That is why it is up to me to be the good girl and do what is expected of me. My father’s heart can’t handle more stress. He is stretched thin as it is.
Being the baby of the family has left me the most sheltered. With Elsabeth married and Ariala out of control, I do what I can to help my father out at the store. I recently obtained my high school diploma. Much later than I should have, but with our mother needing constant care and looking after, I dropped from public school and finished school at home with online courses.
I fell far behind in everything but reading. I would rather read than do anything. It’s my escape. It took me away from the pressure of taking care of my mother and being perfect for my father where my sisters had failed him.
“Isabella,” my father calls from his office.
I discard the newspaper and walk to the back of the store. “Yes, Papi.”
“I need to leave early today. I have to go by the bank before closing.” He takes off his glasses, cleaning them on the hem of his button down shirt. A coffee stain is dribbled down the front. He hasn’t been feeling well. I’m afraid he is over doing it. He stays stressed over my sister and money. “You shouldn’t have many customers. I’ll need you to lock up. “
“Go, I’ll be fine,” I assure him. I’ve taken care of the store plenty of times on my own since I was fifteen. When Papi would take Mama to the doctor I would stay behind and keep the store open. Papi hasn’t been the same since she died. None of us have.
I just wish I could see Papi smile again. He needs a woman to look after him other than me.
Although, I believe Papi has a thing for Lana Crawford, the loan officer at the bank. He goes to the bank often enough to see her. She seems like a sweet lady. She comes in from time to time to buy a romance novel. It would be nice to see them date. My father hasn’t dated since mom passed away over three years ago. He says that Mama was his one and once you have been with your one, nothing or no one can ever compare. I’m not sure if I believe there is only one person out there that I am meant to share my life with, but I have always felt a piece of me has been missing. Maybe I just haven’t met my one.
“I’ll swing back by and drive you home afterward.” He smiles warmly, but his skin seems pale for his naturally tan appearance.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine Mi hija.” He brushes my concern away and gathers the papers strewn across his desk into a neat pile, tucking them under his arm.
Once he has left, I make my way back to the front, on the odd chance that someone will actually come in and buy something. I grab a favorite book of mine and collapse on the loveseat, in the corner by the front window. My mother wanted customers to be comfortable and have a quiet place to read or talk about their favorite books.
Three cozy couches are placed in various parts of the room. My favorite being the one next to the window. When I’m not reading I enjoy people watching. I watch, as everyone’s lives seem to be moving on, while mine continues to stand still. Not that I mind working at the bookstore, but I don’t have many friends outside of my family. My daily routine consists of home and the bookstore. At least I get to read just about anything I want for free, basically.
I glance around the store my mother created missing the way she would smile at me from behind the counter, when she was well enough to work. The business did so much better when she was alive. She was the heart of the store. She attracted most of the customers with her wit and charm. But most of all her beauty. I have never seen a woman as beautiful as her, though many say I look like her, but even prettier. I think they are all nuts. My mother was graceful and stunning. I am a klutz and homely in comparison. I have no style or grace.
At least that is what my sisters tell me. I don’t care much about appearances though. I would much rather have my mind stimulated with the beauty of words rather than the vanity of society. If I ever find a man who can penetrate my mind, I’ll be smitten. For now, I will have to settle for my book boyfriends. They always know what to do or say.
If only I could turn things around as easily as it happens in the books I find my escape in.
Looking around the store there isn’t much design wise that I can change to draw people in.
The shelving and displays take up most of the room. A small counter takes up a short space holding the cash register, bookmarks, keychains, and small baubles for sale. Not that we sell much of anything these days. Most people have switched to e-readers. I prefer paperbacks myself, but I’m not a paying customer.
I’m on my third re-read of the Outlander series. Jamie is to die for. He is the ultimate book husband. I lose track of time as I escape my sad reality with the Frasier’s in Scotland. I am so absorbed in my reading I don’t even hear the door chime. I only realize someone else is in the store when my novel is plucked from my grasp.
In shock at my rude interruption, my eyes travel up the length of the intruder’s body. Starting at the feet, my eyes meet with a pair of black riding boots, my pulse quickens as I come to his worn, ripped, faded, denim jeans. Tattooed knuckles grip my book. One finger sticks out with the skull ring that adorns it. A leather vest covers the man’s chest. The name TRIS displayed in bold letters on one of the many patches exhibited on his biker cut, identifies him as Tristian Vandacamp. Tattoos snake up his neck and cover most of his face. Giving him the appearance of a skeleton. His appearance is alarming and intriguing. My hand, out of instinct, reaches up to touch his bone colored flesh.
He reminds me of my favorite character from my youth, Jack The Pumpkin King. I smile briefly, I haven’t read the book or watched the movie in years. My mother used to read the book to me every night or so she said, when I try to remember the years before her illness took over, it all fuzzes into a blur. I guess it hurts too much to remember her the way she was before—beautiful, young, and healthy.
Before my trembling fingers reach his face, he grabs my wrist, stopping me forcefully. My book is lying on the ground at his feet now. What kind of jerk mistreats a book like this anyway? Tristian Vandacamp, that’s who. I shouldn’t be surprised that this tough as nails biker has no manners or respect for literature.
Jerking my hand back from his tight hold, I clear my throat and raise from my spot on the loveseat. I retrieve my discarded book and place in bold letters on one of the many patches exhibited on his biker cut, identifies him as Tristian Vandacamp. Tattoos snake up his neck and cover most of his face. Giving him the appearance of a skeleton. His appearance is alarming and intriguing. My hand, out of instinct, reaches up to touch his bone colored flesh.
He reminds me of my favorite character from my youth, Jack The Pumpkin King. I smile briefly, I haven’t read the book or watched the movie in years. My mother used to read the book to me every night or so she said, when I try to remember the years before her illness took over, it all fuzzes into a blur. I guess it hurts too much to remember her the way she was before—beautiful, young, and healthy.
Before my trembling fingers reach his face, he grabs my wrist, stopping me forcefully. My book is lying on the ground at his feet now. What kind of jerk mistreats a book like this anyway? Tristian Vandacamp, that’s who. I shouldn’t be surprised that this tough as nails biker has no manners or respect for literature.
Jerking my hand back from his tight hold, I clear my throat and raise from my spot on the loveseat. I retrieve my discarded book and place it back on the shelf I borrowed it from, trying to reign in my annoyance at his disruption.
I can feel his dark eyes on me, assessing me. “Can I help you Mr. Vandacamp?” My voice comes out hoarse and shaky. I look up meeting his gaze and I have to avert my eyes back to his hands. I take a calming breath studying the bones tattooed over his digits, traveling up his arm. They look so real. He’s like a living dead man.
His hand reaches up, his strong, very alive fingers pinch my chin and tilt my face up, forcing me to stare into the dark abyss held in his eyes. “My father was Mr. I’m Tris.” Dropping his hand, he holds
an ink covered hand out for me to shake. I can still feel his touch on my face as if he never let me go.
Letting out a nervous breath I smile feeling giddy and silly. “Isabella,” I return unsure of whether I want to risk touching him. I am afraid the desire to trace my fingers over his tattoos will be too tempting. I can’t help it as my eyes bat, fluttering my lashes. That’s something my sisters would do, not me. This man has a weird effect on me.
Giving up on the handshake he drops his hand to his side, now clenching his fist. “Where’s your old man?” His dark eyes narrow on me, giving me goosebumps.
The way he looks at me makes me feel naked and afraid. I feel as though the depths of his darkness is swallowing me whole.
I clear the lump in my throat. “He will be in tomorrow. He stepped out early.” I look at the clock on the wall. I was reading a lot longer than I realized. I should have closed the store over an hour ago. Papi should be back to drive me home by now.
“You seem nervous,” he presses taking a calculated step toward me, boxing me in-between what I imagine to be his hard body and the counter. “Are you afraid Isabella?”
“Should I be?” I ask my voice coming out in a tight squeak.
“Very,” he answers cold and serious.
I scoot along the edge of the counter moving closer to him rather than further away.
“I think you are terrified of my appearance.” He cocks his head to the side appraising me.
I’m sure I’m not the kind of woman he is used to. My slim figure is hidden beneath my frumpy dress. I wear it more out of comfort than anything. My sisters always dressed so revealing, attracting attention with their bodies. I want to be liked for my mind not my body.
His nose turns up as his eyes travel down my guarded body.
Would he think differently of me, if I was dressed like Ariala, with all my goods hanging out on display?
“You seem to be the one judging appearances,” I observe.
“You looked appalled when your eyes met mine,” he states.
Before I can tell him his appearance doesn’t scare me in the least, and that it was his treatment of my book that set me off, the store line rings, startling me. I jump slightly as it clangs loudly in the quiet room. “I have to take this,” I announce with an apologetic smile.
Turning my back to him, I answer. “Book Nook, Isabella speaking.”
An unknown to me woman squawks on the line, “Mr. Perez has been rushed to the hospital, you need to come quickly.” I nearly drop the phone on the counter at her words.
My face pales as her words sink in. My stomach is twisting in knots and I have the urge to throw up. Sweat beads down my back. I feel dizzy. Vertigo sweeps over me as two strong arms wrap around me, protecting me from knocking my head on the counter.
A vision flashes of a boy but I feel too disoriented to make it out. But something about Tristian’s hold on me feels all too familiar. It’s like my body knows his touch and welcomes his darkness.
The warning tone signaling the phone is off the hook snaps me back from my sick spell. I steady my hands on the counter regaining control. His hands linger around my waist a bit longer as I focus on breathing. He looks at me again with those black orbs of despair and I want to drown in the icy, black waters threatening to pull me back under, but I need to get to my father.
I smile graciously and shove his hands away. He stills behind me, his body pressing into mine, definitely a hard wall of muscle. His mouth curves down in a grimace and he walks toward the door.
“Thank you. I have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll tell my father you wish to speak with him.” I don’t wait for a response. I rush to the office grabbing my bag and the keys to the store. The courtesy of phoning my sisters doesn’t cross my mind. I need to get to my father and make sure he is okay. I can’t lose him too. I don’t bother turning off the lights I can return later, once I have seen my father, to shut them off.
As I am twisting the key in the lock, I register Tristian standing by his motorcycle down the street watching me. I don’t like it. He makes me feel vulnerable.
My knees shake slightly threatening to buckle as I walk past him, my worry over my Papi is threatening to knock me off my feet.
“Need a lift,” he offers with the hint of a demand in his tone.
I know what kind of man Tristian is, the type that always gets what he wants and if he doesn’t get it right off, he can buy it.
He motions to his motorcycle.
His bike will get me to the hospital a lot quicker than my legs.
I nod unsure of how to get on or how to ride on the thing with him. I’ve never ridden before.
He takes one look at my frail appearance and laughs darkly.
His tattooed face wears a menacing smile. “Never had a little power between your legs.”
I blush, at the double meaning laced in his crude teasing.
“I bet you are as pure as a first snow in winter,” he jokes again at my expense.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I snap finding my spine.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with a man like me,” he barks before instructing me how to ride with him on what he calls the bitch seat. The skirt of my dress, hiked over my knees and bunched up offers a thin veil between my purity and his backside. I snuggle into his back for protection from the cool night air. “You’re too pure for me sweetheart, much too fragile for a man like me.” He laughs as he pulls us out onto the street.
Boogeyman's Dream Page 10
