“Slow down,” John said. “I’m gonna need more than the CliffsNotes.”
Floyd put her hand on Link’s arm. “I’ve got this.”
He nodded, and she filled in the missing pieces of the story for John. Link was only half-listening. Now that they’d found John, all he could think about was saving Ridley.
As soon as Floyd finished, Link jumped in again. “So will you help us find her?”
John unbuttoned his beat-the-crap-outta-me-and-shove-me-in-a-locker shirt and took it off. “Considering we’re the ones Silas wants, it only seems right.” He balled up the shirt and tossed it on the floor.
Link was relieved to see that John was wearing a black T-shirt underneath. Floyd looked disappointed he was wearing a shirt at all. Link had almost forgotten the effect John had on girls.
John picked up a backpack. “Meet me at the King’s Arms pub in an hour. I can’t take off without talking to Liv first.”
“The King’s Legs. Got it.” Link held up a fist. “Thanks, man.”
“I’d help you even if we weren’t the reason Rid was mixed up with Silas. We’re friends.” John bumped his fist against Link’s, which told Link the only thing he needed to know.
He’s in.
Getting out of the Bodleian Library was a lot easier than getting in.
The pub John mentioned was right across the street, so Link and Floyd headed straight there. Even though Floyd was pretty skinny, she was always hungry, and Link didn’t want to risk getting lost. Everything over here was sort of crazy; between the accents and the cars driving on the wrong side of the road, Oxford almost felt like somewhere out of the Caster world.
“It looks like a nice place,” Floyd said as they approached a pinkish-peach-colored building with white windowpanes and black lanterns hanging on both sides of the door.
Link glanced down at his Black Sabbath T-shirt and jeans. “Hopefully not too nice.” He sighed. “What are we doin’ wastin’ our time? We gotta go.”
Floyd dropped a hand on his arm. It felt warm and full of life, like Floyd always did. “Chill out. Your buddy said an hour. We might as well eat.”
Link made a face.
“Right.” She shrugged. “I might as well eat.”
Inside, the King’s Arms was all dark paneling and vintage signs. A formal wooden bar dominated the main room, with liquor bottles stacked neatly on the shelves behind the bartender.
Floyd grabbed a table in the corner, next to the window, and dropped down into one of the plain ladder-back chairs. Link glanced at the menu on the table and scrunched up his nose. “Traditional ploughman’s lunch and fish cakes? Scotch eggs? Mushy peas? What is this junk?”
Floyd studied the menu. “It looks like the traditional ploughman’s is a plate of bread, pickle, apples, and cheese.”
“Pickle, cheese, and bread?” Link shook his head and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “I’m glad I don’t eat anymore.”
She stood up with a menu in her hand. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I’m going to order at the bar. I assume you don’t want anything.”
Link looked around at the other tables covered with plates of food. “Get me a Coke or somethin’. You know, so I don’t look weird.”
Floyd smiled. “The Coke won’t help.”
“Yeah? Just don’t let anyone put an egg in my Scotch, and I’ll be fine.” Link watched her walk over to the bar like she was just another student.
Link grabbed a napkin and scrawled some lyrics across it. Ever since Sampson and Nox found him in the trees after the accident, song lyrics had been floating around in his head. The only problem was, they sucked—which was a new thing for him. He’d been writing songs for as long as he could remember, about everything from his lunch to all the times Ridley had broken his heart. Until now, he was pretty sure his lyrics had kicked ass.
He stared down at the black lines stretching across the napkin.
What if I can’t write anymore?
There were probably a lot of things he wouldn’t be able to do anymore without Ridley. She was more than just his girl—she was his muse. It felt like everything started and ended with her.
Lose. Muse. Bruise.
Why you gotta get me so confuse?
Like I lost my favorite pair a shoes …
He dropped the pen.
I suck. I can’t do this without Rid. I just gotta find her.
“What are you doing?” Floyd asked as she put his Coke down on the table. “Are you writing a song? Anything good?”
He crumpled up the napkin and shoved it in his pocket. “Naw. I haven’t been able to write since I lost … her.”
Floyd seemed to take the comment in stride and sat down. But if he’d learned one thing about girls in the past year, it was that they usually weren’t thinking whatever you thought they were. Floyd had that weird look on her face again, the one where Link couldn’t tell if she was going to laugh or cry.
Girls.
“Ridley’s lucky,” she said. “You stick with her no matter what she does, or how bad she screws up. I wish someone felt that way about me.”
“Rid doesn’t mean to mess up. At least, not most of the time,” Link said.
Floyd rolled her eyes.
“Deep down, she’s a good person,” he said. “She just doesn’t want anybody to know.”
“That makes no sense.”