His Amazing Baby_A Miracle Baby Romance

by B. B. Hamel

  This bastard. He wants to lock me in his basement, chain me up. He wants me to eat. He’s holding the bathroom hostage against it. He’s playing games with me.

  I hate him and I’m terrified of him. But there’s also another feeling deep inside of me, a feeling that I’m ashamed of.

  I’m excited by him

  He killed my father. He freed me from the prison I’ve lived in my entire life. True, I’m in a new prison, but at least I know I’ll never go back to that bastard Rick’s house. I’ll never be used and abused again. I’m not angry that he’s dead.

  I’m angry that I got dragged into it. One last Fuck You from dear old dad. I can’t escape him, not fully, not even in his death.

  But I will soon. I’ll start by taking some control back in my life.

  I take the bowl of soup and throw it across the room. I smile as it shatters against the wall. I take the glass and do the same before sitting back down on the cold concrete floor.

  It felt good to break something. But I know I have to eat and use the bathroom eventually. I’ll give in to that, but I won’t give up. I’ll break free of this prison and finally take my life back.

  5

  Noah

  I stare into the fire and watch it crackle as the sun slowly rises over the treetops. The heat from the incinerator is almost unbearable but I manage to heft Rick up onto the slab and slide him into the depths.

  I stand back and watch the smoke pour through the stack. The sun rises and a new day begins. I take a deep breath, a smile on my face.

  There’s nothing like starting the day with the incineration of a rapist pig.

  Except next I have to check on the girl. She broke the soup bowl and water glass I tried to give her last night, but that doesn’t matter. She slept, though poorly, since she only has the one scratchy blanket.

  I’ll give her more comforts as soon as I think I can trust her. But I have to be careful.

  She’s dangerous. I can see it in her eyes. She’s a wild animal that has been hurt and caged for a long, long time. She wants to get free, and I know she’ll do anything to have that freedom.

  As I walk slowly back toward the house, I can’t help but think about how I want her to have that freedom. I wish she hadn’t walked into that bathroom. If she stayed away, she’d be able to do anything she wants without the scourge of her father hanging over her head.

  Instead, she’s locked in my basement. And I have no fucking clue what to do with her.

  I can’t keep her forever. But I can’t let her go without being sure that she won’t go to the police. She’s seen too much of me. She knows my face, my name, and she’ll figure out where I live easily enough, eventually at least.

  I have to break her. I have to make sure she’ll never speak a word of what happened with her father. I think that might not be too hard, especially considering the way I noticed her looking at me as I was leaving.

  It was only for a moment, the briefest of seconds. But I saw it there, clear on her face.

  It was desire. A strange desire, but desire. It mirrors my own surprisingly strong need of her. I want to take her, control her body, make her feel things I bet she’s never experienced before. In my time as a killer, I’ve learned the human body better than most people do in their entire lives. I know how to give pleasure just as easily as I can give pain.

  I want to give her so much pleasure it overloads her mind, makes her never want to tell a soul about me. I want to give her all the pleasure her father stole away.

  I’ll make her grateful. She’ll earn her freedom and thank me for it in the end.

  I go back inside and make her breakfast, a simple oatmeal in a metal bowl with water in a tin cup. I put it on a tray and ride the elevator down to B2.

  When I step off the elevator, she’s huddled in the corner wrapped in her blanket. She looks up at me as I approach, but she doesn’t move. Her eyes pierce into me and I can see the defiance still there, though lessened.

  I place the tray on the floor. “Eat,” I say.

  She stares at me. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Eat,” I repeat.

  “You say you don’t hurt innocent people. You’re hurting me.”

  I watch her for a second. “Make this easy on both of us. Eat.”

  She watches me and I study her beautiful face. The bruise around her eye is just starting to yellow in the center, and I know it’ll probably be completely healed in only a few days. I can’t help but wonder what her body looks like under her clothes, and if it’s as covered in scars as I think it is.

  I want to find out, but not yet.

  She slowly gets onto her knees and then crawls over to the tray. She looks at the oatmeal and the water before finally picking up the cup and drinking it down.

  “Metal,” she says when she finishes the water. “Smart.”

  I smile at her. “It’s a learning process.”

  “You should clean up that other stuff.”

  “Why?”

  “I might use it to hurt myself.” She pauses. “Or try to hurt you.”

  I watch her for a second before nodding. “Good point.”

  I turn without another word, get into the elevator, and ride it up. I head into my laundry room, grab a broom and a dustpan, and then head back down.

  By the time I step off the elevator again, she’s eating the oatmeal. I smile but don’t say anything, worried that I’ll break the spell if I do. Instead, I walk over to the shattered bowl and clean it up, followed by the broken glass.

  When I’m finished, she sits back and looks at me. “Well?” she asks.

  I grin. “Don’t worry.” I take a key from my pocket and hold it up. “As promised.”

  I walk over and unlock the padlock holding her chain on the metal bar. I pull more chain through, giving her more slack, about five more feet in total. It should be just enough to get her into the bathroom and to the toilet.

  “Give it a try,” I say.

  She stands and walks past me, eyeing me warily. She goes into the bathroom and, just as I guessed, it’s the perfect length. She has to keep her right leg extended, but she just fits.

  I walk into the bathroom and look around. I took off the vanity mirror and removed all the hardware from the walls leaving only a sink, a toilet, and a tub. She can’t get into the tub and can probably just barely reach the sink, which is just as I planned it.

  I want her to rely on me for some things.

  “Good,” I say to myself and then head toward the elevator.

  “Wait,” she says.

  I turn back to her, head cocked.

  “I, uh. . . “ She looks down at her feet. “I couldn’t sleep. Please, can I have another blanket?”

  “Okay,” I say. “You’ve been good today. My pet.”

  She glares at me, but she doesn’t say a word.

  I laugh as I step onto the elevator and disappear back upstairs.

  She’s on my mind a few hours later as I walk down Walnut Street toward Old City. Asking for that small comfort likely took a lot out of her, and she was probably already regretting it. But I’d give her some small comforts for already taking that step. I have a mattress she can use plus a pillow and more blankets.

  I’m not a monster. Well, not that kind of monster. I don’t enjoy torturing her, not at all. I want her to be comfortable, to feel safe and secure, but I can’t indulge her too much. Not yet, at least. Not until she proves herself to me.

  The problem of what to do with her on the day that she does prove herself trustworthy keeps nagging at me as I spot the man I’m in the city to meet. He’s tall, though you wouldn’t know it since he’s slumped on the ground next to a building. His skin is dark and smooth, and I’m pretty sure he’s from somewhere in Senegal based on his accent. He goes by “Ryan,” though I know that isn’t his real name. I don’t really care.

  Ryan is one of my best informants. He’s well loved on the streets, a magnanimous and kind guy who shares everything he fin
ds. He has bipolar disorder, and normally he’d be unmedicated on the streets, but I provide him with Lithium and cash in exchange for information. He became homeless a few years ago when he gambled away his money and his life during a manic episode, and he’s been trying to get himself back together ever since.

  The Lithium evens him out. But he’s still an uneducated homeless black man living in a country that hates all of those things. He doesn’t have much of a chance. I’m hoping he saves the money I give him, but I don’t ask.

  “Ryan,” I say as I approach. He looks up and a smile breaks out across his face.

  “My favorite man,” he says. “How are you today, Mr. James?”

  I use fake names, too. Can’t be too careful. “I’m well. And yourself?”

  “Good, good.”

  I crouch down next to him and pull a pill bottle from my jacket. I hand it to him and he nods gratefully. “How have you been feeling?” I ask softly.

  “Good, good. The Lithium, it does the trick. I’ll be back to myself soon, very soon.”

  “Good man.” I sit down next to him and we watch people walk past for a few minutes. It’s part of our ritual. I’m not sure why, but I think Ryan likes the company.

  “I saw him yesterday,” he says finally. “I followed him for a few hours.”

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing. He went into a drug store. He sat in the park. He read a book.” Ryan cocks his head at me. “Are you sure about this one?”

  “I wish I weren’t. But I am.”

  “Okay. Yes. I’ll keep watching.”

  “Get some others on him. The usual offer.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Thanks, Ryan.” I slip him some money. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Always a pleasure.”

  I stand, nod at him, and then walk off back the way I came.

  The man Ryan was following is named Mark Sheer, a sixty-year-old railroad conductor. He lives alone in south Philly and doesn’t seem to have any family or friends. He keeps to himself, a nice quiet white guy living in a nice neighborhood, and nobody looks at him twice.

  He also rapes little kids. There have been rumors about him for a long time, but I haven’t been able to find proof of it until recently. One of my informants caught him luring a kid away from a rail station one night and taking him into the anthill-like back hallways where he touched the boy and did unspeakable things to him.

  I hate rapists and killers and thieves. I hate those men with a passion. But there’s a special disgust for pedophiles, and if I ever hear of one, I always make sure to take care of them as fast as I can.

  I need more proof of Mr. Sheer’s crimes first, though. I broke into his house two weeks ago and found some child pornography stashed away in a hidden panel in is closet, but that doesn’t prove he’s a child rapist as well. I need him to make one tiny move and then he’s mine.

  But I don’t want to wait. I know I should, but I hate the thought of waiting for this guy to fuck up some poor kid’s life. The porn and the rumors are a lot, though it’s not enough by my standards. Still, sitting back and letting him destroy children is unacceptable.

  As I walk back to my car, I know that I’m going to move on him sooner than I should. I’ll give Ryan some more time to find something, but if he doesn’t, I can’t hold back.

  The screaming need inside of me is already starting to hunger again, so soon after killing Amelia’s father. I should be worried, but I’m not.

  I just want to take the sick bastard out.

  6

  Amelia

  It’s hard to keep track of time in a room with no windows or clocks. It’s always daytime in my room, so the only way I know to keep track is based on my sleeping.

  But I’m not really sleeping. When I do, I dream about Noah coming to me. I dream about him touching my body, gently and slowly as my back arches and I moan. I dream about him wrapping his hands around my throat and squeezing, but instead of screaming, I beg him for more.

  I wake up, sweating, scared, and strangely aroused.

  I feel better after I eat. The hangover feeling is gone and I can think straight. I can make it into the bathroom, too, which is a huge relief. I feel more human as I sit there, back against the wall, wrapped in the thin scratchy blanket.

  I want to plot my escape, but so far it seems impossible. I’m not strong enough to break my chains and he was careful when he set this room up. Even if I did remove the chain, I have no way of getting on the elevator. Just from watching him I figured out that it only works based on his thumbprint.

  Trying to plan my escape only distracts me for so long. Between the moments where I’m plotting, I sometimes can see my father’s body slumped in the tub, slowly draining of blood.

  It should disturb me, but it doesn’t. Not anymore, at least. At first it terrified and upset me, but now it just makes me feel excited. I was angry at first, but now I’m happy that Noah killed my father. He deserved it and Noah did the world a favor by taking my father from it.

  I just wish he hadn’t thrown me into this prison.

  As I lean back against the wall, the elevator suddenly dings. I can’t help but feel excited as the doors open and Noah steps into the room wearing dark jeans, a dark t-shirt, and carrying another tray.

  “Dinner time,” he says, placing the tray down in front of me. It’s soup again, this time something thick and creamy, plus a cup of water.

  Greedily, I grab the water and down it. He smiles and fills me another cup from the bathroom tap as I start in on the soup.

  “Good,” he says. “Eat. I’ll be back.”

  I’m too busy eating to say anything. He disappears, but I barely notice. I finish the soup like an animal, not caring about manners or taking my time, just trying to get some nourishment. A few minutes later, the elevator dings again and slide open.

  Noah steps into the room dragging a mattress behind him. I watch as he drags it and places it against the far wall near the bathroom. He goes back into the elevator and returns with a pillow and several more blankets, piling them onto the twin mattress.

  I sit there unmoving, watching him, surprised. I didn’t expect him to bring me a mattress. I thought I might be overstepping when I asked for a blanket, but apparently he does care about my comfort.

  “I have a change of clothes for you, too,” he says, standing over me. “So strip.”

  I stare at him, surprised. “Strip?”

  “Yes. I need to wash what you have on.”

  I look away, blushing. Why is my heart beating so fast? This man is a murderer, a killer, and the man that’s keeping me locked away. I shouldn’t blush when he asks me to take off my clothes. I should feel angry.

  Instead, I feel excitement coursing through my veins. It’s a completely unfamiliar to me, since I’d been practically locked away by my father for so long, and it’s almost overwhelming. I have to look away from him and control my breathing.

  When I look back, he’s smirking at me and crouching down within arm’s reach.

  “Go ahead, my pet,” he says softly. “Strip.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “If I do, will you undress for me?”

  I open my mouth, close it, and then nod.

  “Okay then. What should I call you?”

  “Amelia.”

  “That’s no fun.”

  “None of this is fun for me.”

  His smile slowly fades. “I’ll make it fun for you, sugar. All you have to do is let me.”

  I glare at him, my excitement slowly replaced with anger. He doesn’t own me and I won’t give in to him. Those gorgeous eyes stare at me, practically undressing me, and I know what he wants. Maybe part of me wants it too, but that doesn’t matter.

  “Turn around,” I say.

  He stands and walks a few feet away before facing me and crossing his arms. “No.”

  I stand up. “Asshole.”

  “Undress, sugar.”

  Slowly, I pull off my s
hirt. He watches me the whole time. I toss it aside and remove my bra. My nipples harden instantly as they hit the cold basement air. His eyes never leave my body and a hungry, intense smirk chases across his lips.

  I cover my breasts with one arm and finish pulling off my sweatpants and panties. I kick them off and they slide down the chain. I stand there, completely naked, trying to be defiant but failing.

  “Good girl,” he says. He walks over to my bedding, grabs me a blanket, and brings it over. I wrap it around my body gratefully as he bends down and unshackles my ankle. His fingers graze my skin gently and he glances up at him. A shiver runs down my spine.

  He slides my clothes off the chain and tosses them into a pile. I watch, completely unmoving, as he puts the manacle back on my ankle. When he finishes, he stands back and looks at me for a second. I try to meet his gaze but I have to look away as a wave of excitement washes over me.

  “I’ll be back,” he says, and disappears back upstairs.

  I sit there, wrapped in the blanket, heart beating fast.

  There’s a large part of me that loved having his eyes on my body. I liked that he commanded me to undress, as messed up as that might sound. I turn my back to the elevator, trying to keep myself under control.

  I’m so pathetic. I’m sick. There must be something broken inside of me if I’m enjoying part of this. I’m so starved for attention that I’m melting over this attractive bastard.

  I have to get myself under control. If I want to get away and stay alive, I can’t just turn into a pathetic wet mess every time he speaks to me. He may be handsome and intense, but I have to ignore that.

  He returns in a few minutes with a change of clothes for me. There’s a pair of tapered sweatpants and a comfortable-looking sweatshirt. He kneels in front of me, removes the manacle, and stands back again. I pull it all on gratefully, and he watches me get dressed. Once I’m covered, he puts the chain back on. We go through all of this in silence, though his eyes never once leave my body.

  “Is that all you’re going to do now?” I ask him, finally breaking the tension. “Watch me dress and undress?”