My jaw drops and my heart rate picks up the pace and begins to gallop in my chest. Standing off to the side under the awning of the local newspaper is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever encountered. Her skin is flawless, the color of caramel which has my mouth salivating since it’s one of my favorite candies. Her hair is long, falling down her back in sheets of dark, layered strands. Her lips are puffy and succulent, the need to see how they’d feel against my own luring me to her like a siren. Her body is pear shaped, she’s all tits and ass.
In other words, she’s goddamn perfect and I have the itching need to go over and introduce myself. But I hold myself back because women like her, perfect in every way, want things I can’t give them. A home and a future full of love, laughter, hearts and flowers as well as other shit Cupid’s responsible for.
And that ain’t me.
I’m a hard man who’s not cuddly or lovable. I’m unworthy, tainted, rabid, and I’ll never put my filth on another person. So instead of following my instincts, I turn around and dismiss her. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I feel rather than see her walk away, and for a minute afterward, I swear my heart stops beating.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Letti
I don’t knowwhat it is about that Viking God I just saw on the streets, but he had me standing there like a stalker, watching him. I was mesmerized by those braids in his hair and all I could do was stand there gaping like a fish as I picture him with a hatchet in his hand dressed in fur. I know that the image will never leave my mind and any man I meet from here on out won’t compare.
He’s a walking, talking wet dream for a woman like me. He’s big and burly. I know that once a man like him claims a woman, she’ll be forever protected. That’s what I want, a man that makes me feel safe.
When he turns his back on me, the spell is broken from our stare-off and I snap out of it. Lunch break is over anyway and it’s time for me to head back to the office and start transcribing some files for my boss. It’s easy, and under my new identity I’ve started making a life for myself—a good life. I have my own apartment that he helped me find and obtain. Luckily, it’s afurnished apartment so I didn’t have to go out and spend money I didn’t have when I started establishing myself. It’s basic and well-worn, but each time I walk over the threshold and plop on the couch, a smile spreads across my face.
I have a home and don’t sleep in a linen closet style room. I can spread my arms and not touch both walls with the tips of my fingers. The best part is that I lock myself inside, not somebody else. It’s the little things that make my heart skip a beat these days. My new boss is a lawyer who helps ‘foreigners’ establish their citizenship. Especially those who are fleeing something that is a danger to their health. Most of these stories I transcribe break my heart and make my life sound like a cake walk.
As I sit at my desk and pull up my boss’s latest client’s profile, I fight the tears. It’s heartbreaking. The mother is seeking asylum in the States from an abusive piece of shit who wants to sell their daughter to heighten their standing in the community.
Unfortunately, it’s something I can relate to when it comes to this poor girl’s misery. I knew from an early age that there was something royally fucked up when it came to my family. My peers at school didn’t show up in rags nor did they wear shoes that pinched their toes with each step they took. They didn’t have to stand in line for the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to fill their bellies because they had parents who refused to fill out the forms so they could eat or send them with a sack lunch. It’s not because my mom was lazy either, it’s because she simply didn’t give a shit if I ate or not.
I shake those thoughts off because they are my past, not my future and my goal is to help keep her from facing the fate that’s before her if I don’t. “At least her mother cares if she lives or dies,” I mumble to myself as I place my earphones in my earsand start listening to the mother’s testimony and translate it from Spanish to English.
I rinse, wash, and repeat my days. It feels good to have a schedule. I know what to expect and what not to. Monday through Friday I go into the office. On Saturdays, I do my laundry and clean the house, and Sundays, I use that day for resting and mentally resetting myself. What I do isn’t as easy as some would presume, not when I have to hear and read some things that bring tears to my eyes. Anyone with a heart wouldn’t be able to make it through one of those recordings without breaking down.
It’s been a couple of weeks since I saw my Viking biker, and I look for him anytime I’m out and about. I can’t seem to help myself. For some ungodly reason, I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Whereas I’m sure someone like him wouldn’t want a woman like me with all of the baggage I carry, I can’t help but fantasize what it would be like to be held in those strong arms of his.
My days start to blur together, I listen to the rumblings in town whenever I walk into one of the establishments. There’s a street war brewing between the Kings of Anarchy and the Onyx Dragons. People are scared, not that I can blame them. Secretly, I’m hoping the Kings come out the victor because the Dragons are tyrants and I can’t help but hope that they’re brought down to their knees.
I spit on the sidewalk, between the cracks and curse them as I stomp on it, adding a twist of my ankle for an extra effect. ThoseDragons need their backs broken so they can’t cause any more havoc on this town that is starting to feel like home.
So far, I’ve been lucky to not cross paths with them because from the stories I’ve heard by the shopkeepers, I’d put my foot in my mouth and probably end up as a special guest at one of their ‘parties’. I left that threat and I don’t want to inadvertently find myself back in the same exact position I escaped from.
As I cross the street and head to my apartment, I’m greeted by a man who forgot what a shower’s used for. “Hello there, darlin’,” he says, his yellowed, tar stained teeth smiling down at me. “You’re a cute little thing, ain’t ya?”
“Hijo de la chingada,” I curse, wishing I hadn’t caught his attention.
“Did you just call me a son of a bitch, bitch?” he spits, his friendly disposition turning evil with the flip of a coin.
My spine stiffens and I find myself kicking myself in the proverbial ass. My mouth runs away from me when I get nervous when it comes to threats. And my instincts scream that he’s one of the biggest ones I can face. “Not you per se, just the situation.”
A crazed smile crosses his face. The damn brute finds my blooper hilarious. “Scared of me, Latin Beauty?”
“More like annoyed,” I mumble as I try to step around him.
“Where ya going? I didn’t even get a chance to introduce myself,” he states, puckering his bottom lip. “Don’t be rude, stick around and talk to me. I have a feeling we’re going to be the best of friends.” When he licks that puckered lip, warning bells start ringing in my ears.
I look skyward, asking God why me? Why do I attract the crazies?
“I don’t need friends, nor do I want any,” I reply. “Step aside, I’m trying to get inside.”
“Now you’re just being rude,” he spits out, his eyes pinching together as he narrows them at me. “Women like you need to learn their place.”
“And where’s that?” I spit back at him. My spine stiffens as I prepare myself for what foul thing he’ll respond with.
