pass it to you? It might give you the energy you need."
Closing his eyes against the tears unexpectedly filling them, he tried to speak but found he couldn’t. Getting emotional over a candy bar was hardly his style, and he felt like a complete idiot.
"Tell me what you want," Emma urged in a soft voice a few moments later.
"Want… you. Need… you."
She immediately extended her hand. David felt the brush of her fingertips. He clasped her wrist before encompassing her slender hand with his own. His exhalation of relief echoed in the cellblock.
Neither spoke as unspoken emotions flowed between them. They remained physically and emotionally linked as the dawn emerged and the sun burst onto the horizon of the early–morning Middle Eastern sky.
5
"I’d give anything to take a shower and wash my hair," Emma announced in a fit of frustration several days later.
"Fantasy time, babe."
David’s reply grated on her already frayed nerves. She stomped back and forth in her cell. When she heard him chuckle, she nearly gave into the urge to familiarize him with a full–blown Irish Italian temper tantrum.
"I can’t stand being so filthy. It’s making me crazy."
"Use your imagination," he suggested. "Pretend you’re relaxing in an enormous hot tub filled with warm, bubbling water. It’s the closest you’re going to get to clean until we blow this pop stand." David laughed. "It’ll also give me something to imagine."
"Not good enough," she protested.
"You don’t have any other options," he reminded her. "Deprivation’s the rule of thumb around here, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?"
The compassion in his voice took some of the edge off her frustration. Emma stopped her restless pacing and returned to her pallet. She took deep, cleansing breaths and made an effort to calm down.
"David, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such an infant, but I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. It’s been three weeks, and no one’s tried to rescue us. The Red Cross hasn’t even shown up to conduct an inspection. Surely my parents or Child Feed realize by now that I’ve gone missing. Why isn’t someone doing something?"
"We can only hope."
"I know," she whispered bleakly. "I know you’re right."
"How about a book or a movie?" he asked a short while later. "Might help pass the time."
She slumped forward and rested her head in her hands. Although she knew he wouldn’t force the issue, she called upon what remained of her dwindling good humor and forced herself to cooperate. She owed him that much at the very least.
Emma lifted her head and asked, "What’s your pleasure, Major?"
"A sexy flick," he promptly replied.
She laughed, the first positive sound to emerge from her in several hours. "You’re absolutely hopeless. How about something more cerebral or a thriller with a knockout heroine?"
"Since it’s your turn, you make the decision."
She weighed her options. "Okay then, let’s test your memory bank. Do you remember Part Two of The Devastator series?"
"Who could forget? Milos Bekenberger as a muscle–bound cyborg, and Cara Stone as the pumped–up mother of a boy destined to save the planet. Everybody had great pecs in that movie, especially the kid’s mother. She was dy–no–mite."
Emma groaned. "Talk about a one–track mind."
"You may be right." His tone contained just enough leer to make her laugh.
Feeling more relaxed, Emma began to recount the movie. What she couldn’t remember, she made up for with excruciating details about the parts she did.
David periodically chimed in with both suggestive remarks and insightful comments about the film. Emma reclaimed her sense of humor as they talked, and David unknowingly soothed her restless emotions with the warmth and resonance of the low, gravel–rough voice she’d grown to love.
They lingered at the end, critiquing the pacing of the movie and the performances of the actors. And they agreed, as was often the
Closing his eyes against the tears unexpectedly filling them, he tried to speak but found he couldn’t. Getting emotional over a candy bar was hardly his style, and he felt like a complete idiot.
"Tell me what you want," Emma urged in a soft voice a few moments later.
"Want… you. Need… you."
She immediately extended her hand. David felt the brush of her fingertips. He clasped her wrist before encompassing her slender hand with his own. His exhalation of relief echoed in the cellblock.
Neither spoke as unspoken emotions flowed between them. They remained physically and emotionally linked as the dawn emerged and the sun burst onto the horizon of the early–morning Middle Eastern sky.
5
"I’d give anything to take a shower and wash my hair," Emma announced in a fit of frustration several days later.
"Fantasy time, babe."
David’s reply grated on her already frayed nerves. She stomped back and forth in her cell. When she heard him chuckle, she nearly gave into the urge to familiarize him with a full–blown Irish Italian temper tantrum.
"I can’t stand being so filthy. It’s making me crazy."
"Use your imagination," he suggested. "Pretend you’re relaxing in an enormous hot tub filled with warm, bubbling water. It’s the closest you’re going to get to clean until we blow this pop stand." David laughed. "It’ll also give me something to imagine."
"Not good enough," she protested.
"You don’t have any other options," he reminded her. "Deprivation’s the rule of thumb around here, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?"
The compassion in his voice took some of the edge off her frustration. Emma stopped her restless pacing and returned to her pallet. She took deep, cleansing breaths and made an effort to calm down.
"David, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such an infant, but I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. It’s been three weeks, and no one’s tried to rescue us. The Red Cross hasn’t even shown up to conduct an inspection. Surely my parents or Child Feed realize by now that I’ve gone missing. Why isn’t someone doing something?"
"We can only hope."
"I know," she whispered bleakly. "I know you’re right."
"How about a book or a movie?" he asked a short while later. "Might help pass the time."
She slumped forward and rested her head in her hands. Although she knew he wouldn’t force the issue, she called upon what remained of her dwindling good humor and forced herself to cooperate. She owed him that much at the very least.
Emma lifted her head and asked, "What’s your pleasure, Major?"
"A sexy flick," he promptly replied.
She laughed, the first positive sound to emerge from her in several hours. "You’re absolutely hopeless. How about something more cerebral or a thriller with a knockout heroine?"
"Since it’s your turn, you make the decision."
She weighed her options. "Okay then, let’s test your memory bank. Do you remember Part Two of The Devastator series?"
"Who could forget? Milos Bekenberger as a muscle–bound cyborg, and Cara Stone as the pumped–up mother of a boy destined to save the planet. Everybody had great pecs in that movie, especially the kid’s mother. She was dy–no–mite."
Emma groaned. "Talk about a one–track mind."
"You may be right." His tone contained just enough leer to make her laugh.
Feeling more relaxed, Emma began to recount the movie. What she couldn’t remember, she made up for with excruciating details about the parts she did.
David periodically chimed in with both suggestive remarks and insightful comments about the film. Emma reclaimed her sense of humor as they talked, and David unknowingly soothed her restless emotions with the warmth and resonance of the low, gravel–rough voice she’d grown to love.
They lingered at the end, critiquing the pacing of the movie and the performances of the actors. And they agreed, as was often the
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