Page 2 of Haunting Goats

Flopping onto the hand-me-down furniture, I crisscross my legs. Dee would kill me if she caught me wearing my Chucks on the couch. However, she’s not here, and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Dee and I have been best friends since eighth grade. So, when she went missing a few years ago, I was a flaming dumpster fire of a mess. Living in a small town, you’d think the community would be tightly knit and supportive, but that’s never been the case here. Richardstown didn’t care about my missing friend. There were no search parties, no posters, no flyers, nothing. I had never left this town before, and with Jake as my boyfriend, leaving was never an option.

One day about a month ago, Dee and I ran into each other at the gas station, and being reunited had never felt so good. She gave me the rundown right in the middle of the snack aisle about how her boyfriend, X, texted her late at night and said he was surprising her with a trip to a secret destination. After they got into a huge fight at one of the rest stops, she decided to hitchhike home. Halfway here, she said she chose to travel instead, flagging down one desperate man after another, suckering them into taking her wherever she wanted to go. Her story was so wild to me, but so is she.

She followed up by telling me she had a one-bedroom apartment above one of the nastiest diners in town. I’m not a fan of sleeping with rats, but I was desperate, and a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Dee doesn’t talk about how she ended up here, and honestly, I don’t ask. There’s a silent, unspoken agreement between us: If I haven’t told you already—there’s a reason. Fuck off.

I clock the remote that’s sitting a couple of cushions down from me and reach for it before tossing it back. I’m not hungry anymore, and I’ve surpassed the point of being bored enough to watch trash TV. Heaving myself off the couch, I cross to the kitchen counter in four long-to-me strides. I scoop up my keys and whip my crossbody over my neck and shoulder before adjusting my hair and hood by pulling them out from under the strap. Before I leave, I assess my appearance in the body-length mirror that hangs on the wall next to the front door. Band tee. Check. Zip-up hoodie. Check. Ripped skinny jeans. Check. Yesterday’s makeup—emo style, because I live for pretending to be different. Check. Time to put these Chucks into overdrive and go.

I'm not exactly sure where I'm going when I leave the apartment and bounce down the steps two at a time, but as I impatiently search my fumbling bag for my earbuds, I decide the local library is a good start—because everyone goes to the library when they want to “fuck shit up”. I cringe at how uncool that sounds.

Dee says that I want to be where the people are, but that I don’t actually want to “people”. The Little Mermaid being my favorite childhood movie makes no sense at this moment. Take my legs, my voice, and whatever basic human download that requires me to socialize and hurl me into the unpredictable blue abyss. Engaging with anyone is absolutely exhausting for me. It requires a lot of mental preparation beforehand and three to five business days afterward just to recover from socializing.

The library is where it’s at—it’s the perfect place to “party”. All within the comfort of four walls covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves holding all the lives I could live—sex, drugs and alcohol, violence, and brooding men. I enter the building and pull the earbuds from my ears, silencing the bass. I scan the area for people I may know, and when I’m satisfied that I don’t, I drag down my hood and wander toward my spot.

I haven’t had to talk to anyone since I moved in with Dee. She told me not to worry about looking for a job and that she would handle all the finances. I obviously don’t mind. She owes me anyway—her disappearance gives me enough justification after all the pain and suffering she’s caused me.

My favorite spot is always determined by comfort and convenience, no matter where I am. Here, my spot is in the far back of the library. The temperature is cooler back there, but not too drafty. Dimmed lights create a peaceful atmosphere for work or studying. A lone desk and computer sit beside the printer in the dust-bunny-cloaked corner closest to the restroom.

Hardly anyone uses the computer because it’s stuck inside what I like to call: “Smut City.” Prudes. Unhinged, obsessive, and taboo reads swaddle my favorite corner of the world. The desk feels familiar to me. It’s worn like a working man’s hands—rough yet dependable. This desk has cradled me for years while I sift through my stacked bank of emotions after drowning myself in poetic ink on deconstructed forests.

I stare at the floor as I sweep down the aisles, my feet instinctively leading the way. The way that I could move through this space blindfolded would lead anyone to be skeptical and ready to observe me through narrowed eyes. I look up, and my eyes land on someone. A man. In my spot.

CHAPTER 2

LYRIC

He’s peering down at the book in his hands, melancholy and grief written all over his beautiful face. He hunches forward with his plump ass on the desk—my desk. I called dibs on it over a decade ago. Not that this is public knowledge, but I feel like it should be. He’s lounging—one leg dangling off the side of the desk while the other leg rests on the weathered seat.

He’s large. He looks to be over six feet tall. Strength sculpts his broad shoulders and arms. His wide chest and thick midsection look sturdy enough for me to climb him, like a ladder cemented to the floor. No abs that I can see, which makes me wonder what hides beneath his clothes. Regardless, he’s still a hunk of solid muscle with calves that were made to move mountains. He’s built like a goddamn tree etched in intricate carvings.

He’s young, maybe twenty-five to thirty years old. He’s dressed in a black hoodie with a massive skull engulfed in flames across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to the crooks of his elbows. Showcasing those gorgeous tattoos, it annoys me that I can’t make out most of them from here.

My eyesight continues to fail me, but I imagine my fingers tracing outlines of colored ink and my lips peppering kisses along those steel arms. His jeans hug him in all the right places, and I can’t help but admire this Michelangelo-sculpted statue of a man. Sun-faded construction boots cover his feet, and when I acknowledge how massive his boots are, I catch myself scoping out the size of his hands. I wonder if the age-old question rings true?

Then I notice the book in his hand—The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. He’s hot, and he appreciates art? I catch myself staring just as I realize he's staring back. My eyes go wide and I can feel the heat flush in my cheeks.

“What are you doing?” I ask, flustered.