Raze and the Heart Thief
Chapter 1
Emma
Leaning back in the rickety old chair, I'm careful not to let the front legs lift off the ground as my legs stretch. I've been writing so long, the sun's long since set, the room now dark around me. The glow of my laptop and the stove light from the kitchen behind me cast a subtle glow throughout the room, bouncing off various books and vases, reflecting against the lens of my glasses.
I look down at my laptop screen and stretch my arms wide, feeling the blood rush back along my hands and arms, creating a tingling sensation underneath my skin. Taking advantage of the bursts of energy and creativity when they arise, I tend to write in long stretches like this because sometimes I can go several days without the energy to write.
I have a day job, but on the side, I write for my blog, The Heart Thief. It hit 300,000 followers last week, and it's only a year old—I'm quite proud of it, actually. I review romance and erotica novels exclusively and give aspiring writers a platform to share their short stories. Sometimes I get thrown a few bucks for advertising, and I could probably make more, but I'm picky about who I let advertise on my site, I don't back just anything. I take inquiries from authors, publishers, agents, and other readers. I love every second of it, even if it is nearly midnight and there's a crick in my neck.
It's an amazing community, not just within my blog but in the world of romance and erotica readers in general. It's lighthearted and fun, and everyone is so supportive of each other. On top of that, we're all shameless fanatics. Well, that's not fair because there's nothing to be ashamed of. We love romance and erotica fiction. So what?
The problem for me is that everyone in the community always seems so empowered by their sexuality and curiosity that sometimes I wonder, are they like me in real life, or is it just about the thrill of reading a fantasy?
When they get home from work, do they admit to all the filthy sexual fantasies they had all day to their partner or friends? Do other people know they've got kink in spades, that they collect vibrators, and re-read their favorite sex scenes just for fun? Do they fantasize, to an almost disturbing degree, about complete strangers around them?
Or are they more like me—hiding behind too-big glasses, baggy clothes, and quiet nature? If the world knew, if anyone found out about my deepest, darkest secrets and fantasies and about the explicit things I write on my blog, I would be mortified. I would never want my parents or my sister, my friends Alice and Rafi, or any of the regulars who come into my work—I would never want them to find out. Because almost everything I write, I feel, and I want to experience it all, however lewd or wild it may be.
People would be shocked to learn the truth about me because I’m the girl next door. Actually, I'm not even her, because she's noticed. I'm the mousy, quiet, shy little sister of the girl next door. I'm average. Unsuspecting.
I prefer it this way because I don't like getting noticed. I start stuttering and trip up my words, my cheeks burn, and I can't look people in the eye. I act like a terrified kid who got stuck performing in a talent show in front of an audience without any actual talent to perform. I don't have anxiety per se, but I do get anxious. Awkward, embarrassed, uncomfortable. Those words describe me.
Words that don't describe me? Sexy. Adventurous. Daring. However, these words do describe my online alter ego, The Heart Thief. Under this shy, underachieving, plain exterior is a woman with many sexual fantasies and desires.
Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me. It doesn't matter, though, because I like my life how it is. I prefer to hide. I have an outlet in my blog, I have an entire drawer full of toys. I don't need more than that.
I glance around the empty kitchen-slash-living room of my small one-bedroom apartment and take stock of my life. Standing in front of my brave alter ego, too afraid to take a real chance, is me, Emma Baker. I haven't had a boyfriend, or even a date, in years. I don't have many friends. But I'm happy. Content, anyway.
The walls around me are lined with old floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, overflowing with everything from well-respected literature to trashy harlequin romance. Since no one ever comes up here—except for Alice, but she doesn't so much as glance at my bookshelves—this is my safe place. My haven.
I rarely even have to leave the building, though I'm not sure if that's ultimately a good or a bad thing. I work at the coffee shop downstairs from my apartment, The Storybrook Coffeehouse. The owner, a sweet old man named Greg, who owns the building and, subsequently, the apartment I'm living in, is somewhere in the Bahamas with his wife, enjoying their retirement. The coffee shop, and the building we're in, are something they inherited from his wife's brother a few years ago. Greg had no interest in running the business or being a landlord and was relieved when we met.
I work full-time at the coffee shop and am the unofficial manager. The shop is only open until about 3 or 4 pm, depending on our mood that day and how busy it is. I work almost every day, opening the shop at 6 am. Aside from being one of two employees—the other being my friend Alice—and making sure we have enough coffee to sell, the job is painfully easy.
It's busy but never insane, and Greg charges me practically nothing for rent. My life is simple and uncomplicated. I have very few bills, don't make much money, and always have enough for everything I need.
I decide to head downstairs and make a cappuccino, despite it being late into the night, the coffee shop closed. Unlocking the door at the bottom of my stairs, I step directly into the coffee shop. There are two entrances into my apartment, this one I use the most often, and the other leads to a private stairwell at the back of the building.
Behind the counter, I duck down, opening a small refrigerator, and pull out some iced coffee. Turning on the cappuccino machine, I add the cold coffee and some milk and steam it all together.
After cleaning up, I prop myself against the counter and stare into the empty room. Nothing in particular makes this coffee shop stand out from any other. The walls are painted white, with plants, bookshelves, and old games in tattered boxes collected around the room. The floors are old, dark hardwood, the original from this building; the same, I imagine, as the floors in my apartment upstairs. The strong aroma of coffee lingers in the air long after we lock the doors. Still, it's familiar and comforting.
Storybrook Coffeehouse primarily sells coffee. We have some pastries and breads delivered early morning a couple of days a week from local bakers, and there's a small drink cooler with pre-packaged drinks and food. And, of course, tea. Boring, nothing-fancy tea bags that almost no one orders—except him.
His name is Raze, at least, that's what Alice tells me. He comes in nearly every day, typically first thing in the morning, and orders tea. That's it. He doesn't say much, not that I can manage more than asking him for his order.
Wescott, where we live, is a small beach town with a city vibe, only about an hour north of Santa Cruz. And its only claim to fame is a well-known gym around the corner called Double Down with a legendary coach named Max Boseman, who has led MMA fighters to glory. Their current star athlete? Tea-ordering, too-big-for-the-room, star-of-my-fantasies Raze.
Apparently, Raze has over a million followers on social media, not that I'm on there and following him. I mean, I have an account, but I rarely post anything of import since I'm afraid I'll accidentally post something as The Heart Thief and mix up my profiles. Raze's real star power, though, is that he's an up-and-coming national MMA champion. But these aren't the reasons why my stomach flutters when he comes into the coffee shop every morning.
He's… magnificent. Beautiful and strong. He's kind and generous. Intense. How do I know all these things? I'm a covert stalker. I mean, I don't follow him anywhere, but when he's here, I'm always watching him out of the corner of my eye. He's polite, lets old ladies stand in front of him in line, and he always tips way more than the cost of his tea. He smiles at me, too, which is what really gets me.
In all my awkward glory—my glasses that I'm constantly adjusting and pushing up my face, my simple, often oversized vintage thrift store hipster clothes, my long brown hair always tied up in a boring ponytail—he looks at me like he sees me.
It doesn't hurt that he is obscenely gorgeous, of course. He has rich, golden skin, and his black hair is buzzed on the sides and a tiny bit longer on the top, just barely long enough to run your hands through. Never more than a couple of days worth of scruff framing a strong, square jaw. Everything about him is angular and dominant. I imagine he has to stay insanely fit, being a famous MMA fighter. His eyes are dark but kind and warm, framed by thick black lashes.
He's so freakin' hot and, unfortunately for him, the star of every single fantasy I've had since he started coming here last year. He'd feel objectified if he knew, I'm sure.
I'm broken out of the reverie by the bright sounds of laughter that echo outside the door. A few people stumble by, heading to or from one of the various bars or restaurants on this block. I could be out there, trying to be social, but I'm not. It makes me think of my friend Alice, who still invites me out every week despite how often I turn her down. I love that she still asks, and every once in a while, I take her up on it.
But mostly, I don't. Why? Because I can barely string two words together when talking to strangers. Sometimes, even when I'm taking coffee orders. I don't know why. I get shy. Then tongue-tied. Then embarrassed. It's a whole string of self-conscious awkwardness that is just easier if I avoid socializing.
Once I get to know someone, I'm totally fine. Like, with Alice. She's a vivacious, sexy, spunky blonde who bounced into the coffee shop one day, asking for a job. She, like me, had just graduated college and was looking for a side gig while she discovered herself—her words.
Alice was so intimidating and confident. I hired her and was her boss, and I still had trouble telling her what to do at first. But she never made me feel bad about who I was, and it wasn't long before we became friends. Actual friends, not just work pals.
I finish sipping my cappuccino and sigh dramatically, knowing I need to get back to writing. I lock up the coffee shop, make my way up the stairs to my apartment, and return to my life's quiet solitude.