Beautiful Beast: Part 1 of 3

by Jenn Marlow

  With his brown leather jacket, disgustingly tight denim skinny jeans, and band tees, he looked more like a child than a rock star. But, his appearance somehow gave low self-esteemed girls clitoral erections. He would bed new women almost every night, and no one really knew how he managed to score them; but he did.

  Terrence wasn’t exactly a ladies man, at least not by Alex’s standards. He was quirky and odd. Despite his job title, he did not live up to his bad boy image. He was smart, charismatic, caring, and loyal to a fault. She only wished that he would present that to the women of the world rather than keep it hidden beneath the surface. She didn’t like the image he portrayed. She liked the true Terrence much more. In fact, he was almost worthy of being an exception to her work life-home life separation clause. Almost

  She actually did care for Terrence. Although she would never admit it outwardly, she knew he would always hold a special place in her heart. Ever since her first week, he wasn’t just a supportive co-worker, but something much more. Their connection had flourished from the get-go.

  He understood her disdain for the job and her need to make money. He liked her outspoken, fiery personality. He knew her situation. Hell, he was the one that recruited her after all. He gave her advances when she needed and helped her with anything she ever asked for: a broken toilet, a leaky sink, a bed-ridden brother who just both shit and vomited a mound that her stomach just wouldn’t allow her to clean. He was there. He was genuine. Terrence in all his quirky glory was a good guy—no matter what everyone else seemed to think.

  The other women didn’t see it though. They all just saw his image; or at least his attempt of one. Terrence was either a badass or a dumbass poser of a man to every other woman he seemed to cross paths with. Hell, many of her co-workers saw him in a light that she just couldn’t understand. They saw him as their cruel, uptight asshole of a boss; they saw him as the man reaping the benefits of their degrading job. But then again, Alex hated women who couldn’t take responsibility for their actions and cried that they had no choice. So, of course, they were the women pegging Terrence with a bad reputation.

  She knew he wasn’t cruel, nor an asshole. To her, it was easy to see through his façade and into his soul; but, then again, perhaps she was biased. She was hiding from everyone; so, it was probably easier for her to pinpoint a fellow reclusive soul. She knew, all too well, what it was like to hide your true form from others.

  She would never let people get close to her, especially those from work, but not exclusively so. She did her best to never mix her personal life with her work life. Because of that clear separation, it made it difficult to be herself; it made it difficult to be out and open. So, she hid. But it wasn’t just from her co-workers or the people she made contact with at The Office. It was from everyone. Hell, she knew a part of her hid from Denny and Holly, as well; and those two knew her better than anyone did—probably even better than she knew herself.

  It was in that hiding, in the darkest corner of the darkest closet, which so happened to be tucked away in the darkest room of the darkest part of her mind, that she was able to occasionally feel movement of another body within. It was in that hiding place that she rubbed, elbow to elbow, with fellow souls who also concealed their truths from the rest of humanity. They were the true recluses of the world. Together, knowing each other’s true locations, they hid from everyone else.

  It was quite ironic, actually, because in an attempt to hide from the world, they had to retreat to the darkest of dark places. And in there, within the blackening darkness, they were not only invisible to others, but to themselves. Have you ever been in a place so eerily devoid of light that you were unable to see the hand in front of your face? That’s what Alex felt every day. The only people who could ever understand were the ones who were in the closet with her. And Alex was in that closet with Terrence; she knew him. She knew who he was and where he was. And he was not a bad man. Not even slightly.

  “Keep asking me for advances, I’ll have to sell you into a sex trade,” he joked. However, it actually intrigued her and piqued her interest immediately. She remembered the girls talking about a sex ring, and she had some questions for him, herself.

  His back was turned to her, and he was walking towards his shitty oak desk. It was duct taped in places, likely from unfortunate sexual accidents and perhaps a scuffle or two. She knew where he was going; she was used to the process by now. She always got advances or borrowed money from him; it was almost a routine. He walked around his desk and pulled away his tattered brown leather chair away before hunching down, disappearing from her view.

  He stood up, reappearing again with a single black box with a shiny metal combination lock on the top. His mini-safe. A few adjustments with his fingers on the lock, allowed for a single click. Eureka. It opened. He reached in, gathered a stack of cash and handed it to her; not bothering to count it. He knew—whatever the amount—she was good for it, and he wanted to ensure she had enough. But she knew that it would never be enough.

  “Women actually sell themselves into stuff like that? Does that really happen?” she asked, sounding a little more intrigued vocally than she meant to.

  “Yes, but I was joking, Alex. I know you’re good for the money, and you’re not one of those women,” he replied flatly, rounding the corner of the desk again. She felt the crispness of the money under her touch and wanted to cry. This is was the representation of human lives; money was all that mattered. Money was the only thing keeping us all alive. She supposed it was only fitting that it was what was keeping Denny alive, too.

  She backed up against the wall and slid down it to sit on the floor. The scummy little office didn’t have any extra seating; but, then again, it was hardly an office at all. Full of cardboard boxes and cleaning supplies, it was more like a janitorial closet or extra storage rather than a room for business ventures. But it wasn’t like he had a lot of office work to do anyways, she thought, still musing at how trashy the place looked.

  “I’m not? What’s the difference?” she asked.

  “You have options. They don’t.”

  “Don’t we all? We all choose to do this sort of stuff,” she replied, her argumentative side rearing its ugly head once again. She knew better than battle the person giving her money, but she also knew she couldn’t back down from a spirted debate.

  “Hey, sex trade slavery is not the same thing you’re doing!” he defended.

  “I know that it isn’t the same thing, but I can’t stand when women always say they don’t have a choice. The reality is that we all have choices. I take my clothes off every night, not particularly because I love it, but because I like having to work half the hours for more than full-time pay. I like that it gives me more freedom to take care of my brother without having to worry about work. It’s a good option; not the only one,” she said spiritedly.

  “I get it, Alex. Women power—you all have choices in all that you do. But why would a woman sell herself if she felt like it was a choice?”

  “Whether she thinks it’s a choice or not isn’t the question. It isn’t relevant. It doesn’t matter. It is a choice. Otherwise, it’s kidnapping and sex trafficking. It’s a choice to go in. It may be so far beyond the best choice that it feels like there really isn’t a choice, but it’s a choice nonetheless. Now tell me about it.” She was being demanding and feisty, and she didn’t understand why she felt the need to argue the subject. What other women thought of their actions really was none of her business. But she felt that it was a standpoint that was rarely thought about and always overlooked. They did have a choice, and saying otherwise made women out to be some sort of pathetic lesser creature.

  Terrence sighed, defeated. “I’m not sure why you’re always so harsh. Give it a rest, Alex.”

  She didn’t know if he meant her rant, or the questions she was asking him. Regardless, though, she didn’t want to give up on it. She looked at him, arms crossed, brows set—waiting. “I’m not supposed to talk about the sex ri
ng unless a woman want to join. Idiot me told you and Holly, and now all the girls know about it, and they weren’t supposed to. And you don’t want to be making enemies out of these kinds of men.”

  “Why would you have enemies? Aren’t you supposed to be recruiting?” she was confused. She was used to bad men; she was a stripper for fuck’s sake. She ran across jackass men on a nightly basis. It wasn’t anything knew. But if Terrence was supposed to be recruiting, wouldn’t it stand to reason that he would have to vocalize the specificities of the opportunity?

  “Yes. But if everyone knows, then the ring becomes public. When things that are illegal become public, the people who own said illegally operated junctures are a little upset about it,” he snapped. “So like I said, give it a rest.”

  “Please, Terrence.” She gave him puppy dog eyes and pouted her lips, knowing that he was a sucker for cuteness.

  “God, you’re worse than Holly,” he sighed, sliding down the length of the wall as well so that he was sitting beside her. He crossed his legs Indian-style. “Ok, the owner’s name is Mr. Gresky. He’s a great big round-gutted man, and a bit of a total ass really. But man he’s smart. He never gets caught. He recruits women who are prostitutes and dancers; women who are used to selling their—” He stopped. She looked at him, curiosity etched all over her face, and he continued, “—erm, goods…if you will—”

  “So that they’re used to being whores. Got it!” she interjected comically.

  “No, just so that they’re more easily swayed,” he began, a hint of laughter in his tone. “Face it. If they got into this profession, then they’re already hurting for money in a terrible way and they’re willing to jeopardize their dignity—in most cases—to get it. It just isn’t as much of a leap until you’re selling yourself, and even you have to agree with that one. It’s like marijuana being a gateway drug. Doesn’t happen to everyone, but it can. It makes it easier to move on to bigger and better once you’ve had a taste.”

  She looked at him with doe eyes. She didn’t know whether or not to praise that recruitment system or to tear it down with anger. They were preying on women in need, but, then again, it was a smart business choice. If your business was to exploit women, that is.

  She didn’t say anything. Hell, to be honest, she didn’t know what to say. But part of her wanted to hear more. So rather than say anything at all, she motioned with her hands for him to continue, no sound escaping her lips. He smiled and cleared his throat before continuing his explanation, “Anyways, he recruits the owners of establishments like this, pimps, mistresses, and the list goes on within various establishments or circles. The women are then given contracts for a set number of years and go into auction. The winner of the auction takes on the woman for the duration of her contract, and every month the next of kin gets a big fat pay check in their account.”

  She was amazed. “You have his card?” she asked, immediately questioning herself. She couldn’t even believe the words left her mouth. As far as she was concerned, she would never consider such a thing—would she? But there she was, asking. She wasn’t sure what her intentions were. She didn’t know why she wanted to get in touch with him. But she knew that it had to be more than her simple curiosity. With her cunning street-smarts, she knew that one wouldn’t—or couldn’t—merely confront someone like this just for shits and giggles. It was likely he would kill her, and probably Terrence too, if she contacted him with no intention of joining in. Hell, the sheer waste of time on its own was a punishable offense.

  After it was out there though, after she had asked him such a ridiculous question, after she had admitted that she was interested in pursuing something as vile as this, she was afraid. She was very afraid. What exactly was she willing to do? How far was she willing to take it?

  But then it hit her.

  She didn’t need to question it, or herself, because she knew she would take it as far as she needed. She would do whatever she needed to do for the last remaining member of her family.

  “You’re not seriously thinking about—” Terrence began, but she shushed him before he could get it all out. She didn’t need to hear it vocalized; she was already concerned enough for the both of them within the trespasses of her own mind.

  Some might argue what the point of it all was; we all have a finite amount of breaths that we take. No one can live forever. It was just a matter of when our final breath might be; that was the question in all of our lives. So why would she risk everything: her dignity, her wellbeing, her own life for that matter—just to save a life that was doomed for failure eventually anyways? After all, if it’s their time, it’s their time, right? Wrong.

  The truth of it was, Alex couldn’t imagine living without Denny. Her life would be a pit of devastation if it weren’t for him. Sure, his disease made things difficult for her; and sure, sometimes it was too much, but it was never him. Denny, himself, was the light at the end of the tunnel. Denny was the good in her life full of bad. He was so good, in fact, that she wondered if it was for him that she actually did it all—or if it was for her. Regardless, she knew that she would fight every day for his lungs to fill with one more breath and his heart to pump one more beat of blood through his body. She would fight for his life for as long as he was alive. She would fight for him for as long as she could; she just hoped that she could win the fight.

  Chapter 7

  It was no secret that Alex was upset by it all; but she was more than just upset. She was in agony. She was in turmoil. She felt like she was counting the final minutes and seconds of Denny’s life—of her life with him. Her stomach churned with nausea at every turn. The money was becoming too difficult to handle. And she felt guilty. She felt like a deadbeat. She felt like she was failing him.

  Depression seemed to knock on the door to her soul with every beat of her heart; it was as if it had leeched onto the organ and its knock was the blood pumping beat of her heart itself. It ran through the entire length of her body and reached every single square inch of it. It was as if it had tainted her blood as it ran through her veins. Every moment reminded her of the horrible job she was doing with him. The bills came every week; and every week she was worse off in her ability to be able to pay them.

  It was with every envelope that she ripped open that knew that her decision was on the horizon. She had to come up with something; and she knew what she had been contemplating ever since he started the trial. The fact that she hadn’t already come up with a concrete plan made her feel guilty. She was his caregiver. She was supposed to figure it all out, and she was supposed to make it all better.

  Her short slender fingers gripped the silver door-handle to Denny’s hospital room door. The metal felt cool to the touch, and she was surprised that, for even just a moment, she could actually feel something so blatantly that she actually thought about it.

  She closed her eyes, sighed, and turned it, hoping that this time would be an exception like the day they had in the park. She hoped he would have energy. She hoped he wouldn’t be pale white from nausea. And she hoped his eyes contained him because, recently, when she had visited, his eyes were empty of all positivity; and all that remained was sadness and hopelessness.

  He always tried to reassure her, but Alex knew better. She knew what hopelessness and depression looked like. She saw it every day when she looked in the mirror. She knew the look, and she knew it well. There was no reassuring her when he so obviously had no assurance in himself.

  Guilt overloaded her again as the door creaked open. She hadn’t supported him enough to assure him. And she knew that, because of that, it was her fault that he was pessimistic.

  Darkness had once lay across the entire room, leaving it all to shadows. It was fitting, really. Denny lay within, and his entire life seemed to consist of shadows and darkness. But as the door swung open, the fluorescent light beamed in.

  She was shocked at what the light allowed her to view. It was as if the light had buried away all of their demons and brought in goodness an
d hope. Standing before her—about ten feet away—was a girl. She was small in frame, light in hair, and held a kind and genuine demeanor.

  The girl held a smile as she looked down on Denny’s own smiling face.

  “Hey, sis!” Denny called from the bed, obviously seeing her come in. “Come meet Iris!”

  His voice held an unbelievable amount of joy. And then she realized she had gotten her wish. Today had been an exception. Today had been one filled with hope. Today was a good day. She only wished she had played a more major role in it.

  Chapter 8

  It’s easy to look forward when you’re young. Sometimes it’s almost all you can do to stop living in the future. Denny was so young, and she was too far that matter; but the two of them were very much unlike any other young person. Denny—who was only sixteen—lived in the now despite desperately wishing to live in the future. But he would never allow himself the pleasure of doing so. Alex, on the other hand, always lived in the past, not unlike a cynical old man reliving his glory days. In the past, her parents were alive. In the past, Denny wasn’t sick. In the past, he did live in the future. In the past, she wasn’t a fucking stripper. And in the past, she would have never thought to delve into the world she was about to dive head first into. In the past, she had a family and no worries, and to Alex, there was no future without Denny. He was her all, her everything; he was her child.

  And it was then that she knew—without a shadow of a doubt—what she was going to do. So she set the plans into action. Over the next couple of days her visits with Denny were short-lived but frequent, sometimes totaling three times a day. She wanted him to know she cared; but she wasn’t going to tell him what was about to happen. She didn’t want him to know.