You are stronger than this, I reprimanded myself. Get it together. You’ve dealt with tougher alone before.
I had. I’d lost my mother to a drunk driver when I’d been just eleven years old. I’d lost my father to alcohol addiction and probably the sheer will to not have to live without the love of his life when I was twenty-two. My father had done his best. A sad drunk, he self-medicated with alcohol at night, maybe during the day, as well, to some extent. Although, he never let me go without. I had no doubt of his love for me, but the pain of living without my mom, and with me as a constant reminder of what he’d lost, had just been too much for him over the years.
Even with his care and guidance, I’d basically raised myself and suffered alone. Though more reserved than I probably should be, I hid my nervousness well, and could be tough as nails when forced into a corner or defending my beliefs. This was New York. I’d been stupid tonight to go out alone, so I’d gotten attacked. I’d basically asked for it. Yet, what bothered me the most was my savior, who had finally emerged into the bright moonlight.
I tried to keep the images of him vague, easier to explain away then. How dare such a beast emerge from the shadows, even if to save my life? A furry thing that size, that strong, it couldn’t exist. I wouldn’t let him. So, I reached my hand out of the shower to grab the whiskey bottle. I drank while still standing under the water, my toes curling in expectation of my wet grip dropping the bottle. As I swallowed, I could hear the sound of glass shattering despite the fact that my hand remained around the glass neck and the liquid poured down my throat.
Either I was too drunk or not drunk enough yet, I couldn’t decide. I sounded and felt like a crazy person. I couldn’t stand my own thoughts. So, after another hard gulp, my eyes watering from the burn, I placed the bottle back out on the sink and grabbed for the soap.
Wanting to scrub myself clean as if the bubbles could cleanse my mind of the attack, I was forced to be a bit gentle with the scratched-up parts of my skin. My hands had trouble even gripping the towel, though I feared it had more to do with the contents of the bottle I’d ingested rather than my injuries. Just minutes ago, I’d been holding onto it so tightly you’d think I feared it would jump out of my hands and I’d lose it.
By the time I had my hair washed, I had talked myself out of trying to shave the raw skin of my legs. I’d dulled my senses enough, encountered liquid relaxation enough, I hoped, to dry off and go to bed. I needed a dreamless sleep, hours of my mind focusing on nothing.
Yet, minutes later, with a warm dampness pervading over my body, making my nightgown stick to me, I laid in bed, under the covers, scanning the room. Light still on, I still sensed shadows and someone watching me. Curtains closed, still I expected to see those eyes, those golden eyes with amber flecks, staring at me through the sheer fabric.
Could he be out there? I wondered as I bit my lip. Would he still protect me no matter where I was? Or, had he planned to eat me second? Was I just lucky enough at that point to be the one on bottom? Maybe he hadn’t intended on being my savior, and I’d merely gotten away.
Stupid thoughts, really. I lived a good ten minutes from the club. Even though I’d kept my eyes peeled to the road before me on the way home, I didn’t think the beast would drop his probably dead prey and follow me home. More fear than comfort should have come from just the thought, but it didn’t.
Sick of myself and my errant wonderings, within minutes, I climbed back out of bed. As I went, I turned back on every light in my tiny apartment. Padding to the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee. Who was I kidding? I was never going to sleep anyway. While the amazing smell of chocolate flavored grounds being brewed filled the small kitchen, I spied the latest novel I’d been reading, sitting on the counter where I’d left it in my rush this morning. As usual, before work I’d read for too long, forcing me to scurry along to get to my lame secretarial job on time.
My books brought me an escape from my current reality. A dead end job for a low grade investment firm I endured on a nine to five basis. That misery allowed me to pay the bills as I daydreamed of another life. An avid reader, I’d had hopes of being a writer myself someday. Still did to some degree, besides the harsh realities life provided. Now, the job just allowed me time to indulge in my stories, writing or reading them.
Stories had kept me from my sadness after I’d lost my mother. Today, they still did the same, and sheltered me at times from the brutal truths of life. While I read anything I could get my hands on, from paranormal to horror and romance to suspense, I wanted to write cozy mysteries, myself. I left creation of the tough worlds to those gifted at the job.
I’d gotten out quite a few short stories in my day, but doubted my own ability to produce a whole novel. I’d never shared them with anyone, in avoidance of possible negative feedback. They amused me, my stories, but others I couldn’t be so sure about. Or maybe it was the fact that one shot of confidence, one kind and encouraging word, might just make me do something rash and stupid like quit my job to write the great American novel full-time.
Either way, I loved my books no matter who wrote them. I fingered the cover of the latest horror I’d been devouring. Probably not the best genre to read tonight, but ghosts were the least of my worries at the moment. I just needed to lose my thoughts. With a large cup of coffee poured into my favorite mug, a gift from my father that boasted quotes from the literary great Jane Austen, I squared my shoulders as I grabbed my book. Walking into the living room, I looked out my sliding glass window to the beautiful skyline of New York in the distance.
Emboldened suddenly, I decided to grab the comfy throw on the couch. I had it in my head to sit outside on the balcony, read my book, and sip my cup of coffee. My practical side told me that no one, man nor beast, could get to me four stories up. Still my hand shook as it unlocked the door. With slow steps, I moved to the railing, each throw of a leg forward a conscious movement. The rain had finally let up, though the world here remained soaked.
I glanced at each empty balcony I could see, before I took in the street. Completely quiet at three on a Saturday morning. Odd, yet not impossible, I wouldn’t think on it. I definitely wouldn’t consider it some silence before a storm. No, it was just welcome peace. Cars, washed by the hand of nature, glistened. With only a few street lights actually working, even the rusty heaps like mine looked decent.
I threw the cushion that rested just inside the door down on the outdoor lounge chair. Sitting there bundled in my ratty throw, the coffee did its job of keeping the damp chill from overwhelming me. Still, I attempted, several times in fact, to read the first page of the seventh chapter. Depictions of a stereotypical Gothic setting had my eyes moving from the page to take in my surroundings again. Height nor railing felt like protection. Each moan or creak in the book had me looking for a source around me. I’d read the sentence about the slam of a door that had made the heroine scream three times now. Moving on, the eyes she then saw shine through the shadows in her world’s dark hallway made me slam my book closed.
If it hadn’t been three in the morning, I’d have picked up the phone and called my girlfriend Chloe. Not that she’d have minded, she’d been there for me before. This time, I felt she’d think me crazy. I could feel the straight jacket tighten around me, just considering calling her. Sure, once I explained to her what I thought I’d saw, she’d rationally talk me out of it. But then, I’d forever be the crazy friend, more unbalanced than before. She’s surely think I’d finally fallen off the deep end and worry endlessly about me. I hated to be checked up on. Sure, it was sweet at first. Yet, sometimes, even with the best of intentions, Chloe hovered over me like I was a broken person. A forever friend, someone I’d played with in preschool, she’d seen me through the deaths of both my parents, and the journey had changed our friendship.
Still having her own, she couldn’t understand what I had gone through or still went through. On the other hand, she could fear it enough to worry endlessly about me. I loved her for it, bu
t couldn’t deal with it right now. My book fell from my hand. It startled me with the thud it made on the ground. I almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it. So, instead of reading, I decided to write.
Reading the time on the coffee pot, I poured myself a second cup at a little after four. Gulping at this point, grateful for tomorrow being Saturday, I grabbed my laptop from the desk and snuggled back into bed. As the computer came to life, I double-checked my memory for a detail to make me believe that I had indeed locked the sliding glass door.
After I typed in my password, I huffed as I gently tossed the laptop onto the mattress. Getting back out of bed, I walked through the still lit-up living room and yanked hard on the door. When it didn’t budge, I stomped back into the bedroom, realizing probably too late that people were trying to sleep under me. I gave my mental apologies to the floor.
Climbing into bed with a bounce from the force of my body, I curled my legs under me as I grabbed up the laptop. Clicking the correct file, I saw my current work in progress filled the screen. I’d left my main character, a big beautiful woman like myself, investigating the latest theft in her area. I wrote a lot of what I knew. Although, I often toned down, by quite a bit, my city’s news stories to fit into the genre of cozy. New York wasn’t known for mild crimes. Oh, it had them, but they didn’t get as much media time, if they got any at all, lest the paper become too heavy to handle. Sometimes the newspaper read more like a horror story, but it gave me ideas, places to start with each story.
Sometimes I just got a character from a criminal or a victim and went from there. Other times, a situation spoke to me. I’d dull the bloody and horrific into sweeter words of description. I’d set the crime in what I imagined a small north-eastern town to be like, somewhere in Pennsylvania or Ohio. Then, I’d go to town creating my own tale. My characters, my heroes especially, made me smile. Having never had a real relationship myself, I often stayed clear of romance plots. I alluded to them, the possibilities of one occurring, but never saw them through. Once I’d tried it, created a romance in a story that was what I imagined to be a love like that my parents shared. In the end, it had only depressed me. So, I’d not tried it again. It was hard enough to keep positive in this world, without adding to the sad plight.
The sound of my fingers tapping on the keys soothed me as it always had, but soon enough I found my fingers paused over the keys. I wiggled them just inches from the keyboard. Still my imagination refused to keep creating the scene. After staring at the white page for what was probably only a few seconds rather than a few minutes, I closed the file and opened a blank one. While I had never written a paranormal tale before, I started one now. I called it fiction even as I wrote from memory every second of what had happened to me tonight.
My fingers flew over the keys now. Somehow, turning the events into what I insisted was fiction allowed my brain to explore them in a safe fashion. The sheer size of the wolf I’d deemed in my story a werewolf didn’t frighten me as it should have, even as I let my frazzled mind bring back the attack. The spot where the gun had been pressed into my back started to ache where I leaned back against my pillow. Each scratch seemed to start to sting again as I wrote every one into being in my story.
I gave myself creative license to let the werewolf speak to the heroine. He reassured her that he would take care of her attacker. He begged of her to get in her car and go home to safety. She’d agreed, but once in her car, she’d watched the attack I saw in her rearview mirror. Locked safely in her car, I let my mind rehash the worst of the night. I let the blood flow, though she couldn’t hear the bones crack. I wrote it into what I could tolerate. Still, this would be no cozy mystery.
If the bottle of whiskey had been in my bedroom, I’d have added it to my coffee. Instead, I wrote about each gulp I’d taken of the alcohol once I’d gotten home. By the time the character in my story had reached the safety of her house, slamming the front door closed, the sun had started to shine through the sheer curtains.
Before I closed my computer, I tried to think out where I wanted the story to go next. I had the liberty here of writing myself my own happy ending. In fiction, especially werewolf fiction, the fierce predator turned into a gentle giant, once a man again. I grinned as I thought of trying my hand at a paranormal romance.
Why not? I mused. You don’t let anyone read them anyway.
Still, I held onto the possibility that one day someone would. I stared out into nothing as my mind searched for options. Maybe it didn’t need to be finished. Maybe I’d chalk it up as a journal entry. No, I needed it to be fiction. Yet, even in fiction, the whole damn romance thing scared me. Without making a single note on the page, I shut my laptop and curled up under the covers. Holding my eyes tightly closed, I attempted to clear my mind. I prayed for the gift of sleep to take me, and get me away from myself.
Chapter Three
Chloe had called around the middle of the week to ask if I wanted to go to another club this coming Saturday. Just a mere week after the attack that still had me losing some sleep this week, I agreed with no reasonable excuse not to. I wouldn’t be walking to my car alone, though, I could swear to that. I might not even stay if I couldn’t find a place in the parking lot behind the place this time. I wanted one real close to the door. Thinking it through, I wouldn’t even leave my car until I spied someone else walking in at the same time. I wanted someone nearby who could hear me scream.
By this time, having had days to fight through my thoughts on a daily basis, I relegated the incident down to a hallucination brought on by the stress of being mugged. As far as my co-workers were concerned, I’d come up with an excuse for my cut up hands and legs along with the bruised body and slight limp. Apparently, it’s taken a nasty fall in the parking lot of my building.
Determined to keep the whole horrible experience to myself lest I get confused in the lies I even told myself, I kept it a complete but simple fib. Luckily, no visible marks ended up on my face. I didn’t know how. My jaw ached with every bite I took. It shot a pain that radiated into my head when I yawned. Behind my desk, with me busy at work, many never even noticed I had anything wrong with me at all, save for some scraped up knuckles. I was often a klutz, so many didn’t even inquire about those.
By Saturday night, I was near healed. I planned to keep my parking lot fall my story. This club, Underground Asylum, was known for its local bands that played original music. It felt a bit more comfortable than the dance club we’d been to last week. There wasn’t nearly as much motion going on. With no dance floor, the customers basically sat and listened as they had their drinks. Although, the place seemed packed. The three of us, Chloe and I along with one of her work friends, Sarah, had walked to the back and then the front of the place searching for a table. We’d gotten lucky, then. A crew who’d just come in for a few drinks, deciding to go elsewhere, offered us their table up front.
Once seated, Sarah offered to go for the first round. I’d ordered a cosmo, like them, tonight. While sweet, this place made weak drinks I soon found out. More cranberry than vodka, they didn’t have the punch of a Jameson and Ginger. Yet, I knew from experience that they went down easy and could just as easily sneak up on you. I sipped even though I was parched from latent stress rather than true thirst. I wanted hold of my full faculties.
I scanned the crowd. Many tables were stuffed with men drinking beers with buddies. I hadn’t seen my attacker last week, so I wouldn’t know him if I fell over him. Regardless, I looked for shifty faces in the crowd, a sudden need to make up an excuse to go home. I really hoped to be back to myself here, soon. How many days could one spend angry at their own thoughts, their own memories? For that matter, how long could I go on playing with those memories, trying to convince myself I’d witnessed something different from what I had?
I may not be a go get them, seize the day kind of girl, but I had confidence in myself. I’d never been scared of my own shadow. I’d never doubted my mind. Trauma wasn’t new to my life, but this kin
d was.
You need to give yourself time, I soothed myself as I continued to search all the male faces in the crowd. Not even a psychologist would expect you to just bounce back from such an event.
I was starting to think maybe I should give mine a call. I hadn’t seen her in over a year, had been tired of hashing out the same crap in dealing with the loss of my father, becoming an orphan, if you will, at the age of only twenty-two. The thought of getting into that I’ll-need-to–see-you-back–in-a-week crap made my stomach roll more. I’d do this myself.
“You noticed how many guys are in this place tonight?” I mused out loud. Catching myself, I recovered with, “Good odds for us. SO, what kind of band is playing here tonight? And, when do they start?”
“Of course I noticed!” Chloe answered with a giggle muffled only by her disgust at my asking such a question. You’d think that I’d insulted her womanhood or something. “It’s an alternative band some guy at work was telling us about. They should be starting here shortly, I believe. No watch, so I don’t know what time it is, but we planned to get here early, but not so early we’d be drunk before they started.”
I shook my head at her. She’d driven with Sarah. Sarah having lost the designated driver coin toss of the night, Chloe could get as comfortably wasted as she wanted. We girls watched out for each other, though. We knew each other’s limits, and even when not designated drivers, we didn’t let each other get sloppy or stupid drunk. Wouldn’t want to make a scene.
Curves & Alphas: A Paranormal Box Set: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) Page 2