Beautiful Monster: a standalone age-gap romance

by Sara Cate

  "This is awesome. Thanks."

  "I know it's hot in here, but I can kick on the fans and close the shutters so you're not roasting. I hope you don't mind the noise because I'll be working in here too."

  "That's fine," I say as I drop my bag.

  "And if you want anything to drink, the fridge is stocked. Help yourself."

  He's busying himself, trying not to look at me. As he talks, I can't help but think about the woman yesterday. Was he having sex with her in his room before I saw her? Is she his girlfriend? Does he love her?

  Like always, my mind takes it a step too far, and I start imagining his feelings for her. Overcome with lust. Does the thought of her touch on his skin keep him up at night, like he can't live without her? Is he obsessed with the shape of her cheekbones, and the way she steals his breath when she's near?

  "Does that sound good?" he says and I realize I haven't been paying attention. I was too busy picturing him burying himself in that pretty blonde and thinking about how rough their sex was.

  I clench my thighs together picturing the expression on his face when he comes.

  "Um...what?"

  He lets out a clipped laugh. "Little rain cloud." Then he walks past me and opens the door to the small room at the back. "I was just telling you the bathroom is back here. Now, you tell me what you were daydreaming about."

  My cheeks flush with heat. "Nothing."

  "Head up, rain cloud."

  Turning away, I pull out my sketchbook and pencils to start on the grid for the mural. I desperately need to get my head out of the clouds and focus or I'm never going to get this thing done.

  He stops watching me work as he goes over to the kitchen area. There are crystal blue glass tiles piled along the floor in stacks, and I watch him measure the area around the sink, realizing he must be putting up a backsplash. His back muscles stretch as he leans over, and it steals my attention.

  Cadence's friends do not look that good without a shirt on, and I see them all the time. Fischer is bulky with muscles, but I've never been rendered speechless by the cords of his biceps or that deep V along his stomach that leads to somewhere I'm almost afraid and yet hungry to see.

  He catches me looking again, so I turn my head back down to the sketchbook.

  "Mind if I put on some music?" he asks.

  "Not at all."

  A moment later, his phone is hooked up to the speakers almost hidden along the ceiling and something soothing and sexy comes on. I find myself nodding along to the beat. This time I catch him staring.

  "You like it?"

  I nod.

  "It's Sam Cooke."

  He smiles when he realizes I have no idea who that is.

  "Girl, you need an education."

  A laugh escapes my lips.

  "And you're going to get one while you're here."

  My body freezes, and I stare up at him, but he's already back to his measuring and cutting. Did he just hear how that sounded? I wish I understood what he wanted from me.

  A couple hours go by, and I finally get comfortable working on the sketch. With the grid laid out on the paper, I can transfer the design and start laying out the lines on the wall. Alexander has a couch in the pool house, but it's covered by thin plastic. So, I sit on it while I draw, my legs sticking to the plastic and rustling every time I move. He continues playing his music, and he almost has the backsplash done when he walks over and lands on the couch next to me.

  "Almost done?" he asks.

  I realize now that I could probably do this part at my house, but being in this space helps me to get an idea of what I want.

  "Almost."

  "You want a drink?"

  "No, thanks," I mutter without looking up.

  "I mean a drink-drink. You like those spiked seltzers your sister drinks?"

  My hand freezes. Is he trying to get me drunk?

  "I’m nineteen."

  "Oh shit. I forgot about that. I’m used to having older people around. Well, you want me to make you something light? It’s not like you’re driving anywhere, right?"

  Leveling my stare at him, I smile and shake my head. Holding back my suspicion that he's laying the moves, whether or not I want him to, I finally throw up my hands.

  "Sure, what the hell."

  He gets up and goes to the bar, pulling out a heavy bottle and two-liter of seltzer water.

  When he comes back, he has two bubbly clear glasses with lime wedges in them.

  "Don't worry, I made yours very light."

  "Thanks," I mumble as I take a drink. It's not sweet, which is what I expected. In fact, it's refreshing, cold, and not as disgusting as the drinks Cadence has given me in the past. In fact, it's not disgusting at all. It could go down way too fast if I let it.

  "You like it?" He's sitting back on the couch next to me with his feet planted on the wicker coffee table. Fuck, even his feet are perfect, tanned and not covered in callouses. I catch myself staring at everything from his shorts down.

  “It’s not disgusting.”

  "Good." He gets comfortable and watches me. "You're nothing like your sister and mother, are you?"

  "I hope not," I mumble.

  A breathy laugh comes out of his mouth. "What does that mean?"

  I let out a heavy breath. "Nothing." I shouldn't have said anything.

  "I'm glad you're not like them. I mean I like your mom and sister. They’re great, but you’re just...young. You should stay that way.”

  It’s silent a moment while I try to hold back a smile. Finally, he adds in quietly. “Did you listen to me last weekend? Did you stay in your room?"

  I nod, pulling my gaze up to his face.

  "Good girl."

  Why does he care?

  Burning under his stare, I finish my drink, and the room gets quiet with tension. Setting the glass down on the table, I look at his hands not too far from me. I wonder what it would be like to feel them on my back. My eyes shut just imagining the pleasure of it.

  I wish I could read his expressions. He's not staring at me like he's hungry for me, like he'll devour me, but there is something going on behind his eyes. He's thinking. Wracking his brain. And I wish I knew what was going on in there.

  Finally, he looks away and I go back to my sketch. He gets off the couch and walks back to the kitchen, but he doesn't get to work. He just stands there and takes deep breaths like he's thinking or deliberating something.

  After about an hour, I have the sketch done. When I show it to him, he reacts the same way he did when I gave him the portrait. His lips don't reveal much as he looks at it. He takes a long look before he smiles and admits he loves it.

  With that, I pack up my stuff and write down the colors I need for the paints. "I'll grid it out tomorrow," I say as I get ready to leave.

  "Perfect.”

  With his back to me, I stand in the doorway and allow my eyes to swallow up his form. With his T-shirt stuffed into his back pocket, the cords of muscle along his back stretch and tighten as he hefts a box off the countertop and drops it on the floor by the wall.

  He looks up and catches me watching, probably wondering why I'm still there. It's only the early afternoon, and I don't want to go back to my house, if I'm being perfectly honest. I can't stand the idea of what my mother has gotten into her head now. She knows I'm painting the mural, but her mind will go to other places.

  Like mine does.

  He smirks at me. "Well, if you're not leaving, you might as well get over here and make yourself useful." Nodding his head toward an open tub of what looks like white dust, he hands me a trowel, or at least that's what I think it is.

  "This is like painting," he says with a smile.

  The music has changed to something faster but still as sexy as before. I find my shoulders twisting with the music, and he laughs at me. Holding a large pitcher of water, he starts pouring it into the mixture.

  "Grab that drill with the mixer and start blending this up. Until it's like pancake batter."
<
br />   He keeps pouring while I work. The drill almost gets away from me for a moment, and I have to bite down a laugh. I don't want him thinking I'm an immature kid who can't handle a simple task.

  "Hold onto it," he bellows as he pours more water. Bits of gray sludge fly up and cover his hands, and I manage to get the mixer under control. It starts to blend up nicely, and I feel his eyes on my face again.

  "Good job," he mumbles.

  Being under his stare is like sitting under a heat lamp. I could burn here for hours, but to ease some of the tension, I shimmy my hips with the beat of the mixer and the music. The corners of his mouth lift in a smile.

  "You like the Rolling Stones?"

  I nod. Just then the sludge in the bucket gets away from me and the whole thing starts to wobble under the momentum.

  "Jesus, Sunny," he barks as his arms reach around mine to grab the shaking can. He quickly pours more water, thinning the mixture. He stands hip-to-hip next me and holds the drill in place with his hands over mine.

  "Control it with your body, not just your arms." His hands press down on mine, sending tingles through my arms from the tips of my fingers. The scent of cologne and sweat drifts up to meet my nose creating a scorch deep in my belly. I should not be feeling like this for him. He's twice my age, and Cadence likes him.

  But his breath is in my ear, and I can feel the muscles of his upper arms against my shoulder.

  I lose focus on the mixer, beating against the side of the tub in a rhythm that makes my thighs clench. Biting my lips between my teeth, I wonder what would happen if I kissed him. I could turn my face and meet his mouth with mine. Would he kiss me back? Would he touch me like he touched that blonde woman yesterday?

  My grip loosens on the drill, and his hands tighten to pick up my slack.

  Quickly, I recover, squeezing the drill as the mixture in the bucket swirls. "Good girl," he whispers, and my breath hitches. Does he know what he’s doing to me?

  I don’t even realize I’m staring at him until he turns his head and his eyes land on mine. For a moment, it feels like I’m drowning him in the intensity of my gaze.

  Suddenly, he jumps back, clearing his throat and breaking the spell.

  "Alright," he mumbles, grabbing the trowel from the counter. "That's enough."

  The room grows silent and awkward as he reaches into the bucket and scoops up the grout and drives it against the seams of the tiles on the wall.

  He sounds out of breath, and I know it's from his heart slamming in his chest like mine is.

  I open my mouth, ready to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, a chirping laugh spills from my mouth. His head snaps over to see me, and he looks pissed. His eyebrows are creased, and his jaw clenched. It only takes a moment for his expression to melt into an easy smile.

  We laugh for a minute, cleansing away the tension that existed there a moment ago.

  Picking up my own tool, I help him with the wall, but the space isn't huge so we're working in close proximity. Every few moments, his bare shoulder brushes mine, and sparks ignite in my belly.

  "This looks nice," I say quietly after sponging off the excess grout.

  Alexander's head tilts slowly in my direction. "Holy shit, she speaks."

  I smile. We got so comfortable in the silence, but I love the way he looks at me, so I try to keep it up.

  "Did you design it?" I ask.

  "Sort of. The lady at the hardware store helped me."

  Alexander Caldwell in a hardware store. Now that's a sight.

  "Why didn't you hire someone to do it?" I know he can afford it, so this isn't about saving a buck.

  "I like the work. Back in the day, whenever my business partner and I would open a new gym or restaurant, we did most of the work ourselves. It felt good to get our hands dirty,” he says as he heaves another dollop of grout on the wall. “Plus, I get bored, and if I’m busy doing this, then I can't get into too much trouble."

  His eyes graze the features of my face and down to my neck. I swallow down the urge to be the trouble he doesn't want to get into.

  “What are you going to do next?”

  Glancing around the room, a droplet of sweat falls from his brow, and he lifts his forearm to wipe it. “I don’t know yet. Maybe the floor.”

  “It’s hot. Mind if I jump in the pool?” I ask. I’m suddenly desperate to cool myself off. His eyes fall on my face, and after a moment of hesitation, he nods.

  “That’s a great idea.”

  Abandoning our tools on the counter, we both walk out of the pool house to the pool’s edge. During the summer, I don’t even bother with bras and underwear. There is always a bathing suit under my clothes since I get in and out multiple times a day. It’s not even officially summer yet, and it’s already been scorching hot.

  Goosebumps erupt along my skin as I pull my sundress up. I can feel him watching me as it glides over my legs and exposes the skin of my stomach. Then my bikini-covered breasts.

  Suddenly, there’s a splash and he’s under the water, gliding to the other side. My shoulders sink, a little deflated that he didn’t watch me.

  I’ve lost my damn head. I’m trying to seduce this forty-year-old man who probably sees me as nothing more than a scrawny kid. Tossing my dress aside, I jump in head first, gliding through the water until I come up on the other side near him. He splashes my face as soon as I break the surface.

  Letting out a laugh, I splash him back.

  “Not such a rain cloud now,” he says.

  Watching him glide to the other side, I notice him looking toward my house. He’s probably looking for Cadence, hoping she'll come out, too. Maybe even come swimming with us. If she sees me out here with him, she’ll definitely come out, and maybe her and I can put the tension behind us.

  “So, what’s your story, rain cloud? You in college?” He leans against the wall of the pool and watches me. I hate that he asked that. It makes me feel like such a kid.

  I also don’t know how I feel about the nickname. I mean, on one hand, it feels special. But on the other hand, I want him to know that I’m not this moody teenager he sees me as. Sometimes I’m just quiet because I’d rather be silent than fill the conversation with small talk.

  “Not right now.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrug. I can’t tell him the truth. I can’t go to college because I tried it, and I hated it. Six months in, I felt like a fish out of water and dreaded every day of it. Then, my parents split, and it was all too much to handle. I finished the fall semester and never went back. “I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”

  “Be an artist,” he adds.

  “And make money how?” I ask with a smile.

  “Do murals. I don’t know. You’re too talented to let that go to waste doing something mindless just to make money.”

  The blue water reflects the light between us, and I try to memorize the way the water drips off of his brow. I want to sketch it—right on my inner thigh, the way his thick, dark brow looks when it’s wet. Then I want his fingers to trace the image.

  I clench my thighs again.

  Taking this job was a stupid idea. I keep reminding myself it was about the money. Getting out of my mother’s house. Not being a kid anymore and finally doing something for myself...something I can be proud of. But then I realize I’m too fucked up, and I’ll probably spend the rest of this year picturing him naked and putting off the actual painting.

  I never should have taken this job.

  Alexander

  This was a bad idea. This was a very bad fucking idea.

  What I needed was to get out of the city and out of trouble. I have somehow landed in the suburbs with a teenage girl in my pool, and I can’t seem to keep my eyes where they belong.

  Something about Sunny steals my focus like she’s tuned into a frequency that only I can hear. I’m picking up every goddamn word. Everything she says is all too familiar.

  She doesn’t know what she wants to do with h
er life.

  I know that feeling. She’s scared. Her parents fucking suck, and no one is giving this child any guidance.

  She wants a job that makes money.

  She wants freedom. Man, do I know about that. When I was young, I wanted to be a part of it all. I started with some business investments, and I was desperate to be a part of something successful. And for a long time, I was. But I was still too stubborn to learn anything new, and I know I wasn’t the easiest person to work with. My trust fund afforded me a lifestyle with absolutely no guidance, lots of money, and just enough fame to get me laid on a pretty solid basis. In other words, a recipe for disaster.

  And now at forty, I’m facing a fork in the road. If I continue on this way, I can kiss any chance of a barely normal life goodbye. Live hard and die young. Or I can pump the brakes and try to find something that actually fucking matters in this life.

  I just want to find peace, freedom—fuck—even love if that’s what calms my ass down.

  But as I sent Sunny home and went back to work on my backsplash, my fingers itched to make a call. I had just spent the entire day staring at the one piece of ass I did not want to want, and I needed to get this shit out of my system.

  I rush through the grout job, and it turns out messy, but I don’t give a fuck. The sun is setting, turning the sky a hazy grayish blue as the sun disappears behind the trees. A light in the house behind mine flickers on, and I watch as someone moves around the room, but I can’t make out the figure just yet. The window is wide open, giving me a goldfish bowl view of the bedroom inside.

  Familiar light tan walls are framed by thick white molding, and I can spot a closet, a few pictures on the wall, and a mirror to a vanity in the corner. I remember the room from the night of the party.

  Just then, Sunny appears in the window. In her simple blue dress, still wet against her body from the pool, she gazes out the window without letting her eyes drift toward where I stand in my pool house.

  Reaching up, she pulls the band from her hair and shakes out the wet curls, letting the dark locks hang around her shoulders. I should look away, but I don’t.