Just Breathe by Tamara Mataya Page B

I still prefer quiet places, but reading was never a hardship for me. The thought of working in a bookstore had appeal, but then it becomes less about the book and more about the sale. You don’t really get to talk to people about the books they choose—if you do it seems weird or like you have an agenda or you’re being a pushy salesman. I’d have been good at selling books—”
    “You certainly would.”
    “—but I wouldn’t get to reach as many people, and there’d rarely be any follow up. The best part about recommending books is when someone returns and asks for more. It’s the best when they come in and discover a new author, or have a new favourite book because of my recommendation. Such an amazing feeling.” I feel a bit embarrassed, swept up in my passion for books.
    “I can see how it would be incredibly fulfilling.”
    “And then I get people who have read my favourite books and have someone to talk to about them. It’s like my own personal book club.”
    “Dance puppets, dance!”
    “It’s out of love for literature and in the hopes they find a book that can take them away from the troubles in their lives for a couple hours, if nothing else. I get just as excited as the patrons do when we have the book they want in. The best days are when people ask me to recommend books for them.”
    “I could tell. And you’re good at it. So far I like all the books you forced upon me.”
    “I guess I can be kinda pushy when it comes to books.”
    “It’s obvious that you care.”
    “I do. I know I’m lucky, most people don’t get to have a job that they love that can also sustain them.”
    “Sad but true.” He looks at his watch. “If you’re ready, it’s about that time.”
    “ If I’m ready? I’m dying of curiosity over here!”
    “Really? Why didn’t you say so?” His eyes twinkle and I slap his forearm. Cheeky.
    He gestures at the waiter for the bill.
    “Your questions will be answered very soon.”
     
    ***
     
    A thirty-minute drive uptown takes us to the parking lot of a huge club. The relaxed mood the drive over gave me vanishes with every pulse of the heavy bass line. My lower back twitches. I want to run away. I kept it to one glass of wine at supper because I didn’t want to drink too much. Abstemious bitch; I’m in trouble. My senses are too sharp. Adrenaline further sharpens them, painfully piercing my mind.
    He opens my door, and I take a shaky-legged step out. “Dominic, I can’t—”
    “It’s okay.”
    “No, it really isn’t.” My voice is weak, my mouth dry, as I lean back against the door.
    He steps toward me, gently holds my shoulders. I want to shake his hands off. How could he do this to me? He moves closer and I can’t look away from his eyes.
    “I know that clubs are not typically a safe place for you, but I promise you will be fine. I would never do anything that puts you in a bad place.”
    His voice overrides the music, giving me something to focus on. Right now I’m glad that his voice deeply affects me. It relieves some of my tension. His thumbs stroke my shoulders, soothing me further. “Will you trust me?”
    Before I can over think it, I nod. He takes my hand and leads me into the club. With my hand tightly gripping his, I keep my eyes on his back trying to make my peripheral vision blur so that it’s only my ears that are over stimulated. I’m not around this many people that often and it’s a bit overwhelming.
    The song playing isn’t terrible, but it has a weird high-pitched synth effect in it that makes me want to plug my ears and run. I can do this. Can I? I almost plough into Dominic when he abruptly stops. We’ve reached the bar. He gets a rye and coke, and I get a spiced rum and ginger ale—perfect for my nerves, and the ginger ale will help my nerve-induced nausea. It’s also way classier than the seven tequila shots I want to order to drown my fear and my senses.
    Drink in hand, Dominic leads me to a table just off the dance