Chapter Eighteen
“Try these on.” Chloe shoved a pair of jeans and a smoky-blue cotton pullover into Rok’s arms and pointed him toward the dressing room. “Don’t forget the underwear. You have two types. Pick the one you prefer.” She plopped a pack of jockey shorts and another of boxers atop his armload.
Lucky for us, Springfield got vaporized during business hours, she thought as Rok ducked into the dressing room at Bass Pro. Had the city been vaporized late at night, none of the stores would have been open. Instead, they were free to walk in anywhere.
Like they had at the pawnshop where they’d acquired two wind-up Timex watches. A battery-operated clock gave them the time, and they set them. Takes a licking but keeps on ticking—even after an alien invasion.
Street signs had pointed the way to the sporting goods megastore of all megastores—Bass Pro, and she decided to take Rok there for clothes, since they had time to kill anyway.
Bass Pro was like Disneyland for men, fulfilling every fishing, boating, camping, hunting, and outdoor sport fantasy. Normally prominent in its décor were the taxidermy trophies, but the hides had been vaporized along with people and living animals. Only Styrofoam forms and glass eyes remained.
But Rok couldn’t tell anything was missing, and he darted around in awe. She followed, answering his questions as best she could, amused by his excitement. He was a guy who liked guy stuff, even if he had no idea what the stuff was! Men were men, whether they came from Earth, Mars, or Progg-Res.
No surprise he insisted on seeing the hunting section. And it testified to her trust that she showed it to him.
The open cases in the gun room sent a chill up her spine.
The glass doors hadn’t been opened but cut.
Several empty racks indicated weapons had been taken.
It had been an orderly acquisition—not a smash-and-grab—but it gave her the willies.
Were armed individuals still in the store?
She quieted her nerves with the realization Kevin would alert them and tried to reframe the disappearance of the guns as a positive sign of other survivors.
Of course, people would arm themselves. As she would after she learned how to use a gun.
It would do more harm than good to carry a weapon she didn’t know how to use.
She did snag some pepper spray before herding Rok to the men’s department.
“Well? What do you think?” He emerged from the dressing room in jeans and a T-shirt, incongruous and out-of-context. With skin as shiny as a new dime, a mohawk like a wire scrub brush, six toes on each bare foot—that was something she hadn’t known—the attire emphasized his alienness.
Then his hesitant, earnest gaze sought her approval, and the world tilted. Her opinion mattered to him. He likes me. He like-likes me. He wants me to like him back.
Her willingness to help him suddenly made perfect, if shocking sense. I like-like him, too.
Chemistry, not expediency, was the glue holding them together. How could she be attracted to a Progg? How could she like him? Find him engaging? Wish to help him? Didn’t that make her a traitor, no better than a colluder?
Except, in her heart, she truly believed he wasn’t like the other invaders. People couldn’t hide their true colors forever; eventually, actions revealed character. The trio’s had—their lack of engagement and the inconsistent stories had signaled something was rotten in St. Louis.
Rok wasn’t a killer. She would literally bet her life on it.
She wet her dry lips. “You look nice. The shirt fits perfectly. How are the jeans? Not too tight? Are they comfortable?”
“They’re good. I’ve never worn anything like this.”
“Let me see the waist.”
He lifted the shirt.
The man boasted the best set of six-pack abs she’d ever seen. Her gaze slid up to his broad shoulders, thick biceps, then back to the fabulous abs. “Yummy—uh, I mean they fit. Here—try on these cargo shorts while I find you some shoes.”
He ducked into the dressing room again, and she fled to the shoe department to catch her breath. The man’s bod was seriously hot.
Kevin had followed her. “Okay, I like him. I admit it,” she told the dog. “But I promise to take it slow. Make sure I know what I’m dealing with.”
Kevin didn’t judge; he just listened in his thoughtful doggy manner.
She guessed on size 13 running shoes, figuring the wide toe box would best accommodate the extra digit, and hurried to the men’s department.
Rok wore the cargo shorts.
He has nice legs, too. “Shorts look good,” she said. “You changed shirts.”
He ran a hand over his chest. “I liked the fish.” Sporting a picture of a bass, the tee stretched taut over his muscular chest.
“Try these on.” She handed him the sneakers and followed him to the dressing room, where he sat on the bench. She had to show him how to lace the shoes. “How’s the room? Do your toes rub?”
“No.”
She pressed on the toe to check. He had plenty of room. She’d picked the right size.
When he stood up to walk, his eyes widened. “They’re comfortable. Spongy!” He bounced on the balls of his feet.
Her own shoes, comfortable sneakers she could run in, had saved her life. She checked her wristwatch. “It’s four o’clock. The Gillioz isn’t far, maybe ten minutes by bike, but we should go. We’d talked about getting there early.”
“I didn’t realize it was so late,” he said.
“Time flies when you’re having fun.” They’d been in the store for hours.
“I did have fun.”
“I did, too,” she said. “Are you going to wear the new clothes?”
“Yes. I like them.” He smoothed his hand over his chest again and grinned like a little kid who’d been given Mickey Mouse ears at Disneyland. He’s so darn cute.
Life was about to get interesting.
Like it hasn’t been interesting enough?
They stowed his uniform, the jeans, the other T-shirt, and a pair of shorts and a top for her into a duffle bag. We’re acquiring a lot of stuff. We can’t carry much more.
“Let’s go meet your brother,” she said.