IMPERFECT MONSTER

by Jennifer Bene

  “You don’t need a bra either.”

  “So I’m just supposed to walk around this place in one of your shirts, and nothing else?” Another thing meant as sarcasm, but it only made his eyes darker, hungrier. “Andre, I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.” He took a step toward me, the towel over one shoulder, and the boxer-briefs still in his hand, leaving him very naked, which made it very clear that his dick was about to re-join the party.

  “Stop!” I raised my hand and he actually stopped, barely two steps away with his long legs. “I have clothes at my apartment, if you would just take me—”

  “Not a chance,” he growled.

  “Then what the fuck am I supposed to wear, Andre? I can’t just stay here forever, never wearing clothes!”

  “I don’t see why not…” He trailed off, tongue tracing his lower lip as his eyes moved down my body, sending a shiver through me, but I pushed back the arousal and stood my proverbial ground. There were a million good reasons, but I knew what would make him listen.

  “Diego.” It was just one word, but the way he jerked it was like I’d hit him, or called his mother a whore.

  “Fine,” he growled. “I’ll go to your apartment and get you clothes.”

  “And my toothbrush!”

  He smirked a little. “Don’t like using mine, belleza?”

  “Please.”

  Sighing, he turned around and pulled the boxers on. “Fine. Make a list of what you want, and write down your address.”

  “My keys are—”

  “I know where your keys are. Marco moved your car last night.” There was a dark edge to his voice, and the words brought back the reality that I was a prisoner here. In this room, this house, and Andre was my jailer.

  No matter how hot he was, or how good in bed. He was still dangerous, he’d still hurt me more than once, and no matter how many orgasms he gave me… there was nothing good about this situation. It was fucked. Totally fucked.

  Just like me.

  “Wear this for now.” He tossed black fabric towards me, and I spread it out to see what looked like a t-shirt for a giant with some logo on the front. Still, it was clean. Turning my back to him, I dropped the towel and pulled it on, feeling the hem brush the tops of my thighs. Andre was staring as I faced him again, but then he nodded and pulled his own shirt on. “Make the list, I’m going downstairs to get us something to eat. I’ll drive to your apartment this evening. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I agreed, because it wasn’t like I had any other options. Moving over to his desk to grab a pen from the coffee cup on it, I couldn’t find any other scraps of paper. “What do you want me to write it on?”

  He muttered under his breath as he walked over to the closet and opened it, digging through something before he came back with a sheet of paper he’d torn from a yellow notepad. “Use this, and don’t forget to lock the door.”

  “Right.” I swallowed, and stood back up to follow him to the door.

  “Listen, Nicky…” Andre started to talk, but then he trailed off and just stared at my face, dark eyes flickering over me before he clenched his jaw and turned away. “Just don’t leave the room.”

  “I’m not going to, trust me.” Not after Diego tried to get in here.

  “Good. I expect a list when I get back up here.”

  “You expect a—”

  “Yeah, I do, because if I’m going to run errands for you, I’m going to fuck you again before I leave.” Without another word, Andre unlocked the door and stepped out, slamming it hard, and I was left staring at the wood.

  That shouldn’t have turned me on. It definitely shouldn’t have turned me on.

  So… why was I so wet?

  * * *

  Andre

  I cursed myself as I stomped down the stairs barefoot. What the fuck was that? It was like every time I tried to be nice to the girl, I ended up being more of an asshole. But staring at her wearing only my shirt, hanging barely to her thighs, I’d almost snapped and taken her on the floor.

  Nicky was every temptation I was supposed to avoid. She was every dark thought, every fucked up thing I’d wanted to do since I got to this hellhole, and now she was mine. I’d lied to myself saying I wanted to save her, bullshitted myself about protecting her from Diego — no, I had just wanted her.

  And isn’t the road to hell paved with good intentions anyway?

  She’d never had a chance, and neither had I. Cursing under my breath as I stormed into the kitchen, I heard the clatter of a pan and looked up to see Teresa wide-eyed and terrified. Standing by the sink, the older woman dropped her eyes and turned around quickly to keep washing dishes, and I forced myself to breathe.

  Teresa was one of many beholden to Paulo García, and it was her day to cook meals. Tomorrow would be Laura, the next day Anna Maria, and then Teresa would be back. Then there were those who cleaned the house, ran the errands, did the laundry, did the shopping. It was a fully functioning estate, only none of them slept here.

  Which was a blessing to them.

  I walked to the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room, giving the woman some space from the aggression I knew was radiating off me. Then, I did my best to speak softly. “Teresa, is there anything left from lunch?”

  “Claro, Señor Andre.” She stood still at the sink for a moment, and then she pulled off the gloves and wiped her hands on a towel to move to the fridge. “How much you want?”

  “Enough for me and the girl, and some silverware, por favor. We’ll eat in my room.”

  Teresa nodded and moved silently, opening containers and taking down plates, but when I saw her turn the stove on I spoke up.

  “No, Teresa. Just microwave it, you don’t need to heat it on the stove.”

  “Si, señor.” Clicking the stove off, I watched as she portioned out the meat and veggies onto two plates, adding a spoonful of elote that had my stomach growling. I bit back a smile when I saw her add a second helping of it to one of the plates.

  Her elote was a house favorite.

  Popping the plates one at a time into the microwave she still ignored my comment about the stove and heated up a pan to spin the corn tortillas around in. She used her hands, like my mother used to, and if I squinted I could almost imagine the woman was my mother. If her hair were darker, and her waist a little wider, and if she had the radio blaring, singing every song that came on.

  I shook my head, breaking away from bitter memories and the distant echoing laughter of my siblings. Too much darkness separated me from the cramped, sun-drenched kitchen of my childhood, and there was no use remembering something so lost. It took a few more minutes before Teresa had the plates settled on a tray, two glasses of water balanced on either side, with a nest of napkins and silverware in the center. I nodded at her and took it. “Gracias, Teresa.”

  “De nada, señor. Do you need anything else?” Her accent was thick, but she spoke English as much as the rest of us in the house. A skill Paulo insisted upon. Glancing up at her face, she looked almost concerned before the expression was wiped away.

  “No. This is good.”

  “Cuídese, Señor Andre,” Teresa replied as she moved back to the sink to continue cleaning. For a moment I was too surprised to move, but then I forced myself to walk towards the stairs.

  In all the time I’d been staying at Paulo’s house, I had never, not once, heard Teresa tell any of us to take care. The fact that she’d used it with me was even… stranger. Something felt off again, that same feeling that had crept up my spine in the SUV with Paulo and José that morning, and I didn’t like it.

  Detouring to the front room, I thought it was empty until I walked toward the bar and caught the shape of someone in the same chair Nicky had been put in. I relaxed a little when I recognized Marco, but his stillness unnerved me. Never one to break a silence, I let him have his as I grabbed a bottle of rum and two short glasses to add to the tray.

  “José and Paulo listened to you.” His words ca
me out quietly, slightly slurred, and I glanced over, catching the glint of light on a bottle between his legs. He was drunk. Perfecto. Marco tilted up the tequila, swallowing before he hissed between his teeth as he set it back down. “They laughed when she screamed.”

  A purr rumbled through the darkness inside me remembering the way she’d cried out under me, but I also remembered the fear in her as Paulo had traced the knife over her throat, remembered how I’d wanted to be the one holding the knife. The one feeling her tremble. I was no better than him, just a different brand of monster.

  “Guess you proved them wrong, eh, cuadro?” Marco was still talking, having a one-way conversation because I wasn’t planning on responding. Not about Nicky. He laughed roughly, low and without any real humor. “Not a maricón, eh? Is that why you hurt her? To prove it to them? Prove you didn’t want to fuck men?”

  I clenched my jaw, moving my gaze to the floor because getting into it with a drunk Marco wasn’t going to do anyone any favors. Mostly it would just end up with him bleeding on the floor, and me having to explain it to Paulo. The tile was shining with the afternoon light coming through the windows, almost that perfect burnt orange that would appear in a couple of hours. She’d dropped her empty glass just there yesterday when Paulo had ripped her from the chair. It had shattered, but the glass was cleaned up now, which meant the cleaning crew had been by while we were out.

  Everything pristine again, smooth and shiny. Just like Paulo liked.

  There was no erasing her bruises though, or my bloody knuckles, or the things I’d already done to her. No denying the things I’d still do either.

  You’re still a monster.

  Lifting the tray, I made sure it was balanced as I walked toward the doorway, but he stood as I approached, holding onto the chair with one hand to keep his balance.

  “What did you do to her, Andre? Why did she scream like that?”

  “Move,” I growled.

  “Did she tell you Diego tried to get in your room? Tried to break down the door? He wanted to hurt her. Hurt her just like you did.” There was accusation and disgust in Marco’s tone, still trying to be the knight for her, but the fact that he was shitfaced and sitting in the chair she’d been in was just proof that he couldn’t have protected her anyway. He was too weak. Too weak for this fucked up world, no matter how many times he’d pulled the trigger at Paulo’s command. Nicky needed someone strong, someone that the others actually feared, and no one feared young and friendly Marco.

  But they were afraid of me.

  And you really think you’re protecting her? I wanted to tell my own head to fuck off, I wanted to find Diego and dig his spine out of his fucking body for even trying to get to her, but the surge of rage came out against Marco instead.

  “Listen to me, cabrón, the girl is mine, and if you don’t want me to remind you why jefe takes me on the meets instead of you, I suggest you shut the fuck up, sit back down, and keep drinking.” The words had come out calm, deadly quiet, like I’d taken a page out of Paulo’s fucking book, and I saw a flash of something in Marco. A hint of the soldier, the man who had killed just as willingly as the rest of us at Paulo’s orders — but he also knew my reputation. Knew what I was capable of.

  “Chingate, Andre.” His face contorted with anger as he glared at the tray in my hands. “At least you’re feeding her, pendejo.” Marco was already walking away when he finished the insult, muttering under his breath as he left the room with the tequila at his side. Black rage flickered inside me like flames, and I had to fight the urge to follow him and put him on the fucking floor for challenging me, for getting in my face about Nicky.

  He wanted her. I’d known it since he’d watched her sitting in that same goddamned chair. But she was mine. I’d made sure Diego knew it, and I could help Marco learn that lesson if he needed it.

  They laughed when she screamed.

  His words echoed in my head, and the fact that my cock twitched against my thigh told me more about how far I’d fallen from the boy who used to watch his mother sing and cook than anything else in the world could have.

  “Fuck,” I growled, walking toward the stairs with my eyes glued to the bottle on the tray. I needed a fucking drink, and I needed it now.

  Thirteen

  Nicky

  The food was delicious, that was something I couldn’t deny, and if Andre kept feeding me like this I’d probably be the only person in history to actually gain weight while being held captive. But something was wrong, all of the weird sexual tension was gone. Andre had barely looked at me when he’d returned, leaving me the tray on the bed as he took his plate to the desk.

  Along with his water, one of the short glasses, and the entire bottle of rum he’d brought upstairs.

  For the last fifteen minutes, it had been nothing but awkward silence with the scratch and scrape of silverware on the plates as we ate. It was weird, and I wanted a fucking drink. Popping the last bite of elote between my lips, I started tapping my fork on the plate until it irritated him enough for him to look over at me. “You going to give me some of that rum?”

  “Depends, are you going to explain why you didn’t tell me what happened when I was gone today?” Andre didn’t flinch as he asked it, and I wondered if someone had told him, or if Diego had mouthed off about it… or if he had some kind of surveillance set up in or around his room. The latter wouldn’t surprise me considering his security measures on the door, but none of that really mattered.

  I huffed. “Did you really give me an opportunity to have a chat with you about the other assholes in this house when you got back?”

  “There have been opportunities,” he growled, pointedly not apologizing, and it cranked up my anger another notch.

  “When?” I asked, voice dripping with rage-fueled exasperation. “When you were showering me after you pinned me to the bed and fucked my ass as I screamed and told you no? Or when you called me an idiot for coming here to save my brother? Or, wait, maybe you mean when you brought the food back and looked like you wanted to murder someone, again, and then sat your ass down over there to glare holes in your fucking desk?”

  “What did he do, Nicky?” The question was a low rumble, threaded through with the violence that his body projected so clearly.

  “He tried to get in. Right after you left, just like you told me he would.” I fought the urge to shiver, remembering the raw fear as the door shook and Diego shouted. Shoving my hair back over my ears, I met Andre’s dark eyes. “I want some fucking rum.”

  The way his body unfolded from the chair felt threatening, but he snagged the bottle of rum and brought it over to the bed, moving along the side until he was almost uncomfortably close. His gaze never left mine as he unscrewed the lid and took a drink directly from the bottle. I wanted to growl, to mutter about hygiene and backwash, but when he planted a hand on the bed beside me all of those words left me. Andre let his gaze roam over me with no shame, lingering on the spot where his shirt ended high on my thighs.

  Swallowing, I tried to summon the ability to speak from wherever his overwhelming presence had banished it, but all I managed was a heavy exhale as he finally shifted his eyes to the glass on the tray and poured a hearty amount.

  Andre planted the bottle on the other side of my thigh, caging me in with his arms. “I will kill him if he touches you, Nicky. Do you understand that?”

  “That’s what I told him,” I whispered, aware of just how close he was.

  “Did you mean it?” he asked, and his face was only inches away, his dark brown irises almost swallowed by his pupils.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever killed someone, Nicky? Have you ever even seen someone die?” His voice was soft, but that edge was still there. A subtle threat, and for the moment I couldn’t tell who it was for — so I just shook my head slowly. Andre’s tongue snuck out over his bottom lip, and with his exhale I could smell the sweetness of the rum on his breath. “Would you watch if I killed Diego, belleza? Or would you
turn away?”

  “If he touched me again… I’d watch every minute of it.”

  A low groan escaped him just before his lips captured mine, the salt of our food mixing with the sugar of the rum and that overpowering richness of him. I moaned into the kiss as I felt his weight dip the edge of the bed, his hand moving to cradle the back of my head, fingers tightening to control the depth of the kiss. Tongues and teeth at war, nipping, tasting, devouring each other. Slowly, he leaned me back onto the pillow, and I felt the shirt riding up, over the tops of my thighs, and my only comfort was that I had my legs together, even though part of me wished I didn’t.

  As soon as I was laid back, he changed the angle of the kiss, growing more aggressive as he bit my lower lip, thrusting his tongue into my mouth again as I gasped. It was dizzying, consuming, and I couldn’t deny the outbreak of heat between my thighs, coiling upward into my belly as I managed to move. Fisting his shirt with one hand to pull him harder against me, moaning softly as his weight pressed me into the bed. An almost feral sound tore out of him and he sat up suddenly, practically launching himself off of me as he stood and then tilted the rum back.

  Stunned did not even begin to describe my headspace. We had gone from arguing to… whatever the fuck that was so fast that I’d never even caught up, and then it had all stopped. “What the fuck, Andre?”

  He huffed out a laugh, but it sounded bitter before he cut it off with another drink. I pushed myself upright on shaky arms and grabbed for my own glass, needing… something to help me process this fucked up situation. Unfortunately, the burn of the liquor didn’t give me the clarity I’d hoped for.

  “Andre!” I raised my voice this time, and he turned to stare at me, a wild look in his eyes. My mouth hung open, because I honestly couldn’t think of a thing to say to him.

  “I don’t know what to do with you, belleza.” His lips tilted up in a wry smile, and then he stared up at the ceiling before he cursed under his breath and walked away, swallowing another mouthful of rum.