was totally understanding. Or uncaring, I can never really tell with Kyle. Still, he was a good sport. Now I owe him.
Pulling out my cell, I call Kyle’s number. He answers on the fourth ring.
“Babe,” he says with an exaggerated drawl. “What’s up?”
I cringe, then release the tension. I don’t need to allow any more stress right now. “Hello, Kyle,” I say politely. “Would you like to come over tonight?”
“Abso-righteous-lutely.” He laughs at his made up slang. “What time?”
I ignore his display of idiocy.
“I’m doing a little shoe shopping right now, but I’ll be home soon,” I answer. “Come over anytime.”
“Right on.”
I’m about to hang up, to sink into the bliss of shoe shopping and pretend surfer-boy isn’t in prime form tonight.
“Greer,” he says, dropping the overwrought-dude act. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I answer, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the chair. “It’s been a stressful few days.”
Saying that makes a little of the tension ease from my neck. Nothing can make it go away altogether, but every tiny bit helps.
“I’ll bring my magic hands,” Kyle says. “That stress will be history by the time I leave.”
I grin. A massage would be—
“If I leave,” he adds, with a suggestive undertone.
Did he have to ruin the moment? Well, I won’t let him. I need him tonight. And maybe . . . Maybe . . .
“Kyle, honey,” I say, in my sweetest tone. “Bring some strawberries.”
I hang up before he says something that changes my mind. After all the ridiculous things that have happened in the last few days, taking the next, not-quite-all-the-way-but-pretty-close step in our relationship might be precisely the memory eraser I need.
“Here we go,” Kelly Anne says, emerging through the curtain with a trio of shoe boxes in her hands.
She sets two of them down, opens the third, and pulls out all the stuffing to reveal a high-heeled strappy sandal in a brilliant shade of dark lime green.
“It’s beautiful.” I take the shoe and run my fingertips over the satin straps.
“Try it on,” she instructs. “It feels divine.”
She holds out her own foot to show me that she’s wearing the same shoe in bright purple.
The bell above the door tinkles. Kelly Anne goes to greet the new customer as I unbuckle the ankle strap and slide my foot into the shoe. She’s right, it does feel divine. I quickly step into the other one.
“Let me go grab that for you,” Kelly Anne tells the new customer. She rushes by me, asking, “Don’t you love them?” as she goes.
“They’re gorgeous,” the new customer comments, with a weird click in her voice. “Are they comfortable?”
I glance up, ready to say, “Yes, quite.” But I freeze when, instead of a fellow shoe-shopping woman, I see a woman’s body with the head of raven.
She twists her feathered head to the side, studying me.
There is not a bird-woman in the shop, I tell myself. There is not a—
“Here you go,” Kelly Anne says, bringing a pair of boxes to the woman who—no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise—has the head of a big black bird. Her inky black feathers gleam yellow in the fluorescent light.
I can’t take it anymore.
Standing, I grab my satchel and head for the door.
“Is something wrong, Greer?” Kelly Anne asks, rightfully concerned about her favorite client—me—walking out of the shop.
“No,” I squeak. “Fine. I love these. Put them on my tab.”
“No problem.”
I push open the door, desperate to get away.