She sat at her desk in the library, bored beyond belief. She had taken the job initially as a temporary arrangement after her previous relationship had broken up. With her two children she could no longer work the night shifts that she had been while she was involved, and she needed a day job so that she could work while they girls were in school. It was only supposed to last until she got something better, but the days turned into weeks and suddenly it was several years later and she didn't seem to be going anywhere. The job paid well, but spending her days finding books for retirees and preschoolers was not how the attractive 25 year old had envisioned she would spend her life.
She sighed, and turned the page of the book she was reading. It was a copy of Hunter S. Thompsons "Hell's Angels", a book that had been written in the sixties during the height of the motorcycle gang craze. Part of her longed to be in that lifestyle. To be a biker "mama," without responsibilities or care. Just driving around the country on the back of a thick, vibrating machine with her arms around a dirty man who wouldn't expect her to be all prim and proper. Who would, in fact, be angry with her if she did so. Someone who would ravage her at night, even if she wasn't in the mood. A man who knew what he wanted, and didn't take any crap from anyone. Certainly someone more exciting than the creepy old men who did everything they could to look up her dresses as she filed the books away.
"Interesting book, a little dated though" a deep voice said from behind her, startling her and making her jump slightly in her chair. The pencil that was holding her long black hair in place fell out, causing it to cascade wildly down around her face. She turned angrily, but her sharp retort was stopped dead in it's tracks by the intimidating figure that was behind her. A man stood there, who looked to be slightly over six feet tall. He was big, obviously overweight, but he looked strong. Thick. His hair was cut very short to his skull, and it was pretty clear that he was balding. He had a full moustache and beard, also cut short, drawing out the lines of his face and giving it a very angular look. Without the beard, it would almost be a babyish face. Very smooth, very pale.
He was wearing a black T-shirt, some sort of concert shirt from a band she had never heard of. Jello Biafra? There was an image of toilet on the front with a fist coming out, and the words "I Blow Minds For a Living" underneath it. His jeans were tight, nothing special, but as she looked she couldn't help but notice the bulge between his legs that was fairly close to her face as she sat there. What distracted her the most was that she could swear that she saw the slight outline of his penis there, as if he were semi-erect. He was wearing combat boots, that looked old and worn out, and he was carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder. What she noticed the most, though, was his eyes. They were dark blue, and piercing. Very clear, even behind the glasses that he wore. He was looking at her intently, and she couldn't tell if the look in his eyes was one of curiosity or amusement. Or both.
"Excuse me?" she said, clearing her throat.
"That book. Hell's Angels," he replied. "It's a great book. I really like Thompson's stuff. But it's a little dated. I mean, the worst those guys did was drive around the country and beat people up. We've got gangs today that regularly mow down entire families with fully automatic weapons. Kind of makes the whole biker gang thing seem a little quaint, don't you think?"
"Yes, well. That's very valid, but.." she began, but suddenly trailed off as she realized that his blue eyes were no longer on her face, but had trailed down to her chest. She had been playing with the buttons on her shirt while she was reading, and as she looked down she could see that the top one had come undone, exposing the top of her breasts for this interloper to look down on. The bra she was wearing today was a half cut, covering only the bottom half of her breast. The black lace barely came up over her nipples, which were unfortunately quite stiff at the moment, and the soft flesh of her cleavage was clearly exposed to him. She gasped, and her hand rushed to fix the button as she stood up. Her voice was icy as she glared at him and said "Is there something I can help you with, sir?"
His mouth opened slightly, a mischievous grin on his face, and he seemed to be about to make a comment when he smiled, shook his head and laughed almost to himself. "No, thanks. Sorry to bother you."
The man sauntered off and threw his backpack down on a table not far from where she had been sitting. He reached into his backpack and pulled out what appeared to be a well worn paperback book. Leaning back in his chair, he propped his booted feet down on the chair across from him with a thud and began to read. Curious, she squinted at the book he was reading in order to read the title. "The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty" by Anne Rice. She blushed, hard, and looked away. She was familiar with the book, having read it on a dare when she was in high school. Every page, it seemed, was filled with bizarre sexual situations, each more shocking than the next. Why it was even called Sleeping Beauty seemed beyond her, as the importance of the story seemed to pale in comparison with the sex inside. She cleared her throat, picked up her book, and tried to begin reading again.
For some reason, she couldn't concentrate on the words, and her mind kept drifting off. She was wondering what the man was thinking. Why he was reading that particular book. Was he reading it on a dare like she had been, or was it something he had read before? She risked an occasional glance at him, and found it interesting that the more he read, the more uncomfortable he seemed to become in his seat. He was shifting around, sometimes reaching down and adjusting the crotch area of his jeans. A fine layer of sweat began to form on his bald forehead. He was getting excited as he read the book, a thought which she found amusing and, much to her surprise, intriguing.
