Curves & Alphas: A Paranormal Box Set: (BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Once I’d forced myself to walk away from the door, I got into a good bottle of whiskey I’d taken from my father’s house when he’d passed away suddenly a few years ago. Having kept it for sentimental reason, all that took a backseat to the medicinal purposes that faced me now. The sting of my scratches outweighed the deep pain of muscles bruised. If only I could stop shivering, I was sure my pain would subside to some degree.

I prayed the burn of the whiskey would dull my senses, not just the nerve receptors but the thoughts and emotions clouding my brain. The more the hot flashes of adrenaline rushed through me, the more tears burned my eyes. My head began to throb as well, making me more aware of the stiffness building in my neck. Luckily, my head had hit my hand rather than pavement, but it still hurt to move my jaw. I hadn’t felt the scratches on my one palm as I’d gripped the wheel driving home. Now, I could barely bend my fingers over the setting scabs. I needed to get them and all the others cleaned out.

Sounded like so much fun. I lowered myself onto my couch in an attempt to calm the hell down. I read the label on the bottle of whiskey again and again like a well-read book. Not the first time I’d done so. When I’d lost my father, I’d done the same. No idea why. Once the violent trembling tuned down to a steady shake, I moved to the bathroom, bottle tightly gripped in my other hand. The one that had held the keys and gotten its knuckles scratched. Setting down the bottle on the sink, I turned on the shower. I wanted the warmth, but didn’t relish the idea of cleaning out my multitude tiny wounds. I looked like a girl who’d just wrecked her bike as I undressed. Scratches covered my knees and legs, given I’d been in a dress. 

Memories of my dad tending to my injuries with a steady supply of popsicles and Band-Aids brought a brief smile to my face, and a different kind of tear to my eye. As the whiskey took a greater hold on my faculties, I doubted the images of tonight that were, regardless, burned into my brain.
Growls? Fur? Blood?
It couldn’t be possible. Yet, something familiar lurked, a dull knowing of the beast.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d thought I’d seen in the shadows a similar set of eyes. However, never had the image been so undeniable under the light of the full moon. Never before had it dared to make itself known. How could I deny it this time? Especially when it felt like a kindred friend. Couldn’t be. That beast wasn’t anyone’s friend. My scared mind only wanted it so.

With another gulp of alcohol, I set my mind straight,
No! It’s not possible. Wolves don’t get that big. Nor do they venture into the city to the back alley of a club.

As the steam from the warm water raining down in the shower covered the mirror, I blurred the distinct, sharp images in my mind. Although I knew better, I told myself I was drunker than I’d thought.  For now, that worked for me. I would ignore the fact that I’d never leave a bar to drive if I wasn’t fully aware. Two drinks over the course of hours, along with an overconsumption of food, would have left me still more than capable to drive. However, I would go with the too-drunk-to-trust-my-eyes story and berate myself for the out-of-character possibility of driving drunk. It worked better at the moment.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” I said to the steamy image of myself in the mirror.

I forced myself to get undressed. Though, it left me feeling vulnerable despite the deadbolt engaged on my front door and the lock turned on my bathroom door.  I laughed, a sharp and false sound, as I looked over my shoulder before getting in the shower.

“You’re losing much needed hot water here,” I scolded myself.

“Stop talking to yourself,” I answered back.

Any chance at rational thought had left me long ago.

Once I’d gingerly stepped into the shower, for several minutes I stood like a statue. Arms stiff down by my sides, hands fisted, head bowed, I let the hot water beat on my back. Blinking against stray drops, I didn’t back into the water as usual, to let it rush through my hair, because I couldn’t bring myself to close my eyes. The strange sensation of man or beast jumping on me skittered across my skin. Even the wet hairs on my arms felt as if they’d raised up. I let out the breath I hadn’t been aware of holding with an audible sigh, which grew into a weeping gasp.

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, but 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.