I’d read each page breathlessly, flipping through the pages like a hungry wolf in search of his next meal, practically dying to find out how it all ended and then…I gulp as my throat constricts into a ball of tight anger, unable to understand how someone could be so cruel. I’d invested so much of myself into the story, hoping to be rewarded with a satisfying conclusion to such a tragic relationship.
Then it ended. Just like that. No happily ever after. No resolve. A tragic heartbreak that left me feeling raw. I can’t believe how invested I was in the book, feeling like I was part of the character’s lives, only to be shafted at the very end.
Burning up with anger, I turn the book over and peer at the binding, determined to commit the author’s name to memory so I can make sure to stay clear of reading anymore of the their future work. Lauren Winters. “More like Slutty Winters,” I mutter angrily, feeling thoroughly cheated.
I know it’s fiction and it’s not real, but I hate when I get invested into characters and then something like this happens. It makes me feel absolutely cheated.
I groan my frustration, tossing the book on the end table. My eyes are drawn to the roaring flames of the marble fireplace that I’m seated in front of. The heat of the fire pricks my already heated cheeks and I relax slightly as I’m enveloped by cozy warmth. Despite my sour moment, I love this.
It’s one of my favorite past times during the cold winter months, sitting in front of the roaring fire with a hot mug of coffee and burying my nose into an engrossing romance novel. I just like it better when it’s a book that doesn’t leave me feeling like my heart’s been ripped out of my chest and stomped on in front of me.
“I need something more mindless and smutty after that,” I mutter, picking up my cup of coffee and taking a sip. I’m calm now, but I still have the slight urge to toss the book into the flames. I must admit the author did a good job with everything else. I just didn’t like her ending.
I just wish I hadn’t stepped on my kindle. I had like 50 awesome books piled up on my to-be-read list.
Sighing, I get up from my cushioned recliner with the book in my hands and stretch out my limbs, several of my bones popping. But if feels so good, I hold the position, letting my limbs come back to life.
My eyes take in my living room and my mood lifts slightly again. It feels so homey in my new townhouse, especially with how cold it is outside. I’ve decorated it with warm, earthen colors that makes me feel right at home. The walls are lined with decorative shelves that are filled with books. I’ve read every single one of these books. A few of them are even autographed.
I love my new bookends too. They’re pale blue mice made of stone on each end. They look like they’re holding the books up, and just seeing them makes me smile.
This room is completely mine and finally feels like a home. I still have the rest of the rented townhouse to put my stamp on, but this one room is just perfect. I walk to the large paned window across the room to open the curtains and let the evening light in. I can feel the cold from the winter coming through.
Outside, I can still see the confetti lining the streets from the New Year’s Parade as I place my hand against the window. It’s a few days past the first of January and a few pieces are still blowing along the edges of the building.
I grin as I take it all in, the ending of the book quickly forgotten. I could write a romance that would leave me with feelings that would brighten my day. It’s okay to make my heart hurt a little, but I don’t want it broken. That’s not why I read romance novels.
I’ve actually had a very good year, albeit a long one. I just finished my next-to-last semester at North University and I’ve passed all my classes with a B or better. I even managed to get a B+ in advanced calculus, something that's always been a struggle for me, all while working hard as a guidance counselor with troubled students at a local High School. I will never understand why psychology students have to know calculus. At this point, I just want to graduate and start giving back and helping make a brighter future for others as a teaching counselor in the youth detention center. It’s their last chance before their delinquency sends them beyond public schools and straight to jail. It’s not a job I take lightly.
I can’t handle the high school kids though. That’s for damn sure. For this past paid counseling internship, the program threw me in a classroom with twenty students. I’m only 24 and I’m petite and even on my best days, I hardly look over 21. To say the students didn’t take me seriously, doesn’t even begin to cover it. I cannot handle working with older teenagers. At all. Sure as hell not twenty of them at once.
Some of those kids got under my skin so bad that I thought I was about to have a stroke. It takes a lot to get me worked up and thinking negatively. But I found it difficult to stay positive as the semester progressed. I still managed to persevere though; a few students showed so much improvement and I know I made a positive difference in their life. In the end, that’s all that matters.
That internship is over, thank God. Next year, I’ll be in a middle school and that’s where I really want to work. I feel like I could do the most help there.
And now I have the entire winter break to catch up on all the romance books I’ve neglected as reward for my hard work.
I glare balefully at the book in my hand, thinking, I just need to make sure I don’t read anymore disasters like this one.
Huffing out another small sigh, I walk over to my bookshelf and pause before I slip the book back into it’s spot. I really should toss the damn thing into the fire. I’ll probably never read it again. In fact, I know I won’t. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Books are like the holy grail to me. Even ones I don’t love. They keep me sane and positive. They give me hope.
It’s time to get dressed and move on. I love my book boyfriends and getting lost in romances, but I have other plans tonight.
My body crackling with excitement, I put the book back into its place and make my way to my bedroom. I’m going to Club X tonight, a place that literally embodies the BDSM fantasy elements I love reading about.
Except it’s a fantasy come to life and I freaking love it. It’s been my secret pleasure for a while now and I’m having a blast just showing up and observing the BDSM lifestyle. The rich, powerful men, the beautiful, willing sex slaves, the hot and heavy playrooms with the wild, untamed sex. I suck in a breath as heat burns my cheeks and my nipples pebble at the thought. The experience has been so much more liberating and intoxicating than I thought it would be. Even if I haven’t participated yet.
It’s exactly the place I need to be to research the themes that I’m putting in my romance novel that I’ve been writing on my off time while at school. The book isn’t anything I’m taking too seriously and I don’t expect for it to ever be published or seen by anyone’s eyes but me. I just love writing the stories that come to me. It’s a stress-relieving outlet that I enjoy indulging in, especially when I’ve had a particularly bad day.
I walk into my bedroom, tingling with excitement, and dig out a beautiful red night gown out of my closet. I bought it just for tonight. There’s a PJ theme tonight at Club-X and I don’t want to be sent home for breaking club protocols. I set it down onto the bed, running my fingers along the soft, silk fabric, thrilling at how luxurious it feels.