Mitch was about to object, his mind on that roast chicken, but Chris beat him to it.
“Are the rocks going to turn into pumpkins if you’re not back before midnight?” Chris asked. “Take some time for family. The kids are happy to see you.”
Dean caved. “Okay. You’re right. Thanks. We’d love to stay.”
Mitch reminded Dean that he had his own mission. “I need to buy something for Megs. Is there a cool bookstore nearby—someplace hip?”
Dean chuckled. “Hey, man, you’re in San Francisco.”
With promises to return with a bottle of Chardonnay, Mitch and Dean left to find a bookstore, ending up at a collective on 17thand Sanchez.
Dean dropped Mitch off. “I probably shouldn’t go in. See you here in thirty.”
Inside, Mitch found a hippie haven. The walls were covered with images of Che Guevara, Angela Davis, and Karl Marx on its walls amid peace signs, posters with anti-war slogans, and blacklight posters.
He looked around, tried to orient himself.
“Hey, baby killer!”
He didn’t realize the man was talking to him until someone walked up behind him and repeated the slur. “Hey, baby killer! What are you doing in our store?”
Baby killer?
His short hair. The guy thought he was military.
Mitch turned around to find a skinny guy with long, dark hair in a Kerouac T-shirt and faded bellbottom jeans. There was a faint whiff of grass around him—and a look of intense dislike on his face.
Now Mitch understood why Dean hadn’t come inside.
Mitch could have told the guy that he’d never been in the military, that his short hair was just his preference because he lived in a tent all summer, but that would feel like a betrayal of the men, like Dean, who had served. “I’m here to buy books—something by Walt Whitman and that new book for women out of Boston. I think it’s called ‘Our Bodies, Ourselves.’”
A dark eyebrow rose.
Apparently, Mitch’s literary choices had passed muster, even if his haircut hadn’t.
The man pointed. “Poetry is over there. The women’s section is in the back.”
Mitch grabbed a used copy ofLeaves of Grassand a brand new copy ofOur Bodies, Ourselves. He’d learned about the book from one of his friends at school. She’d let him borrow it for a night, and he’d learned a lot from it.
Then he noticed a new release titledMy Secret Garden, a collection of women’s sexual fantasies. Hell, he might want to read this one. He grabbed it, too.
Mitch paid, thanked the man, and walked outside, just as Dean pulled up in front. Mitch opened the passenger side door and climbed in.
“Did anyone hassle you?”
“No.” Mitch didn’t repeat what the asshole had called him. He knew it would hurt his friend. “I got what I came for.”
“Good. I’m dying for that roast chicken.”
Dinner aside, Mitch couldn’t wait to get back to camp. It was time that Megs got the education about her body that every girl deserved.
Chapter 10
Megs leftMitch’s side to head back to the hotel, unable to get the smile off her face—until a reporter rushed her in the parking lot.
“I’m from Chalk and Rock webzine. How is Mitch Ahearn doing?” The young woman held up a smartphone, clearly filming. “Do doctors expect him to survive? Do you think he’ll live a normal life? Will he climb again?”
It took all of Megs’ self-control not to tell the reporter to fuck herself. Instead, she ignored the questions and walked quickly to her vehicle, the reporter following her, camera still raised, heels clicking on asphalt.
