Mia's Journey: An Erotic Thriller (3 page)

“Online communities are an expression of loneliness.”

Joanne Harris

Chapter 5

“Mia, you really are a totally useless little cunt, you know that?”

Mia shied away from the blow. She knew it was coming, and it came. It was an open-handed slap this time at least. He hit her high in the head, so her hair would hide any bruising. It rocked her backwards, and she fell off her chair.

“I just asked you to do one…simple…little…thing.” Her husband drew the words out. “And you can’t even get that right without fucking the whole thing up.”

The lawyer knew full well Mia had been spanked and manhandled by her boss a few hours before. The thought made his cock thicken. He liked the idea that other men wanted to stick their cocks into what he owned.

He could understand perfectly why a pimp would want to send his girls out to service other men. The lawyer hadn’t been sure he could trust the father ten years ago when he bought her, but she had proven a good sexual investment.

Is there anything better than owning your own bitch?
he thought.

Of course, after fucking the same wench for ten years he was tired of her. Which made her perfect for the entertainment he craved now.

Mia knew better than to offer an explanation. So she kept her head down and didn’t say a word.

“Do me a favor Mia? Clean this shit up and then, do us both a favor and go commit suicide.”

She was sitting in the middle of the mess of her dinner all over the floor. She picked herself up off the floor, as her husband turned and stomped out of the kitchen. He didn’t even tell her what she had done wrong.

She heard the TV come on, and pop/phitz as he opened a beer, and turned on the game. He threw the pop top back into the kitchen for her to clean up. It twirled on the floor and came to rest at her feet.

Mia picked it up, throwing it in the trash and started cleaning her dinner off the floor. She could feel the side of her head as it started to swell. She hoped her makeup would hide it since she had to work in the morning. She was a substitute teacher, and kids picked up on stuff not said.

“Hey, Mia!”

“Yes?” she said, scared, walking back into the living room.

Her husband was holding a letter, addressed to her. He had already opened it.

“Your publisher got back to you. They rejected that cringe-worthy story of yours…again.” He sneered and threw the opened envelope and letter at her. “Not that that is any surprise.”

She picked up the letter, reading it.

“We regret to inform you that at this time…” and walked back to the bedroom, sat down at the computer and turned it on.
Who am I kidding? It probably is drivel,
she thought.
Even if I don’t get accepted for publication, I can always self-publish,
she thought.
Why bother? Who’s going to read it?

She opened her email and there was a message from the organizer of the Meetup group she had thought about joining, if her husband let her.

He was helpful and supportive, but not all together interested. She sent him another email back.

Yes, thank you. Amazon was what I had thought about checking out. It seems that most of the time technology has a beef with me, but hopefully I can be a fast learner.

Two questions --if I have overstayed my welcome on your email, please just ignore this message, and I will stop bothering you :)

Do I need to worry about copyrighting my work?

Does KDP have stock cover art for use?

Thanks for your time,

This time she got an almost immediate reply back. He must have been sitting at his computer.

Technically speaking, any time an author creates an original work and publishes it, it is considered “copyrighted.” The question comes in to what degree of PROTECTION the copyright gives you.

The highest degree of protection is if you make it official and copyright it with the government. You can look at this roughly the same as if two people live together, or they have a valid marriage license.

Both are considered married under common law, but an official marriage license gives both parties more legal benefits.

They have a “Cover creator” you can use, which will turn out a half-way decent cover for you.

I create my own in PhotoShop so I have never used it, but I’ve seen it when I’ve put my books up. (Covers are important…don’t underestimate them)

I hope this helps,

He seemed like he was thawing out towards her at least. He didn’t mind that she was asking questions. She didn’t have anyone to talk to about her writing. No one she could get advice from, and she had all these questions. There was a ton of information online but nothing that seemed specific to her situation.

“Mia!”

Mia got up and walked back into the living room to see what her husband wanted.

“Yes?”

He stood up, unzipped his pants, pulling out his cock. He held it in his hand. It was thickening as she watched. The beer put a cruel streak into his eyes.

“Get on your hands and knees and do the only thing you have the slightest bit of talent for, you little slut.”

“There is no loneliness like that of a failed marriage.”

Alexander Theroux

Chapter 6

The man walked into his house; it smelled like Asian cooking. His wife must be home. His son was sitting at the table eating ‘Hop Lit Low,’ a kind of Vietnamese duck egg with a fully formed duck embryo still in the shell, beak, feathers, and all. He hated the smell of them. His son loved them.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Big Bear.”

“You want to know what happened at day care today?”

“Sure.”

“A fire truck came.”

“Really? Was there a fire?”

“Of course not. They let us play on the truck.”

“So you didn’t put out any fires? Or save any kittens?”

“Of course not, Daddy. They let me sit in the driver’s seat though and turn on the siren.”

His wife came to the table then and sat down. She was still pretty in the timeless way of Asian women. She picked up some chopsticks and stirred them around in the rice and vegetables.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Out.”

“You weren’t working late?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“I think I’m going back to Vietnam. I need to see my family.”

“OK.”

“I’m going to bring the boy with me.”

He’s got a name,
he thought silently. “He just needs to be back before school starts, that’s all. But we can talk about it later.”

They finished the meal with the man talking to his son about his day. His wife was silent. She didn’t offer to make him anything to eat, and he didn’t ask.

He walked upstairs and into his bedroom after putting his son down for the night and reading him a story. His wife was already there. She was sitting up in bed watching a Vietnamese soap opera on the home theater system. It was all singing and dancing with some comedy thrown in. She never watched anything else, and he didn’t understand a word of it.

“I wasn’t joking when I said I wanted to go to Vietnam.” Not even bothering to ask if he wanted to come with them.

“I know.”

“You don’t care if I take the boy with me?”

“Of course I care. But he should see his grandparents, or more importantly, his grandparents need to see him. It’s been awhile.”

“I’m thinking maybe he should go to school there for a while.”

“I’m thinking maybe you’re wrong,” said the man.

“Why?”

“For one, the schools suck in Vietnam. Two, he lives here. This is where his home and friends are, and three, I don’t want him too.”

“You say that like you have a say in the matter.”

“You say that like I don’t.”

“How long has it been since we’ve made love?” she asked changing the subject before it could go too far.

“Over three years.”

“There isn’t much left to us.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“What’s left?”

“Emptiness, and loneliness,” said the man.

“It wasn’t always that way.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“What happened to us?”

He looked at her. He remembered a time when he helped her escape a Communist country. He spent three long years in Bangkok planning it.

He remembered another time when they almost got shot by Malaysian police at a border crossing at Hat Yai.

He remembered when the Vietnamese government revoked her passport and citizenship when they figured it out two years later and left her stateless, without a passport and nowhere to go. He remembered getting her to the American Embassy and declaring political asylum for her.

He remembered being so much in love with her, his own life would have been a pleasurable price to pay. When they met, she couldn’t even speak English.

He remembered bringing her to America, and her wide-eyed wonder at this huge, beautiful country.

He remembered bringing her to the Grand Canyon for the first time. He blindfolded her, and led her carefully right up to the edge of the South Rim and took off the blindfold. She almost collapsed at the beauty of one of this country’s greatest natural masterpieces, her breath, literally taken away.

He remembered when she returned to Vietnam after the Vietnamese government granted her amnesty, and she could return. He remembered her joy, the tears running down her face, at seeing her family after almost ten years in exile.

He remembered starting a business for her in Vietnam, then having the government steal it from them, after it was successful. He remembered how they had started over from nothing.

He remembered sitting in a shabby Vietnamese hospital, luxurious by Vietnamese standards, when his son was born in Saigon, and his life began again through the eyes of his son.

Eighteen, long years of turbulent, one-of-a-kind memories. Almost his entire adult life.

Now they no longer made love, and she didn’t even want to look at him. Now he looked at her and wondered what he did wrong.

“I think we have just done everything we were meant to do. That’s all.”

“I’ll always love you, you know. You’re the only man I’ve ever known.”

“I know. I’ll always love you too. Go to Vietnam and have a good time with your family. But Big Bear has to be back before school starts. If you want to stay, that’s fine.”

Crushed by the sadness that the love of his entire life, went wrong.

And he didn’t know why.

“Find a place inside where there’s joy,

and the joy will burn out the pain.”

Joseph Campbell

Chapter 7

Mia found a pen pal in an unlikely place outside the hell of her daily existence. When she wrote, he replied.

She couldn’t go to work and could barely sit down. Blood was still seeping from her ass from last night’s ordeal. She sat down at her computer and saw his latest reply and wrote back.

Thanks for the info and advice. As you can probably tell, I have recently just ‘fallen’ into writing. I never had it on my radar as something for me, but I jumped in and now I really enjoy it a lot.

Again, I’m not sure if I’m doing it correctly but enjoying what you do is half the battle - right? Well, making money would be nice too. I am a person who fears making a mistake so this seems like a big scary venture.

Thanks,

Mia

Again, the reply was almost instant. He seemed to take an interest in her. He also seemed to know her feelings, how she felt about her writing. She just wasn’t writing in an empty space anymore, her words were reaching someone. Someone understood the loneliness and frustration of writing.

OK, I need to get a better handle on you, so I know how to tailor advice because I don’t know at what stage of development you’re at.

So please permit me to ask some questions. What is your age? Education? Past work experience? How many years have you been writing? What genres are you interested in cracking into?

As far as fear goes, we all deal with it all the time. It’s a constant companion. Fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of criticism, fear of publishing, you name it. Been there, done that.

It isn’t about making money in the beginning. It is about getting people to read, and like your work and want more of it. To build a fan base, to get people talking about your books. Money comes later, maybe even, much later.

If you’re starting out, don’t even consider it. Especially if you’re writing fiction.

This is a marathon. If you enjoy writing, then it isn’t work. It’s a release. It’s something you HAVE to do in order to keep your own sanity.

Try to get it to flow, but if it doesn’t, write anyway. Write every single day. Write a journal, if nothing else.

The goal should be 500-1000 words, every day. Don’t worry about anything else. Don’t worry about punctuation, misspellings, or trying to make it perfect. Just write.

I hope this helps,

The man finished writing his message back to Mia and hit the send button. What was it about this girl? Something about her made him curious. It was undeniable. He wasn’t sexually interested in the slightest, having given up on American women decades ago.

He hadn’t bothered to screw an American woman in over 20 years, and he had no intention of starting now.

He reached up inside his head and decided to explore it. He’d just take a peek. Just to see if she was worth bothering with or another spoiled American brat. He sent his intention out with the email and was immediately slammed backwards as it hit a big, black wall.

What the fuck...

Mia looked at his email and started to get suspicious, why did he care? Of course she knew he probably just wanted to fuck her, or maybe he was an Internet predator. She’d heard about those as well.

What if her husband found out she was talking to someone online? Plus he was getting too close. It felt like he was getting into her mind. Her defenses shot up immediately.

At the same time, she didn’t feel any threat from him. Just interest. Was that possible? That someone was interested in just me? She decided to reply, but not too much. Then, she felt something like a small caress, almost as if someone whispered, “It’s OK,” and she opened up.

It is great to hear someone say the things that are rattling around inside my head! I think I told you, I don’t know any other writers.

I am in my late twenties. I have a Bachelor’s Degree in education and am currently a substitute teacher. I write on days I’m not subbing. I have been writing for only about a year.

I really am into Romance novels, ones that lean towards more ‘adult’ themes. As I mentioned before, I wrote a 70,000+ story and am about 1/3 of the way done with a second.

I read a lot, which is what got me interested in writing.

I think my stories sound good, but I don’t know if that is just because they came from my head! I average about 800- 1000 words on days

I can write. Some days the words seem to write themselves and other days I have to stop and think often. Sometimes it feels like the story is eating my brain, and I can’t wait to get it out! Does that sound crazy? :)

As for fear, I am the person that always over thinks things. I never put myself too far out there because it is safer not to try.

Does that make sense? Writing is the only thing that has made me not want not to pull back. That is part of the reason why I don’t want to stop.

Geez, I sound like I am in therapy.

Thanks,

Mia

The man sat back and read her email. Feeling it, tasting it. He suddenly realized what the feeling was. He liked her. The thought took him totally by surprise.

Why? He asked himself. It wasn’t sexual. Then another feeling hit him just as hard. She’s me, years and years ago. So long, it might as well have been another lifetime.

The man recognized himself in the reflective beauty of her words.