Beautiful Things Evil People Do

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “I’m saying that this isn’t a joke, and you’re making light of the situation because you’re completely aware of that fact. You’re scaring yourself into a silly reverie over a paper.”

  “I’m posting it.”

  “So do it, and forget about it. Or it won’t work.”

  The Paper she referred to would appear more like an audition for the FBI or police, but the exact opposite was true. I didn’t want a job on the state or federal level.

  Ultimately, I wanted to be sought after by a private security team, running profiles, and chasing down leads with an investigative unit. Still, they wouldn’t take ho-hum in the highly competitive industry.

  My resume and The Paper needed to show talent, creativity, and exposure to danger. I thought my idea was brilliant.

  Brilliantly dumb, perhaps.

  But it would garner the attention I coveted, warrant a one-way ticket to a psych facility, or put my ass permanently horizontal—either option I deemed acceptable when I hit publish.

  Men would love the idea; women would say I just committed suicide.

  But it was my life.

  My decision to make.

  “Just promise, if I end up dead, you’ll burn the research.”

  “I promise, if you end up dead, I will end up in jail being Betty the Butch Mama’s lover.”

  I crack a smile. “Why?”

  “Because I will kill whoever hurts you.”

  Jynx

  “I don’t want to go to this meeting,” I complain to my co-worker and best friend, Wang, on Friday afternoon.

  His name isn’t Wang, but Wendlin Rile. We call him ‘Wang’ because his standard lunch fare usually includes skimpily dressed waitresses and wings drowning in thermonuclear hot sauce. He doesn’t dredge them in a dressing to cut the heat as most human beings do. His steel tastebuds must be void of sensing any flavor.

  He’s commonly late after lunch because he’s dipping his dick in the secret menu item of creamy goodness in a utility closet.

  Wang has a way about him.

  Ladies love him.

  What the fuck am I talking about?

  Guys love him too.

  He’s the epitome of a best friend, the guy to bail your ass out of jail and bring you a twelve-pack just because. No reason is needed. He’s that guy.

  I am not that guy.

  I am a proud, card-carrying member of the asshole association.

  Hit it and quit it.

  Care about one—myself.

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

  “You have to go to the meeting, J,” he says as I drop my credit card on the table. “You’re the boss’ son.”

  “The boss is in Europe.” I roll my eyes and gulp my tea as Sweet Sally saunters over to swipe the card. She shakes everything the good Lord gave her in hopes of a bigger tip. I’m certain my colleague could accommodate her needs.

  Wang pivots in the booth to catch a glimpse of that ass in those shorts, which aren’t exactly shorts at all. Coverage is at a bare minimum, and last time I checked, I wasn’t wearing shorts like that to walk my dog in.

  Not that I have a dog. That would require care, much like a woman.

  And I do not care enough to care.

  “She’s got so much ass, man,” he mumbles under his breath, and I snarl. “I cannot wait to tap that one.”

  Let it be known; Wang has tapped almost every waitress in the joint since we started the Dower contract in Phoenix three months ago. Thank heavens, we’re over halfway done because he’s almost out of waitresses at all the wing joints.

  It’s not that I’m immune to Sally, Monica, or Renda’s womanly prowess, but their version of getting it on included verbally communicating, which I do not do.

  Hit it and quit it.

  Don’t chat it up.

  In and out, and…bye-bye.

  “Why can’t I just send you?”

  “You want your father to skin you alive?”

  “I’ll owe you for the next year,” I bargain.

  His eyes spark like I said the exact wrong thing. “Enough to warm up the temptress in the tight ones?”

  “I’m not foreplay.”

  “You’re no play,” he cackles as the waitress slides the leather folder with a bright smile and a slight bend to show off her cleavage.

  Implants. Eyelashes. Boobs.

  Fake. Fake. Fake.

  “Don’t go there, W.”

  “When was the last time you got laid?”

  I contemplate if his inquiry even deserves a response as I scribble my name, leaving a respectable tip and slam the book shut. I grab my jacket, put on my sunglasses, and head for the door.

  The weekend meeting is a celebration of this expansion project, and it just so happens to be in Vegas in two months. Eight weeks away. I am counting down the days.

  I used to love Vegas, but not for the reasons Wang does. I loved the glitz and glamour—the lights, music, and noise—the addiction to blackjack, partying until dawn, and the smell of whiskey that caused irreparable damage. I gave up gambling and booze over a decade ago. In exchange, I took up working out, green shakes, and reading thrillers.

  Wang is hot on my tail as I exit the building and light a smoke. The heat in late March in Arizona is not yet unruly.

  When we finalized the contract last August, the temperature was terrible, not like South Carolina, where a pervading humidity dampens everything in the summer—a warning before the imminent, oppressive swelter.

  Pulling out my keys, I click to unlock the doors of the sports car. It’s a rental and a piece of shit that has been dogged out worse than the stretched out pussy of one of Wang’s wild ones.

  I can’t wait to get back home. I’ve got plans that involve my quiet, secluded house, and no hot wings for the next year. Wang will return to the Windy City, and I can get back to being me.

  I wouldn’t have taken the gig in the Devil’s ball sack, except I sometimes like my dad. He runs a respectable, affluent, international IT consulting firm. I know computer architecture, understand the importance of reliable infrastructure, and how to make shit work right, the first time.

  As a bonus, he trusts me more than the twerp with three degrees who couldn’t hack into his own thermostat if he had to.

  He notices the bag packed in the backseat. “Is she getting serious?”

  “I like the club in Tucson,” I answer, blasting the air conditioner as Wang sits down.

  “… Another random?”

  With a side-eyed glare, I ask, “Does it matter?”

  “Do you even know her name?”

  “I don’t need to,” I say, backing up. “And I don’t want to. She changes every weekend. I plug in, play, and move on.”

  He gives a sympathetic gaze like my motherboard just fried in one of my custom machines. “At some point, you have to grow up.”

  “Like you?” I snicker. “A couple of long-term, a string of diseases, and no life? No, thanks. I’ll keep my ever-changing weekend menu.”

  “So wait,” he eagerly says. “If a proper girl presented herself, would you hitch her to the altar?”

  “Proper girls don’t exist in the seedy world I hang out in.”

  2

  Room Six

  Jynx

  The hypnotic, sensual energy in the private club is unreal on the weekends. I only know because when we first arrived in Arizona, I was desperate for a fix, but decent, upscale fetish clubs are rarely listed on any website. They’re hidden in the underground or in towering skyscrapers, but they are not spoken of in the neighborhood bar by strangers.

  The way in is by knowing someone who knows.

  I called my “brother” in the Reckless Rebellion MC, who also happened to be my cousin, and he recommended the place.

  With a grunt, he exhaled, “Where are you again?”

  “Phoenix.”

  “Tucson has a nice spot,” he said amidst the clattering of tools. “They do lots of rope work.”


  “I need an eager ass to tan with zero commitment, Cruz.”

  “Go to Tucson. Madame Tilda’s place. I’ll send you the address. Tell them I sent you.”

  Leave it to that crazy fucker Deacon Cruz to know where to go.

  I had taken a sabbatical from the two-wheeled lifestyle since taking over my grandparents’ place when my gramps died last winter.

  My younger biological brother, Axel, is also a member of RR MC. He is watching over the farm while I do Dad’s dirty work in Arizona.

  Axel is everything I am not. He lives in eccentric opulence with his gold toothbrush and marbled toilet paper holder.

  Life on the farm is probably destroying his mental state with Grandma’s shabby chic junk finds. I snicker at the thought.

  I need a dependable truck—Ford F-250, a fast car—Mustang, and a bike to make the girls squeal and guys drool. I collect Kawasaki Ninjas, having bought and restored over twenty, buy Maker’s Mark by the case, and love a good cigar.

  I enjoy hunting and fishing, relaxing with a spectacular bottle of wine while preparing a fine meal, and getting off on girls who like it rough.

  This is the extent of my lavishness.

  I have no need for excess in anything.

  Despite the name conjuring up grungy images, Axel is a complete nerd set to run Monroe Consulting alongside me.

  His real name isn’t Axel, and mine isn’t Jynx, but we hackers never talk about that. These bitches don’t need to know what we stand to inherit.

  That is mine.

  Not theirs.

  Thankfully, Axel feels the same way I do about relationships and women. The only difference is he routinely plays with the same half dozen girls.

  At thirty-four, the bastard likes them young—college age. I have no desire to play with or train someone under the age of thirty. I am thirty-six, set in my bachelor ways, and relishing in the peacefulness of my life.

  I hand over my card to the girl at Madame Tilda’s place. “Good evening, Mr. Monroe.”

  “Is Katie here?”

  The pretty woman leans over the counter and peers into the club. “She is with Joker.”

  “Fuck,” I mumble, and she giggles, offering up an alluring smile with a twinkle in her eye.

  Don’t think it, J.

  She is too fucking young.

  “I’m off in fifteen if you want to play, Sir J.”

  Humored by her assertions, I grin. “I’ll meet you at the bar.”

  “I’ll be ready.” She winks. “My name is…”

  I drown it out because it doesn’t matter. She wants to sign over consent; I’ll do the deed. It won’t be nice, but it will provide the release I need.

  The regulars all know I don’t play sweet.

  I am Master Jynx and have developed quite a reputation for presenting a challenge to the most seasoned participants.

  I disappear deep into the club, past the exhibitionists engaging in any number of sport sex shows to the dimly lit mahogany bar that serves as the dividing line to the private rooms.

  I have never been much for performance. I don’t need the approval of the crowd to find the arousal. I can do it and have done it in the past, but it isn’t my forte.

  I prefer one-on-one.

  No double kneeling subs or sharing with another Dominant.

  No swinging. No gray areas.

  Just one malleable girl and me.

  I like it clean and neat, just like my beach house on the coast of South Carolina—sterile, uninvolved, non-committal. Crisp lines of folded linens. Cords tucked away. Shirts starched. Everything organized.

  Maddening to many, but the only way I know how to exist. I cannot breathe in disarray. I function just fine in chaos, as I do at my grandparents’ place, but I prefer a system of order, including recognizable rules with self-imposed boundaries that I refuse to cross.

  I was wild once…years ago.

  I’m recovering without any need to relapse into my reckless youth—not the addiction which surfaced from being wild.

  Alcohol is doled out incrementally while the crux remains in the leather I am about to palm like it is a part of my body—like I was born with a twelve-foot bullwhip in my hand.

  The bartender provides my order—the same as it is every week—and the smell of bourbon hits my nose with a pleasurable numbing sensation. The agony is all there—between the scent and the lip—where the source flourishes. The taste, swallow, and subsequent manifestation in my body are far less important factors in determining a decent consumption.

  Just like in slaves.

  I genuinely don’t want whatever hostess girl’s name is, but perhaps the sub standing in the corner talking to her girlfriend and eyeing me is worth considering.

  I check my watch, knowing time is of the essence, demanding and depleting far too quickly to properly scope out the club. I don’t want to foster any notions the young hostess might have. The thirty-some older woman understands better than most. At the very least, she’ll listen without needing to learn.

  I never claimed to be a teacher.

  Polishing off my two shots, I give her a subtle nod and grab the keys sitting beside my empty glass. I casually stride over to the sub decked out in her best fetish gear.

  She needs this night as much as I do.

  We’ll find a mutually beneficial high and enjoy the time well spent. Tomorrow morning there won’t be any need for a phone call or a text message because we understand this isn’t long-term. This is a brief moment without any strings attached.

  I demand.

  She supplies.

  And it’s just that easy.

  I brush her auburn hair from her shoulder and whisper, “Room six if you’re interested.”

  “And if I’m not, will you stay there alone all night?”

  “Hardly.”

  She blushes, knowing it’s true. My parents’ genetics blessed me. This face….this body…they aren’t ever lonely. But I often am.

  Very alone by choice.

  Her friend disappears into the fray as she inquires, “What are you into?”

  “Discomfort.”

  Her eyes drop to my side. “What’s in the bag?”

  “Room six.”

  With the random Jezebel suspended on the St. Andrew’s cross, I thrash the whip to her backside for one final round. Her pale skin marked up nicely in the backless frame of her harness. Pinked with a few red splotches from my overindulgence, she wasn’t kidding when she walked into the room and declared herself a pain slut.

  I’ve heard it so many times.

  But it is rare to find such an accommodating sub who truly means those two words.

  Many say it; few prove it.

  Nine times out of ten, I end up with a safeword being called. I always abide by the limitations, respecting boundaries.

  If I desired to possess my own girl, I’d push her further, but most of the club subs aren’t seeking a push—they’re searching for a rich playboy with a kink and hoping to take him home with a ring for the win.

  Ignoring my arousal, I unhook her wrists and ankles. “Thank you for the night.”

  “You’re welcome, Master J,” she replies. “I’m the one fortunate enough to have had the experience with you tonight before your departure.”

  I have eight weeks left, which feels like eternal hell. But I get it; I don’t ever play with the same girl twice. Packing my precious implement into the satchel, I snicker, “Word got around.”

  “It did. You’re coveted,” she laughs, draping the sheer black cape over her shoulders. “I understand not to expect anything more.”

  “I don’t take it further.”

  “I’m aware,” she says, smiling. “Be careful out there. Girls are looking to score a cock.”

  “Nah,” I reply, shaking my head. “They’re looking to get a rock.”

  “Fair enough.” She extends her hand. “If you’re ever in the Midwest, give me a call.”

  “Where are you from?”


  “I’m based out of Kansas, but I travel all over the States with work.”

  You’re talking too much, J.

  Shut the fuck up before this turns into coffee, pancakes, and bacon at a diner.

  “What do you do?”

  Her blue eyes flicker in the lights. “I do product showcasing for various companies. We design, implement, and maintain window dressing and product display on a broad scale level.”

  “You own it?”

  “I do,” she informs. “If you’re ever in the neighborhood and looking for some willing flesh, hit me up. Dissolving is good.”

  I’m humbled by her offer of a repeat, even if I will never take her up on it. “I should be going.”

  We shake hands and part ways.

  Cold. Delivery. System.

  It works.

  In the club, I spot Katie taking a public lashing from Joker. Damn shame. She’s better than he deserves. We’ve been drinking and flirting for weeks but never had a session. I had my fingers crossed that Katie would happen tonight.

  I pass by the nameless hostess, grinding on some guy’s lap. She glances over and drunkenly grins. I barely make it outside when I hear her yell, “Jynx!”

  I briefly close my eyes and sigh, knowing I wasn’t fast enough to escape her jealous wrath. I reluctantly turn around. “… Yes?”

  “Five hundred for the night?”

  With a broad grin, I shake my head. “No.”

  “What’s your deal?” She asks, poking me in the chest. “You’ve been showing up for weeks and never taking anyone home.”

  Nice of her to be paying such close attention to my goings-on. “I don’t need a girl half my age to be babysitting me.”

  “Five,” she repeats, sloppily grabbing me. She can’t even stand up straight. Her drunken sludge is similar to a mudslide. Not clean or neat. Read: not my type. “And the babysitter swallows.”

  I almost spit, laughing in her face. “You’ve got some nerve. You seem to be missing a key point,” I calmly reply. “I don’t need to pay anyone to suck my dick. You would have to pay me, sweetheart. And frankly, by the looks of it, I’m out of your price range.”

  Champagne taste on a beer budget.