Pulse: BBW Contemporary Rock Star Romance (36 page)

The door to her cottage thrust open and there was a blonde man standing in the darkness of the porch. Ava screamed. Without hesitating he entered her cottage and threw her on the bed. One by one, in quick succession, he ripped off her gown, pulled off her panties, and opened his mouth to bite her thigh. The present skipped forward by several minutes and Ava was naked with the man, as he plowed his manhood into her body, using her as his object, his toy, his possession.

And then, Ava woke up.

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CHAPTER LIST

DEDICATION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

ABOUT HANNAH

MORE FROM HANNAH

ALPHA WOLF’S CALLING

WARNING: The following book is an account of one woman's nightmare come true. They say all good contains evil, and that all evil contains some good. If you are interested in experiencing the decadence, pleasure, and heat of passionate desire, step forward or you'll most certainly miss out.

“Uncle Sam's gold…has, in this respect, a quality of enchantment like that of the devil's wages. Whoever touches it should look well to himself, or he may find the bargain to go hard against him, involving, if not his soul, yet many of its better attributes; its sturdy force, its courage and constancy, its truth, its self-reliance, and all that gives the emphasis to manly character.”

—NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE,
The Scarlet Letter

CHAPTER I

This happened in 1656, the same year Ava's sister was married. In fact, all of Ava's sisters had married and she was now left alone, single, doomed seemingly to work as a waitress in a tavern on the main street of her hometown. Her job had perks, though, considering the dive was the only place in town singles had to go on the weekends. Her tavern consisted of strong, wooden tables lined in a row; two candles lay on each end. The walls were log, packed with frozen mud, and surrounded a giant fireplace in the center of the place. Along the longest side of the tavern was a bar, where Mitch served ale, spirits, and other relaxing drinks.

Ava was 22 years old, by far the oldest waitress in the place. Most of the girls looked up to her, but at the same time, took a protective stance to her when half-inebriated men entered before Ava's boss said she could go.

"A man's hands are for work, not play!" they'd say.

"Ava you tell me if them boys try anything, ya hear!?"

Ava consented to her co-workers, but she could tell the other girls felt sorry for her. Somewhat curvaceous, from the poor side of the tracks, without consistent access to a bathing tub, Ava nevertheless possessed a striking beauty if anyone would take the time to notice. Her hair was a dark chestnut brown, her eyes emitted a near supernatural blue hue, and her skin was porcelain-like. Being judged prematurely by your appearance was an experience with which Ava found herself very familiar.

Many people, not just her girlfriends, wondered why Ava hadn't taken an interest in specific men. And the truth was, not many men had taken an interest in Ava. But beyond that, Ava had a tendency to dream of a more perfect life. There was something in her nature missing, and the best way she could describe it to herself--or to anyone else, for that matter--was a nagging feeling of "being lopsided," overly endowed with certain traits found in all human beings, but mostly just in females, and underdeveloped in other areas, most typically found among males. Ask Ava about her talents in sewing, housekeeping, recording journal entries, and attending babies, and she could give a professorial lecture. But with regards to fishing, hunting, manual labor, or carpentry and blacksmith work, she couldn't even give you a moment's understanding. The truth was, if she stopped to think about it, Ava was constitutionally feminine, and there was something too relatable about the guys whom she knew in her hometown. Maybe you'd call it lack of mystery or surprise. They all seemed too predictable, too consistent, too one-dimensional: every one of them worked as a blacksmith, or jockey, or carpenter; every one of them wore the same suspenders in the same boring boots; each of them wanted nothing more than to stay home for the rest of their lives, making a living, working from paycheck-to-paycheck.

By contrast, Ava longed for something more romantic, something a little more out of reach and therefore more perfect. She wanted a guy whose personality was so masculine that he seemed almost like a different species, altogether unrelatable. It wasn't enough that he liked hunting and fishing, but that he hungered for mystery, being alone, independent, able to survive by the fruits of his own strength. He'd never talk unless you pried him, and even then, he'd only be interested in one or two-word answers. Separated, her man was, not just from society and people, but also from himself. He held not an ounce of self-consciousness or embarrassment. He was primal, pure action and reaction to the living world. Even his body radiated vitality and lust for life--tall as a statue and broad as oak. For Ava, knowing him would give real life to her dream, a place more real than anyone or anything she had experienced thus far in her two decades of life.

Ava stepped out of the tavern just as Mitch finally closed the place for the night. Her footsteps were crispy as she walked along the pathway to her little cottage in the woods. She lived by herself, as her mother thought it necessary for Ava to "get out on her own," away from her parents. This was really code for an insistence on her parent's part to get Ava married as soon as possible. Ava knew she could not make it on her own for any length of time past the age of 25. So the clock was ticking.

Her dwelling was quiet, dark, and cold. She put a log on the fire and struck a match. The sound struck against the silence. There was something quite unsettling about that night, because the moon shone down in the forest harder and whiter than any candle she could use to see her way through the darkness. Normally around 2 AM, the coyotes would emerge from the forest, howling their calls through the night. Most nights there was even a storm, or at least the quiet hiss of wind invading her doorsill.

But tonight there was nothing. Just dead silence.

She gave milk to her cat, locked the door, and started for the one window of her cottage. She stared outside for a brief moment, where the moonlight evaporated into the darkness of the forest. Something called to her, and she sensed that someone or something was watching her. The door to her cottage opened, and Ava turned around frightened. She stepped onto the snowy porch of her place and looked out into the distance.

"Hello!"

There was nothing.

"I have a huge dog that sleeps with me in bed at night, so don't you think of trying anything!" she said.

Silence.

And then the wind came alive, and electrified her skin through her clothes. Ice.

Ava walked back into her cottage and sealed the door with the biggest, thickest log she could find. She curled up into her bed and pulled the covers over her eyes.

CHAPTER II

Ava was fighting with Mitch at the beginning of her shift.

"Ava! When are you going to get married?"

"I'm so tired of hearing that sir. Please leave me alone," she said.

"I'm only asking because I know someone who would be right up your alley."

"Who's that?"

"Me course," he said.

Ava snapped her head away and bit her lip. Death. Death before marrying Mitch. Tall and angular, with an aquiline nose, and beady eyes, he reminded the patrons of a starved buzzard. Although Ava recognized his inner goodness, she herself couldn't help but agree with the other patrons and workers who didn't see into his soul as deeply. Thankfully Mitch had at least one soul who saw past his ghastly exterior, and Ava would make a conscientious effort to continue that acknowledgement.

Mitch motioned toward the door as it swung open.

"Or him," he said.

At first Ava couldn't see him. The door opened, she thought, by itself and a ghost made the sounds of footsteps. But then looked down and saw the skinny, short man enter the tavern. His clothes seemed like a wet rug he carried on his back, heavy and burdensome. His eyes were downcast, as if he were afraid of offending someone by looking at them. His hands, feet, and torso were almost doll-like. For a moment Ava thought a living mannequin had entered her tavern.

Without waiting for someone to acknowledge his presence, the man sauntered over to the bar and waited for Mitch to offer him some drink.

"What can I get for ya, sir?" Mitch asked.

"Ale," the man spoke under his breath.

"What's the cause for war buddy?"

The man stopped before taking a drink. "What do you mean?"

Mitch laughed. "What brings you to town? Ava and I know everyone around here better than we know our own asses, and we've never seen you yet."

The man looked over at Ava. The tavern was empty except for the two men and her.

Mitch held out his hand. "Name's Mitch."

The man paused. "Bastian."

"Nice to meet you Bastian!"

Bastian looked over at Ava quickly, hoping she wouldn't notice. Mitch caught him though and motioned Ava over.

At this moment, Ava felt an invisible rope wrap itself around her waist and tug her gently but firmly in Bastian's direction. She walked in his direction, and as she approached him and as his body and features came into view, Ava's initial nervous stirrings subsided. In fact, they transformed instantaneously to something much worse--an outright revulsion.

Bastian was not just small; he was near nonexistent, ghost-like, and ghastly. His skin was aged and marked by hardship and labor. The whites of his eyes were sullied with a yellow tint. His hair was matted with dirt and mud. His smell was that sweet, faint smell you encounter after discovering spoiled fruit in a cabinet of your home.

"Ava, this is Bastian. Our first guest of the day. Tell him how things are done around here."

Ava laughed. "Well, let's see. I start off the day cleaning the tables, changing out candles, mopping the floor one last time before we open..."

Ava stopped. "Have I...met you before?"

Bastian addressed Ava as he stared at the window behind her, unwilling to make eye contact directly with her. "Maybe in a different life."

Even though there was a sadness to his demeanor, Bastian radiated a deep kindness and compassion, marked perhaps by a perception that comes from his own suffering in life. For an instance, Ava could see herself in him, in the way his inner life collided with his outer appearance, the way he refrained from human contact unless given permission, but mostly the way he had a fundamental awareness of other people's feelings. Despite this, Ava saw at the same time a weakness, a disgusting absence of spirit and fight required to make your way in the world. Suddenly that spoiled fruit smell seemed unbearable. She gagged a little in her mouth and turned the other way.

CHAPTER III

The day lasted for years. Bastian remained well through the night in the far, lone stool he'd originally chosen upon first arrival. Add to this the fact that Ava had a fly buzz in her ear for the past few hours, the place had become ever increasingly crowded by the hour, and several day laborers--with the scent of an outhouse and obsession of a pit-bull--had spent the last 20 minutes essentially indicating they'd like to rape her. Throughout her shift, Ava had struggled with juggling all these issues with that same sneaking feeling that she was being watched. Sure enough, every time she looked up she noticed Bastian had grown more confident in his willingness of observe her from a distance. As disturbed as she was by the day laborers, Bastian's voyeurism just made her angry and annoyed.

Buzz. The fly swarmed in figure eights around her head. She swatted.

"Hey hammies, why don't you come over here and let me squeeze ya!" The day laborer's gut hung over his pants and pushed its way out of his shirt. His scraggly beard was a dull gray.

"I swear I'm not married," he said.

All his friends bellowed and the entire tavern shook with the sound. Ava's face flushed hot with revenge--her back hurt, she couldn't feel her feet, and the inner side of her thighs rubbed against each other to make a chafing point. If only I could slap those men and knock them on their ass, she thought.

"Baby why don't you take them skivvies off. I bet they haven't been washed in two weeks!"

Her heart beat harder and faster. The din of the tavern grew deafening. And yet she could still hear the men running their jokes.