We Are Monsters 🌕 Book 1 || gxg

The Catcher in the Stacks

There is nothing quite so infuriating as someone treating books without respect. So, when Sam found herself an unwitting voyeur in the Canadian History section of her library, she nearly blew her top. Her rickety cart came to a squealing halt as her jaw slackened.

"What do you think you're doing?"

And just like that, there was a woman draped across the cart, betrayed by her own insensible heels. Her companion was hastily righting his jeans and absolutely blustering.

"What are you doing here?"

"Me?" she snapped, voice shrill. Her eyebrows were so arched her forehead began to ache. "I should be asking you that, you ... you ... hooligan."

Yes, she called him a hooligan. It wasn't her proudest moment. Never had she felt so much like the old lady her friends jokingly called her. He snorted, but was done with her. He took hold of his companion and slipped out of the aisle.

Sam sighed with a weight only those in public service can truly understand. A deep sigh dripping with exhaustion and disappointment. Books lie strewn around the aisle, and the book that started it all lie at its extremity, pools of sandy, salty water in the shape of a boot staining the old cover. She took the end of her scarf in one hand and the book in the other—Le Loup-garou et autres nouvelles—and dabbed away the offending slush.

She probably should have reported the incident, but she couldn't find much point at the time. There were no cameras, and police wouldn't care unless someone had been shot or stabbed. So, on with her day she went. There were only a couple of patrons. Fat, cotton ball snowflakes cascaded at an angle across the wall of windows facing the street. Sam would glance up from time to time from her computer and get lost in their movements for a minute.

Walking home was going to be a tedious task, even though it was only ten minutes. Well, ten minutes in normal snowfall or better. In this, more like twenty. The sidewalks were a mess, only shoveled in places, all in various states of being filled in again by the snow from people staggering their shoveling. Some places hadn't been touched whatsoever. Her boots only went to below her knee. At this rate, she'd be wading up to her thighs. Maybe she could close early, the one person who might show up would surely understand, right?

The thought had barely left her mind before the door whooshed open, letting in a gust of cool air, and in sauntered someone too tall to be allowed. Then again, Sam wasn't what one would call tall, and she was seated. Still, he towered over her. The only thing else that was nearly so large was his smile. Wary, Sam made sure not to squint at him. A smile that big was almost never a good thing.

"Hi there, how's it going?"

"I'll be better when I'm home, yourself?"

He chuckled. "I know the feeling." He glanced over his shoulder, leaning one elbow on the shelf over her desk. "I was wondering if I could use one of the computers for a bit?"

Sam blinked, guard dropping. "Of course. Just sign here,"—she passed him a clipboard from the inbox nearby with a pen wedged in the clip—"and put down your contact number there so we can reach you if we need."

He cocked a brow as he wrote in delicate arches. "Why might you need to do that?"

"Well, there was the time someone uploaded their ex's nudes from our computer and we were contacted by her lawyer."

"Yeah, that's a good reason." He chuckled as he passed the clipboard back over. "How long can I use it?"

"An hour."

"Thanks."

He strode off to the cubby of Windows XP desktops and she went back to compiling that day's "Your Book is Overdue" email blast, a hopeless attempt at getting back one or two books from the dozens kept too long.