Excerpt from "Raw & Vulnerable"

 

Chapter 1

 

Every single day is endlessly the same; a repertoire of familiarity and monotony amongst the rows of books. She doesn’t know it yet, but today is not the same.

If someone were to ask her, she’d tell them that she loves the usual tedium of her day. Change for Minnie is reviled, unwanted, and deeply disliked.

Ah. Yes, the everlasting joke. Have a good laugh. Minnie, sort of like Minnie Mouse. Her mother had an affinity for Disney characters in her youth, and it clearly shows. The joke simply expands once one realizes her sister’s name is Ariel, like the mermaid. Larger than life, full of adventure, and free-spirited.

Must be why Ariel didn’t get named after a mouse.

It’s a sick twist of fate, the mouse thing. Minnie, quiet and unassuming. Reserved. Averse to taking any risks or breaking any of the rules. There are reasons for that, but none of those reasons make for polite conversation.

She doesn’t like seeing pity when someone looks at her, so she keeps her problems to herself. She can always see when they remember the big news story from years ago, how they look at her and think, oh, that poor girl was you?! The Abducted Girl? The Bank Hostage?

It leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

“You’re getting boring, Mouse,” Ariel had said recently, during one of her impromptu visits to town. “I’ve lost hope that you’re ever going to get out and live. You’re the old maid card in every deck. When was the last time you even touched a man?!” Minnie had been vaguely offended by that statement. Oh, who is she kidding? She’s actually been upset about it for weeks. I’m not even thirty yet and Ariel has the nerve to call me an old maid.

After all, what’s wrong with liking law and order? Is it a crime to live a happy, safe life? She has her cute little house plants. She’s named them all. Donald. Goofy. Mickey. She absolutely does not talk to them when she cleans her townhome.

“Excuse me, Miss.” A polite voice garners her attention. “Can you point me to the romance section?”

Ah, someone seeking a good bodice ripper? Minnie smiles from behind her desk and says, “Upstairs and to the left. Row 25. We got some new books in last week; those are on display. Let me know if you need a good recommendation.”

The woman nods her thanks and makes her way to the second floor of the library where Minnie works. Minnie’s home away from home, hidden amongst all the shelves. One must make mention that nothing bad ever happens at a library. Not that she’s heard of, anyway. If something bad does happen at libraries, well, she doesn’t want to know.

Ignorance is bliss, as far as she’s concerned.

She’s pleasant, sweet, but not exactly the most sociable bird in the tree, nor the boldest.

In fact, not sociable at all, by choice. Any changes in her routine are jarring, phantom fingers of anxiety touching her nerves. An omen of danger, whispering in her ear, tormenting her with thoughts of every terrible thing that could possibly happen in any given situation.

As a girl, she had been diagnosed with minor symptoms of situational trauma. She’s functional, yes. Very much so, in fact. She’s aware that she’s unreasonably afraid of things she shouldn’t be. Routine is the key. The charm. Her safety blanket.

So, yes. Every single day is exactly the same.

Except today.

She’s taken up residence at the info desk for the time being. Her library is mostly calm, quiet during the mornings and early afternoons. The same people come and go, sometimes new faces from the local high school, looking for reference books for some dreadful paper they are struggling with.

So, needless to say, Minnie notices him when he walks in.

All the hairs on her arms stand up, prickling with awareness. Her chest tightens, like a hand just reached inside her ribcage and grabbed her heart. Staring is rude, but she can’t look away. A moment of confusion rushes through her, looking at him from behind the latest in new literature she’s reading.

Is he lost? This doesn’t look like the sort of place…well, it just doesn’t look like his sort of place.

Distantly, Minnie realizes that’s rather stuck-up of her, but whatever, no one can judge her thoughts. Men like that don’t just walk in the door to her quiet, civilized library. Housewives, sure. Dads with their kids, yes. Emo teenage girls bemoaning love, all day long.

Men who look like they’re about to jump on the front desk and yell, ‘empty your cash registers, sluts’ is a large no.

Because this is a library and money really isn’t a thing here.

He looks strangely lost among the shelves, dark work boots on, dirty, tattoos peeking out around the collar of his shirt, crawling down his tightly chiseled arms. Black gloves that give her the shivers are stuffed in one of his pockets. His dark hair is buzzed, slightly tighter to his scalp on the sides, more generous on the top. Aggressive, low maintenance. His eyes are sharp, lips cruel, and he’s frowning at the books as if they’ve done him wrong. There’s a honeyed sort of tan to his skin and Minnie assumes he must work outside for a living. Some sort of townie from the wrong side of town. He’s probably from Harrow’s Row, the infamous neighborhood known for being rundown and full of crime.

He probably works with his hands. He probably doesn’t wash them after he pisses.

Flipping to the next page in her book, Minnie feels one of her eyebrows quirk behind her large glasses. Has he even seen a book before?

Minnie! She mentally scolds her judgmental self in the same breath. You’re a terrible person.

“As judgy as your mother,” she mutters under her breath as she subtly watches him wander from over the top of her book.

Her eyes catch on his hands as he reaches out to pluck something from the shelf. Broad, rough. Veined. They look strong enough to crush someone’s throat. She bets they could engulf her neck easily. Maybe he could encircle her entire waist with just his two hands alone.

Down his left arm crawls a snake, coming to an end on his hand, out of the mouth of an ivory skull, midnight bullets at his wrist. Nothing is in color, only pristine black ink, shaded ominously. She shivers, watching him, a thrill of danger walking down her spine.

Minnie wonders what that would be like, to be the object of desire for a man like this. She wonders, then dismisses it.

These types of men don’t really see her, which is perfectly fine, actually. She’s bookish. A little sharp-tongued when prodded, but mostly unremarkable. She hides large chocolate eyes behind big plastic frames and she wears her sunny blonde hair in a messy bun. Her clothes aren’t overly enticing, which is by design.

She doesn’t want to be noticed.

Her sister always had boyfriends in high school. Minnie…not so much. Not after The Traumatic Event. The popular boys and girls teased her for her increasingly quiet nature. They even threw in the occasional bullying tactic because her backbone was stronger than they liked, and she never really found any interest in their petty lives.

She’s a stuck-up know-it-all. Which, also apparently makes her a B-I-T-C-H.

She’s not about to deny it, but the word is rather vulgar and classless in her esteemed opinion.

There’d been one fumbling experience in college. A nice, very safe boy. He’d had no idea about what to do with Minnie, just like she didn’t know all that much about doing anything with him. He’d been more nervous about it than her, which is probably the only reason she agreed to it in the first place. The experience had been lacking in merit, and Minnie quickly found that she had better results by herself.

The ease of it, lying on her back, legs spread, pressing adjustable vibrations against her heated flesh. Her own mind provided better fantasies than actual boys provided mind-blowing pleasure. It was simple, fast. Almost effortless. The little vibrating bullets are fabulous inventions.

Better yet, she has complete control when it’s just her. Safe. No risk involved. No messy emotions. No mistakes. No being scared that she might get physically harmed and overpowered.

She doesn’t indulge herself often, but occasionally something will spark her imagination. Like, one day when she was walking to work and passed by a group of men working on the road. Hard hats, dirty jeans, tanned arms bulging with strength.

Dirty, rough, crude men. She’d thought about that one night, much to her chagrin. Something about men that work with their hands, their bodies. Perhaps it’s a morbid fascination on her part. Danger and risk are things that she avoids like the plague. Yet, somehow the idea of it gives her a thrill, heating her on the inside with guilty, shameful pleasure.

Fear and thrill seem to mix all too well. The sensation is almost the same; heart racing, rough breathing, adrenaline running high.

She’s still ogling the newcomer as he wanders about, looking at different shelves. His worn boots are loud as he walks, and he’s got a certain swagger, confident, aggressive. Maybe even egotistical. The silver chain hanging on his jeans catches the light and the keys on his hip jingle audibly.

The frown on his face comes and goes, sometimes replaced with an expression of male boredom. She places him somewhere in his late thirties, examining the strong fill of his body and the way he holds himself. His face is hard, sharp, giving off the aura that he’s completely capable of doing terrible things. A strong jawline, a face that reminds her of a hawk; predatory.

Good-looking, if one is into men that look like danger, the kind that probably like a rough screw.

“Hey, Minnie. Did you take your lunch break yet?” The senior librarian, Colleen, taps her on the shoulder, pulling Minnie from her rather obscene thoughts.

Minnie flushes, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t. Goodness, did Colleen see her staring at that man as if she were watching a steak? “I didn’t. I mean, not yet. I’ll go soon.”

The older woman gives her a fond scowl. “You’ll go now. We have to make sure you eat, you’re like a bird! I swear, all you do is drink tea.” A slight smile shapes her lips. “And more tea.”

“What’s wrong with my tea?” Minnie asks indignantly. It’s tastefully fragrant! Colleen chuckles good-naturedly and walks away, telling her to remember to go eat.

Sighing, Minnie takes one last glance in the direction of the man who has graced their library, wondering what sort of girls catch his eye.

Probably not her. Definitely not her. She goes on lunch, tells herself not to think of him, because this is a fluke, she’ll probably never see him again, even if his intimidating form is burned into her retina, reminding her of things that happened long ago.

You see, she shouldn’t want what reminds her of those men from that terrible day, thirteen years ago. That would make her absolutely mental.

Wouldn’t it? 

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Released October 20, 2020
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Copyright © 2020 by Asha Everly

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or used in any manner without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.