Beautiful Beast: Part 2 of 3

by Jenn Marlow

  But she wasn’t grateful.

  She was upset.

  She hated to admit it, but she was genuinely upset.

  She didn’t feel like she was good enough for him. She felt disgusting. She felt repulsive; and she also felt like a whore for what she did before, especially when it resulted in her being turned down.

  Anger welled up as the booze set in further, and she decided that she wasn’t going to take being rejected. Not lying down anyways. She wasn’t the type of person to dwell, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let the likes of him disrespect her and get away with it. Not after everything, not after all this time.

  She pounded her way through the house and back to the master bedroom. He was already awake, though, and she cursed under her breath because of it. He was sitting up, his side table lamp illuminated so that he could see the magazine he clutched within his grasp. She was pissed. She wanted to be the one to wake him up again. She wanted to be the storm that fucked his entire world up like a hurricane destroying everything in its wake. She wanted to get even.

  “What the fuck was all that about?!” she screamed before throwing a bottle that she hadn’t realized she had been holding directly at his face. He dodged in just enough time and shot up out of bed with an angry vengeance.

  “Good question!” he screamed, as he darted up to her, his face menacingly close to her own. It reminded her of the second day she had spent there…the night he violated her.

  “You’ve been fucking parading around here acting like we’re friends, and now you just put me on the back burner and freeze me out!” she continued to rant in a drunken slur, all while he violently seethed in front of her. His nose flared like a dragon’s snare, and she could tell he was on the verge of erupting with fury, but so was she. She wasn’t backing down; she couldn’t.

  “We’re not in a relationship and you’re a fucking idiot if you think otherwise!” he screamed, spit spewing like lava from his mouth. She pushed him with all her might, angrier than she could honestly remember ever being in her entire life.

  He stumbled back, caught off guard, and she drew her arm back ready to fire a punch directly at him. However, just as she was about to launch her fist, Maria came rushing in. “That’s enough!” she yelled, her voice loud and firm. Alex had never heard that side of her before.

  She let her fist loosen and her arm fall. Roland stood straight and visibly swallowed hard before taking his narrowed gaze off of Alex and onto Maria. “Get her out of here; and do it now.” His voice was warning and anger dripped off of every word. His resolve had completely crumbled, and it was a miracle he was able to hold back.

  She knew this, because as soon as Maria placed her hand on the small of her back and led her from the room, they heard the most horrifying of sounds come from the room behind them. Slams of doors, drawers, and inanimate objects, glass shattering with thunderous cracks, scraping against the floor, and most of all, the sound of a man in agony came rushing out in waves from the room. He was screaming, and it was then that Alex knew that every ounce of composure had left him. He was going ape-shit.

  They climb the stairs, neither saying a word to the other. They just listened to the terrible sounds coming from the master bedroom downstairs. In fact, no one said a word until they reached Alex’s bedroom. “It’s best to stay away from him,” the woman said gently and reassuringly, as she gestured for Alex to enter the room.

  “I can see that,” she slurred, still a bit under the influence of alcohol. She sighed, knowing that she needed to go to bed, but as soon as she took a step over the threshold, Maria grabbed her forearm gently to stop her. Alex looked at her inquisitively, waiting for her to elaborate.

  “You know, you asked once what I thought about Mr. Peters, and the truth is I used to think a lot more of him. He’s a good man,” she said to her. “He’s just lost.”

  “Why?” Alex found herself asking, still unsure why she cared.

  “His wife died years ago when they were still newlyweds. He lost her to cancer. He hasn’t really been the same since. He never trusts women to stay close; they’re in and out, in and out. But you’re not like the others,” she explained.

  “How am I different than them? Were they bad?” Alex found herself interested in the conversation and had completely forgotten about the sleep that she knew her body desperately needed.

  “No, they weren’t bad women. But they wanted him for his money, not that I can blame them. Mr. Peters is hard to be around. But it’s different with you; and he’s different with you,” she continued and Alex blinked in response. What was she getting at? “He looks at you when you’re not looking, and he feels something for you, which is why he just lost control. He doesn’t know how to handle it. He brings all these random women home for sexual companionship…I’m not stupid…I know that. But with you, he’s developing real feelings.”

  It all sounded like something out of a storybook. It was all so complex and dramatic. So was it true? Did he have feelings for her? If what Maria was saying about his wife was true, then she could definitely understand why he was distant. She would have been exactly the same.

  She found it a bit ironic that Maria had mentioned being in it “for money” and hadn’t referenced Alex in the same manner as the other women in regards to the financial gain. She obviously didn’t know he was a sex-slave owner. She obviously didn’t realize that it was the whole reason Alex was there in the first place. She wondered, though, if Maria didn’t know that aspect of his life, how could Alex be sure that Maria knew of any other aspect? What if he didn’t have feelings for her and he was just an asshole like he had always been before he had a few kind days?

  But, if she was right, then he wasn't just being a curious sex-slave owner during his inquisitions. If what she said was true, then he was actually being empathetic and compassionate. He wasn't being disrespectful; it was actually the opposite. He cared. He fucking cared. He didn't want to care, but he cared…she knew he did. He had to. He was respecting her enough to ask questions; to get to know her.

  But once he had gotten to know her and learned about her brother, it obviously brought up painful memories of his past. She felt like she had just had some huge revelation, and she wanted to confront him about it. However, she knew when the downstairs continued to crash and bang with angry resilience that it was best not to.

  For once, Alex Miller was not going to poke the bear.

  Chapter 7

  When her eyes fluttered open and a fierce pounding of regret echoed through her head, she groaned. The usual feathery-comfort that conformed perfectly to her sleeping head—the one she nestled so soundly to every other morning due to its immense comfort—was nothing short of the bane of her existence this morning. An immense heat was entrapped within the contents of its fabric to a degree she wasn’t sure she could even tolerate if she had awoken in fucking Antarctica.

  It was like the pillow itself had burned her while she slept, as she noticed the sweat pouring profusely from her pores. It had an odd pungent smell attached to it, like onions in vanilla extract. She groaned with frustration before launching the pillow across the room. “Be gone, you Satanous pillow!” she screamed.

  Hear head pounded with ferocity and nausea crept up on her all of a sudden. And then, she remembered. She was hungover. She was hungover from a very heavy night of drinking. And in that heavy night of drinking, it was brought to her attention that she may have feelings for her egomaniacal, asshole of a “master.” Not only that, though, but that he might have reciprocated those feelings—despite the fact that she likely triggered emotions regarding his late wife.

  She sighed and the sickness overtook her.

  She darted to the nearest bathroom, which luckily for her was just down the hall. Her feet pounded the hardwood floors with a flustering vengeance across the length of her room, out the door, and two doors down. Her hand grabbed the knob with urgency, and she busted through the barrier without much strain and felt everything immediately run up
through her stomach and out her throat.

  She barely had made it to the porcelain bowl before she started vomiting, but she had. The pain in her head amplified, as she upchucked the dinner from the night before as well as the buckets of booze she had stupidly consumed. She felt and tasted every mistake that she had made the night before, as her chest clenched and stomach pounded. Her throat acted like a gateway for every one of those mistakes to release itself from her body and into the bowl below.

  She felt like she was purging every negative thought, every negative ball of energy. And if the acidic liquid hadn’t bubbled and burned as it left her body, she wouldn’t have minded throwing up. The taste was disgusting, marinara mixed with vomit was never a good combination, but she could bear it. The only thing she couldn’t bear was the sick-feeling she got when she thought about three things: booze, food, and most of all, Roland.

  And as if on cue and ready to punish her for all that she had done last night, the latter appeared from behind her. She could feel his presence behind her, and she groaned with the dissatisfaction of having to face him this early, especially with her head buried in a toilet bowl.

  “That sounds pretty gnarly,” he said lightly and with a mocking jest.

  “So I didn’t embarrass myself enough last night then?” she choked out. She was on her knees, looking down at her own vomit, and the smell of it made her even sicker, but she refused to look away from it because the only other option was to look at him. And she wasn’t sure if she could bear it.

  “We really need to talk about last night before I go into work,” he said, kneeling beside her, putting a reassuring hand on the space between her two shoulder blades as she looked on, ready to vomit some more. She was nervous, and she wished more than anything that they could let it drop until she knew what she wanted to say; hell, until she knew what she was even feeling about the whole thing. Because as it stood, she didn’t know anything.

  “After our conversation, I want you to leave for a little while. I spoke with Gresky and got your contact information. I have set up a meeting with Denny at Bridgefront Park. It’s a place close to your old house where you two used to go often from my understanding. When we’re done talking, I want you to go there,” he said before she could say anything else.

  And never before had Alex been so emotionally torn. On one hand, she was ecstatic. It had felt like a lifetime since she had seen her brother. On the other hand, she was upset, and not only was she upset, but she knew that after this conversation, she would likely not be in any mood that Denny needed. He needed optimistic support, and part of her knew that even though that wasn’t why she left, that it was a huge perk. He needed better than she had been giving him.

  “Well, we can start with why you didn’t have sex with me. I thought that that’s what this whole thing was all about?” she replied anxiously, not vocalizing a response to her visitation with Denny at all. She moved away from his touch so that she could sit on her ass. Hoping it would provide more comfort than the agonizingly hard and cruelly cold tiles against her knees.

  She looked up and at him for the first time, and she was astonished at how well-composed he looked given last night’s events. His hair was fixed, he was clean-shaven, and he looked well-rested. She wasn’t sure how that was possible, but she thought it was best to ignore and focus on something a little more important…the expression on his face when she asked the question.

  His eyes glazed over and began to dart around the room, sure to land on everything and everywhere except on her. It was painfully obvious to her that he was avoiding eye contact, and she couldn’t help but wonder why. He gulped soundlessly yet enough for her to watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down quickly. And then, as if he had gained some sort of immaculate courage, as well as switched to another personality completely, he looked at her, and a menacing smile began to form.

  If she hadn’t been watching, she wouldn’t have seen the vulnerability just there, and she wouldn’t have noticed anything more than the dark-eyed, emotionless man before her. “I’m bored with you,” he replied darkly. Yes, indeed, if she hadn’t been watching she wouldn’t have noticed the change in moods, but she had been watching, and she did notice. And then she knew that her feelings for him weren’t just fleeting, and it they weren’t just physical.

  Because even though he was being cruel, she knew it was an act. He had purposely said what he said to lead her off of his trail, and she almost laughed at how transparent he was being. But then again, she wasn’t sure if it was his transparency, or her sudden piqued interest in him and his emotional vulnerability.

  “Oh, really?” she was upset, but not because she thought he was bored with her. She knew that was bullshit, but because he felt he had to lie to her. He felt he needed to hide from her—when in reality, he knew he couldn’t have hidden from her anymore if he tried.

  He knew that she hadn’t bought it; he knew that she had seen his moment of weakness and was likely ready to exploit it. He knew. The truth was, he wasn’t bored of her. It was the opposite really. Over the last month, it felt like they had been connected in ways unfathomable to him before. She was the person he ached to see every day, and the person in whom he enjoyed speaking with the most.

  But, physically, sexually, he was bored. Since his wife’s passing, he had developed one more darkened passenger that he had never admitted to anyone before. It was something that would forever prevent him from engaging in another romantic relationship, and that’s why he never sought help removing the passenger from the vehicle of his mind. Until now, he never really wanted to, but he knew he had to explain.

  He knew he owed her that much.

  “I’m a sex addict!” he blurted out. “I’m a bad guy, Alex. You don’t want to be friends or anything else with me. I can assure you of that!”

  She was going to stop him, but he was getting louder in volume and wouldn’t allow her the luxury.

  “I buy women for my own sexual gain. I do bad things. You don’t need to get too comfortable around me. Some shit happened in my life, and I became addicted to sex to cope with it. It started out with just having sex to numb myself of the pain—and then I became reliant on it.”

  Tears were streaming down his face now, and Alex couldn’t believe it. For the first time, his emotions were on full display in front of her. For the first time, he was letting her in completely. Not only that though, he was letting her in so that he could just shut her out again. But if she had anything to say about it, it wouldn’t happen the way he hoped.

  “Started with girlfriends and when they couldn’t handle it, I was done. Moved on to watching strippers constantly, then escorts, then prostitutes. But none of it was enough. It was inconsistent. There wasn’t enough viable options every time. The sex wasn’t always good. So, I got involved with the ring after that. This is my third purchase, as I’ve told you—and it wasn’t meant to end with you, Alex. And it’s not going to end with you. If I have to terminate your service early, pay off the rest of my contract and be done with you, I will. Don’t make me.” His voice shook more and more with every word. His walls had finally crumbled.

  She saw him.

  She heard the words that desperately left his mouth.

  But that’s all they were.

  They were only words. They were desperate attempts from a desperate man to seem like he was unworthy of and immune to all affectionate care. But there was a glimmer there. His eyes glistened, and what were once dark and empty were now hazed with something far more dangerous than lust. There, within his once cruel eyes, was a glimmer of hope. And she knew that hope for Roland was far more dangerous than cruelty and disdain.

  Those glistening speckles that now littered across his orbs were guilty of truancy at its finest. Hope had been absent from his life for so long, and now she knew why. And as much as she wanted to dismiss it as psychological mumbo jumbo, she knew what Roland really was. He wasn’t cruel at all. He was too good—too good for his own good in fact.


  Alex Miller truly met Roland Peters that day as he leaned his entire body against the bathroom wall. He was painfully out of breath, and his entire weight was supported by the structure. It was then that she knew what a burdening weight he had placed on himself for so long.

  He had carried the death of his wife with him, and she was in every breath he took, every beat his heart made, and every action that he completed. She was in it all, a constant reminder of what he once lost. And she knew in that moment that he had done what she would have done, and their similarities were brought to the forefront of her mind once again.

  It was eerie how alike the two of them really were; and had she lost Denny, she knew that she would have reacted the same way. She would have shut down completely from the world, as she already had in part, and she would have used this earth as her own personal playground to keep the demons at bay and in the darkest parts of her mind. She would use any excuse to keep their wrath visible to the outside world, but their faces hidden in the back of her mind so that her own eyes never befell them.

  It’s funny what sex does to a person. It envelopes all that we are. It entraps us at all times throughout our entire lives. We’re imprisoned by it. It’s hard to think about it like that, but sex is a burden. It’s there from the time we’re born. We were conceived from sex, and then we see it and vie for it our entire lives. It’s in all that we do and see, and it’s in all that we are. Sex is ever-present. So how can you escape it? Why would you even want to?

  She understood why he used sex as a form of escape, but she never knew it was an addiction. But how could she have known? She was finally just meeting him, the real him. And how could it not be an addiction? When you feel so desperate to forget memories that harp at your every breath, and your one vice—the one thing that gives you enough pleasure to forget—is so easily obtainable and so damn pleasurable, how can you not become addicted?