Two
NICKI
The library card slides through the reader with a soft beep, and the lock on the door clicks open. Ten forty-five on the dot. My Saturday night, right on schedule, and Briar Falls Public Library is all mine until closing.
I push through the heavy door, and the familiar smell hits me—old paper, lemon polish, and that specific brand of quiet that only exists in places where nobody talks above a whisper.
The lights are already dimmed to evening mode, just enough to read by, not enough to waste electricity. Nobody staffs the place after five on weekends; it’s all honor system and card swipes.
Small town shit.
The kind of thing that makes my followers in big cities like New York or L.A. gasp in shock. But here in Briar Falls? It’s just how it works.
I love it.
The emptiness, the silence, the rows of books waiting like old friends. Been doing this every Saturday since I was sixteen, back when the only audience for my book recommendations was my mom’s book club and the bored cashier at the Dairy Queen.
Now I’ve got two hundred thousand people waiting for me to go live, and the thought still makes my stomach flip in the best way.
Phone already in hand, I tap the TikTok icon and hit the little plus sign. The camera flips to selfie mode, and there I am—light brown curls wild around my face, freckles scattered across my nose, dimples already making an appearance because I can’t help but grin.
The white tank top with my brand ‘HOT GIRLS READ SMUT’ is stretched across my chest, my denim shorts riding high on my thighs. Paired with my black ballerina shoes, I’m in what I’ve dubbed my summer uniform.
I hit the red button and take a deep breath as I wait for the three-second countdown.
“Hey, Hot BookTok People!” The energy comes easily, naturally, the way my voice lifts and expands to fill a digital room. “It’s your girl Nicki, and it’s my usual Saturday night book haul. Who’s ready to help me pick next week’s reads?”
The comments flood in immediately. Heart emojis, fire emojis, people tagging their friends.
Nicki’s back!!
Omg what are we getting tonight?
Pls find something filthy, I’m begging!!
I laugh, warm and real, and pivot the camera to show the shelves behind me. “Okay, the first stop is always the dark romance section because, duh. But seriously you guys, look at this place. I’m all alone in this dark place. Does it remind anyone of…”
Before I can finish my sentence, the comments are flooded with people mentioning the book we read together two weeks ago.
“That’s right,” I smirk. “And listen, if Draven’s here with his shadow magic, I’m dropping y’all for some hot times. Sorry not sorry.”
I move down the aisle, phone held out in front of me, the screen glowing against the dimness. The romance section is tucked into the far corner, exactly where small-town libraries always hide the stuff they’re a little embarrassed to display.
As if women wanting to read about men with their hands around their throats and their cocks buried to the hilt is something to be ashamed of. Please.
“Let’s see what we’ve got tonight.” I trail my fingers along the spines, reading titles aloud. “‘Savage Hearts.’ Ooh, that cover is doing things to me. Look at this.”
I pull it off the shelf and hold it up to the camera—a shirtless man with tattoos covering one arm, his hand gripping a woman’s jaw, her eyes half-closed like she’s coming just from his touch.
“The blurb says—and I quote—He promised he’d break me. I begged him to try. Whoo, guys. Ten out of ten, no notes.”
The comments go wild.
BORROW IT, NICKI.
That’s the one from last month you were obsessed with. I’m already downloading it.
“Listen, I am nothing if not predictable.” I tuck it under my arm and keep moving.
“Next up is ‘Ruthless King.’ Another banger cover. Man in a suit, woman on her knees, you know the drill.” I flip it over and read: “‘He took everything from me. My company, my pride, my ability to walk straight after what he did to me against his desk.’ Fucking hell, guys. I’m sold. ”
Another book under the arm. The stack is growing. My followers are eating it up; the comments are scrolling so fast I can barely read them.
I’m mid-reach for a third book—‘Darkest Desire’ with a cover so explicit the library probably keeps it face-in on the shelf—when I sense movement.
I open my mouth to ask who’s there, but before I can say anything, a hand slams over my mouth. Fingers digging into my cheeks, pressing so hard my lips crush against my teeth. The taste of skin—salt, something faintly musky—floods my mouth.
My phone is ripped from my grip so fast my fingers feel like they’ve been stripped.
The crack when it hits the floor is awful. Then the crunch of a boot coming down, once, twice, three times, methodical, until the screen is a spiderweb of fractures and the light gutters out.
I don’t freeze. I fucking fight.
My nails rake backward, digging into whatever arm is locked around me, and I claw hard enough to draw blood. I know I do because I feel the wetness under my fingertips. I bite down on the palm covering my mouth, my teeth sinking into the meat of his hand, and I taste copper.
He doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, he laughs. Low, unhurried, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my back where I’m pressed against him.
His arm—Jesus Christ, his arm—is like being wrapped in steel cable.
I can feel every ridge of muscle, every shift as he adjusts his grip, and the fucking size of him. He’s enormous. He’s everywhere.
I try to scream. The sound dies against his palm, becoming nothing but a muffled whimper I hate myself for.
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, behind my eyes. Adrenaline floods my system like poison, and with it comes something else, something I refuse to name, but my body knows exactly what it is.
Fear. Pure, electric fear. And underneath it, running like a dark current, arousal.
No. Fuck no. Not now. Not here.
But my body doesn’t care what I think. My nipples are hard against the thin fabric of my tank top. My thighs are pressed together, and I can feel the slick heat between them, and I want to vomit from the betrayal.
He holds me like that for what feels like forever. My struggles weaken not because I’m giving up, but because my muscles are shaking with exhaustion, with the futile burn of fighting something infinitely stronger.
His breath is hot against the side of my neck, coming slow and even through what must be some kind of mask. I can hear it—the slightly hollow quality of air moving through plastic.
Then his hand drops away from my mouth.
I spin around so fast I nearly lose my balance, my back hitting the bookshelf as I come face-to-face with the man. Or rather, face-to-mask.
His face is hidden beneath a creepy, expressionless white mask. Which also happens to be a huge hit on TikTok with the white plastic with those black eyeholes and the perpetual open-mouthed wail.
My breath comes in ragged gasps. My chest heaves. I can feel a trickle of blood on my lip where I bit my own mouth in the struggle, or maybe it’s his. I don’t know.
“What do you want?” The words come out steadier than I expect, which is good because everything else about me is coming apart. “Money? I don’t have… my phone is… fuck, just take whatever, just—”
“Run.”
The voice from behind the mask is distorted, low, almost bored. Like he’s suggesting I try the special at a restaurant he doesn’t particularly care for.
I blink. “W-what?”
“Run!”
My brain short-circuits. This isn’t how this goes. In the books, the masked man drags you to a basement or a warehouse, or an abandoned cabin. He doesn’t tell you to run. Running is what you do when he’s not looking.
When you’ve found a piece of broken glass to cut your bonds, when you’ve waited for the perfect moment.
He takes a step toward me, and I flinch back against the shelf. A paperback drops to the floor with a soft thud.
“If I catch you before you get out of this library,” he says, each word measured, deliberate, “I’m going to fuck you. Hard. Against whatever surface I want. For as long as I want.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My knees actually buckle, and I have to grab the shelf behind me to stay upright.
“If you make it to the door before I catch you,” he continues, as casually as if he’s explaining the rules of a board game, “you walk out free. No follow-up. No second chance. Tonight ends here.”
My mouth is dry. My pulse is everywhere—wrists, neck, between my legs, a sickening throb that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way my body is lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree.
This is not happening. This cannot be happening. I read this in books. I do not live it in the Briar Falls Public Library on a Saturday night with a man wearing a mask who smells like cedar and something darker.
“That’s…” My voice cracks. I try again. “That’s not… you can’t just—”
“I can.” He takes another step. “And I am. Clock’s ticking, Nicki.”
He knows my name. Of course he knows my name. Two hundred thousand followers. A brand built on my face, and my routines I invite the public along for.
Every cell in my body that isn’t screaming in terror is screaming in something dangerously close to want, and the two are so tangled together I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
He takes another step. I have maybe ten feet of aisle behind me before it opens up to the main floor. Then it’s thirty, forty feet to the front door.
The exit. Freedom. Safety.
If I run now, I might make it.
If I run now, this ends. He doesn’t touch me. I go home and call the police. Then I try to explain that a man wearing a mask told me he would fuck me if he caught me, and I ran, and he didn’t catch me, so it’s fine, right?
Except… it’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine.
If I run now, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t.
He sees it on my face. I know he does. Those empty eyeholes are fixed on me, and I can feel him reading every flicker of doubt, every spike of unwanted heat.
“Five,” he says.
“What?”
“Four.”
“Oh my God—”
“Three.”
I push off the shelf and run.