Beautiful Things Evil People Do

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Glancing at the chains, I grin. “Because I can? Because it was way too easy to play you. To lie to you. To bait you. To convince you that I was a nice guy.”

  She cries, “But you won’t rape me.”

  “I’m not into bestiality,” I confirm, unmoved. “Even a guy like me has his limits, babydoll.”

  “Great, so I’m stuck here until you decide I’m worthy of being a human.”

  I nod once and blink. “Pretty much.”

  “… And if I behave?”

  “We move up the ladder from the hell you put yourself in.”

  “You’re rebuilding me,” she muses, crying. “You’re breaking me to turn me into something I’m not.”

  “You’re right, I am,” I challenge. “Because you’re not human.”

  “I’m starting to regret that I ever met you.”

  “That’s better,” I praise, standing up. “You shouldn’t like me.” She latches onto my ankle and sinks her teeth into my flesh. I don’t react as she glances up and hisses, “Fiend.”

  “Sick fuck!”

  I walk away, laughing. “Eat, drink, and behave, Sweet Pea.”

  In the house, I strip off my clothes to take a shower. I stare at the reddened bruise on the inside of my ankle. I’ll bend her will, but keeping Echo will require more patience than I have ever possessed.

  I desperately want to run to the shed, bring her up to the house, and care for her. I want to bathe her, brush her hair, and put her in my bed—but she is wild, like one of the many stray, rabid animals I brought home and begged to heal.

  My mother never would.

  When Dad thought we were safely tucked in our beds asleep, I would hear the gunshot ring out in the stillness of the night. The moon cried with the loss of one of her furry children as I did.

  Every creature deserved a chance to survive.

  And when it proved to have enough fight to overcome, I would teach it to thrive.

  Grandma understood my spirituality, empathy, and kinship to life. She never once took it for granted, and I ended up staying with her more often than my parents.

  At her farmhouse, we tried to save countless souls.

  From stray cats and dogs hit on the road to my best friend’s—Chuck’s growing drug problem—and the girl I favored—Celeste’s promiscuous nature—Grandma blessed them all with her healing hands and home-cooked meals. She gave until there was nothing left to give.

  She tried.

  And trying counts.

  We lost two humans.

  I won’t lose three.

  I won’t lose Echo.

  During my eight-month incarceration, Grandma died of a massive heart attack, and I gave up. I swore I would never try to save another human after Chuck betrayed me and Celeste refused to listen.

  Being a good guy never helped anyone.

  I was stalking a girl to watch over her, and she was fucking murdered by my best friend. And if I took that stalking too far—well, at least she was alive with my eyes on her.

  I started stashing credits for people I walked away from who may have needed help, or a hand, or a bit of advice. I ignored all their requests, demands, and pleas because I shut down.

  I was the bad guy.

  People died when I stopped.

  Instead of saving the dying animal lying on the side of the road, I became the guy that would run it over again to make sure it met its maker.

  I was that guy; I was that asshole.

  Hit it and quit it.

  Care about one—myself.

  And do not, under any circumstances, get involved with anyone.

  In Tucson, I read the ad, and something triggered deep inside of me.

  I wanted to rape this girl.

  I wanted to own her.

  I needed to claim her and make her mine.

  But one night wouldn’t cut it—I wanted a whole fucking lifetime with a girl as fucked up as she was.

  I am fucking starving on the hunt.

  And I can’t stop.

  I can’t turn off my predator now.

  Echo will die if I stop.

  I’m too far gone, spending all the years of credits on one girl—one feral kitten wanting to be mutilated—in my shed. If I have to pour every ounce of my soul into her to convince her that she alone is worth fighting for, then I will. But she cannot give up; she cannot quit.

  She must survive.

  And if she doesn’t, then neither will I.

  In saving her, I redeem myself.

  If I lose her, I am done.

  Hit it and quit it.

  10

  Terrified with the Lights On

  Echo

  First entry, the fourth day

  I hate him.

  I’m so fucking lonely.

  And stupid.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  “Good morning, Sweet Pea,” he says from the doorway. “Did you eat?” He lifts the lid and tilts his head. “Not bad.”

  “The broccoli was good.”

  Setting down the tray, he smirks. “Thanks. The farmer’s market always has the best. This morning, we have your favorite.” He lifts the lid to a mammoth bowl of Frosted Flakes. “Enjoy.”

  “What if I agree to stay put and let you do whatever you want?”

  “I’m not having sex with you, if that is what you’re asking,” he replies, propping the door open wide with a rock from outside.

  “But you want to.”

  His eyes shift back and forth. “I would be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to you. And I won’t lie to you again.”

  “What’s changed?” I ask, holding a spoonful of the cereal.

  “You’re safe here with me. No one is going to hurt you here on my property.”

  I swallow the bite and hold the spoon in my trembling hand. “… How big is it?”

  He pauses, unusually long, staring at me. I meet his gaze. “Big…really big.”

  I lick my lips and smirk. “You’re a flirt.”

  “With the right girl behaving like a girl, I can be quite the charmer. You act like an animal, and I will react accordingly, handling you like an undomesticated wench.”

  “… Is that how it’s going to be?”

  “Pretty much,” he says, walking to the door. “I have a present for you. Eat.”

  I keep munching as I hear several loud thumps. He returns to the entryway, shirtless, and wearing a tool belt. I drop my fucking spoon on the floor because he is too masculine for my meager mind. “Fuck.”

  “Where do you want this bed?” He dives to pick up the utensil. “You’re lucky. I have an extra in the truck.”

  “You have extra silverware in the truck?”

  “I have lots of things,” he admits, promptly returning with a clean spoon. He holds it in front of me but refuses to release it. I lay my hand on top of his, and he pulls back, pressing my hand to his lips. “Trust me, Echo.”

  “You can call me Ekky.”

  “Eat, Ekky.” He smiles. “My name is J.A. Monroe.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what the J.A. stands for.”

  “Probably not, but you can call me Jynx.”

  I’m stunned he told me his name. “Jynx Monroe?”

  “That’s my name,” he replies, shooting me a glare. “And if you don’t eat, your name will be Red Assed Ekky.” He points as his eyes widen with a scowl. “Where do you want the bed?”

  “I don’t care,” I garble with a mouthful of cereal. “Anywhere.”

  “How about this corner?”

  I nod and continue eating as I attempt to avoid paying too much attention to my captor’s gallant efforts. He disappears outside and carries in pieces of an antique metal bed frame. “That’s beautiful!”

  “It was my Grandmother’s as a child,” he informs, carefully setting out the pieces. “It’s been in storage for far too long.”

  “Were you close to her?”

  “Yes,” he replies, bol
ting the frame together. I finish my breakfast with occasional glimpses at him. He finally stands and asks, “What are the odds you’re running off?”

  “Do you want the honest answer?”

  His blue eyes peer down at me as a slight smirk lifts his lips. “Be transparent.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I reply. “You promised I would live. And I trust you.”

  “You’ve been overly trusting of me.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a dumb wench,” I say, arching a brow.

  “Can you help me?” he asks, pulling the key for the chain out of his pocket. “If I let you loose?”

  “Will it earn me a shower?”

  “Maybe.” He winks

  Kneeling, he undoes the chains from my ankles, rubbing them. His touch sends a shockwave through me. “Don’t leave me. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Is there more than putting a bed together?”

  “Quite a bit,” he says, smiling wide. He has dimples, but they’re hidden by several days of shadowy beard. “We have to feed the farm.”

  “What do you do?”

  He pops a mint, the red and white swirly kind, in his mouth and offers me one. “Legit?”

  “In all ways…be transparent.”

  “I do computer stuff for my dad’s business, and I hack into shit for fun.”

  “That’s how you found me,” I mutter, understanding. “Because I never expected a smart stalker.”

  “They’re not all dumbasses.”

  “Girlfriend? Wife? Anything?”

  He shakes his head. “I have no interest in caring for anyone.”

  “You realize,” I point out with a wave toward the bed. “That everything you say about yourself from not caring or being a gentleman, you’re disproving in practice with me.”

  “You’re special,” he snarls. “I’m an asshole. Trust me.”

  “If I run off, will you hunt me down?”

  “Good question,” he seriously remarks. “I’m hoping you will stay on your own,” he admits, licking his lips. “But I don’t know that you’re ready to get to know yourself as much as I want you to.”

  “I’m living in a stranger’s shed. Unrestrained and not struggling. Even though he readily admits to being a stalker and an asshole. Who doesn’t want to get to know themselves here?”

  His eyes roll-up. “Fair point.”

  “You’re incredibly cute.”

  “So are you,” he confesses as I study the sharp angles of his high cheek bones. He is the looker here, not me. “Which is what started all of this. I don’t pursue anyone really, but I avoid twenty-somethings.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you aware of how much work you are?” he rebukes, and I laugh hard. “You’re stunning when you smile.”

  “And you want to fuck me.”

  “Yes,” he finally affirms. “I desperately want to fuck you into next week.”

  “But, you won’t.”

  “Nope,” he says, grinning. “Not until you truly believe you’re worth more than what you think. We have to get to work.”

  “You’re segueing.”

  “I am,” he replies, standing, and offers his hands. From the chair, I stare at his noticeable protrusion in dark gray sweat pants. “Avoiding even, because sex complicates everything.”

  “What are you going to do with that?” I ask, flicking my eyes to his and taking his fingers.

  “Use what you’re holding.”

  “But you don’t have to.”

  “Do you want me to throw the tray, splash the milk on the floor, and screw you on the table?”

  “Yes!” I giggle. “That is exactly what I want.”

  “You don’t learn anything then.”

  “Fuck!” I yell, unable to stop smiling. “You’re infuriating! Kiss me.”

  “No.”

  ”Hug me?”

  “No.”

  “Asshole,” I mumble with a pout as his hand releases mine and tucks beneath my chin. “Say it. Be brave.”

  “I’m breaking the rules for you,” he confides, dipping down and breathing against my lip. “I lost years of sobriety and sanity to taste you. But I’m a grown-ass man, and I will not gulp you down like a parched man walking across the desert. I will sip, savor, and devour every last drop because I’m disciplined in my convictions.”

  With every ounce of courage I have, I confide, “I want to break you.”

  “That feeling is mutual,” he whispers as I consider stealing a kiss. It would be offensive to his position, though, and I hate that, but I respect it. He softly smiles. “Let it naturally evolve.”

  “Are you saying there is a chance you may care about me?”

  His full-blown grin smacks my heart with the force of a hammer. “I’m warming up to the idea, but don’t push it. I’m still an asshole.”

  His hands drop, and the intense moment passes. He turns to the bed frame. “I need you to hold that steady while I screw it…” His words suddenly fall silent as he stares at my naked chest. “Where are your clothes?”

  “If you’re going to walk around here, taunting me with all that raging manhood, I’m doing the same to you.”

  “Damn you, Ek.” He licks his lips and lowers to bolt the bed together. “Hold this.”

  “Are we alone?”

  With his battery-powered screwdriver in hand, he fastens the bed together. “Yes, except for Tuesday and Thursday afternoons when the Ag crew arrives.”

  “For what?”

  He grabs my hand, leading me outside. “Welcome to the farm.”

  “Oh, my God,” I gasp at the dozens of peacocks and chickens running wild. I briefly forget how self-conscious I am over my breasts, but when I remember, I tug away. With a subtle smile, he refuses to let go as his eyes skim over my flesh. “I smell water…”

  He keeps a firm grip on my arm, dragging me to the edge of the shed where a spacious lake comes into view. “This is gorgeous.”

  Picking up the pack of smokes off the tailgate, he releases his stronghold and lights one. “I’m glad someone else sees that. My brother, Axel, wants to sell the whole thing.”

  “Is this your house?”

  “No, I have a beach house about an hour from here,” he says, exhaling. “You’re smitten.”

  “I grew up in Birmingham. I went to school in California. I know small town, but not rural like this.”

  “You should see the stars at night.”

  “Will you show them to me?” I excitedly question, and he nods. “Can I go jump in your lake?”

  “Are you going to swim away?”

  “No,” I say in awe. “Are there fish?”

  “Yeah,” he says as I notice the bag of sunflower seeds. “And snakes. But the peacocks usually keep them at bay.”

  “Peacocks…” I susurrate, believing in a blissful nirvana that I wasn’t sure existed. His looming presence shrouds the unimportant, allowing my focus on the basic needs.

  We walk closer, under the canopy of oaks and cypress laden with Spanish moss, as he extends his hand. I lay my fingers into his palm, and he clasps them.

  “My grandparents bought this place back in the fifties. Shortly after they moved in, Grandma found a cottonmouth—a water moccasin—up on her back deck. She went into town and asked the local feed store owners what to do about them. The man knew she had bought the place and recommended the peacocks and peahens.”

  I watch his expression shift from a toughened leather to an indescribable mourning. “You miss her.”

  “Like you cannot believe,” he whispers, breathing through the agony. “She was my person, Clementine Eudora Merco Monroe. Anyway…”

  “You don’t deal with emotions well at all,” I interject, assessing.

  “Not at all,” he knowingly admits with a smirk. “She went out and bought a flock. They all ran off or died. So, she bought another flock with a coop. And she kept trying until she had ninety-six when she passed four years ago.”

  “Paternal Grandmother. Spanish?”<
br />
  “And yes, on both counts. My mother’s side is Danish.”

  “… Parents names?”

  “Montgomery Merco Monroe and Laverne Howser Monroe.”

  “Siblings?”

  “Just Axel, he is two years younger than me,” he replies as I let go of his hand. “Are we playing twenty questions?”

  “We might be,” I say, undoing my pants. “Do you have any questions?”

  A look of awe fills his eyes as he asks, “Only why would such a magnificent girl want something so horrific to happen to her?”

  “Because I have a problem,” I caution, handing my rank pants to him. “I don’t want normal.”

  I run for the water, and he yells, “What does that mean?”

  “Find out, stalker!” I dip into the warm water and emerge with a splash, tossing my hair back. Water drips from my skin as I pace back toward him. “You’re the sleuth.”

  “Would you like a shower before feeding my peacocks?”

  “Yes,” I say, grinning. “I would.”

  “Up to the house.” He points. “Go in the back door, past the kitchen, first entry on the left. Your bags are there.”

  “You’re trusting me?”

  “You won’t leave,” he arrogantly boasts. “You’re too enchanted.”

  I take my pants from his arm, and he startlingly plants a peck on my cheek. “You’re right, I am. We’re alone?”

  “Four hundred acres.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, comprehending that he has me invisibly tethered. “You’re damn good.”

  “I try.”

  Jynx

  I finish putting the bed together, dragging the mattress to the room, and making the bed with vintage lace coverings, which all seems so futile because I want this girl in my bed. I finish and catch her, staring at me in the doorway. She is wearing jeans and a tank top with her wet hair pulled into a ponytail. Her arms are crossed over her chest.

  I smile and ask, “Feel better?”

  “I did some thinking in the shower.”