Rodeo wonders when she ate last. He can see the hollows in her cheeks, the sick pallor of her skin, and he knows it's probably been a long time since she had a meal. She's more concerned with chasing her high, with letting it overtake her and drag her under. It's very likely that she doesn't care if she lives or dies anymore, she only cares about getting more of that wicked drug. Rodeo drops his eyes to the stereo, guilt churning cruelly inside of him, battering his heart.
"I will if you eat," he promises, bringing his eyes back up to her pale face. "You gotta eat, sweetheart. You can't have none o' this drink if you don't got somethin' in your stomach." Rodeo reaches for the bottle of Chartreuse, the liquor as brightly green as the wash he knows she likely wishes he'd brought instead. He spins off the cap on the bottle and sniffs from the lip, breathing in the sharply herbal scent of the liquor. He holds the bottle out to Emilie so she can smell it, though he keeps his hand wrapped around the neck so she can't take it yet. "Take a whiff o' that. You wanna have a drink with me, baby? You gotta have a bite first."