Beautiful Things Evil People Do

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  I laugh. “Exactly! Thank you! Have a beautiful day!”

  “You, too!” Selia says. “Oh, and when did you bleach your hair again?”

  “Last night,” I giggle.

  Feeling good about my updates—or lures to catch a monster—I take a quick shower and dress for work. I dry my hair, put a few curls in it, and dabble on a bit more makeup than normal. The new blonde has me feeling alive and free—a real partygirl.

  I arrive a few minutes before I’m expected at the shop.

  Upon walking in the back door, I spot José. He’s the beer guy, a good looking American Latino, and about my age. Unfortunately, he falls under the nice guy header.

  “Good Morning, Echo! How are you?”

  “I’m good,” I reply with a smile. “How are you?”

  “Better now.” He winks and walks away with the empty dolly. I take a quick count of the cases of beer and know he’ll be here for a few minutes. I strategically plan to be bent over and putting my purse in the locker when he returns with the next load of suds.

  I hear the snicker under his breath as my very short skirt leaves little to the imagination. He neatly stacks the cases and says, “You’re such a good girl.”

  Hmph.

  I’m somewhat insulted by his tone, kind of like a girl saying a guy’s dick is cute. I understand he means well, but his words snag in my brain. I meander to the front of the shop where Morgan is counting out her register before we open. I smile, but the harshness of José’s assessments hit home as I furiously stomp to the back room.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means the face doesn’t match the attire,” he says, unloading the dolly as I follow him out to the truck.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re untouchable, Echo.”

  My hands raise with a marked sigh. “… Untouchable?”

  “You’re like a wedding cake topper. The girl guys are supposed to marry, not have a good time with if you know what I mean.”

  A look of horror washes over my face as I mumble, “Ewww…”

  Loading another round of beer, he snickers, “Not exactly. But you aren’t the dating type. Or, for that matter, a one-night stand.”

  “So, I’m stuck? In limbo? Until Prince Charming comes along?”

  I don’t bother to tell him how dark that prince needs to be to earn my attention.

  “Hey, José,” Morgan says, standing at the backdoor. “Can you help me move this display?”

  “Sure thing,” he says, staring at her ass as she walks away. He peers down at me. “Marrying type,” he instructs, and then with a nod to Morgan, he adds, “Fucking type.”

  “I don’t want to be the marrying type!”

  “Then you need to change,” he assesses, tilting the full dolly.

  “… What?”

  He grins—a beautiful, white smile—and quips, “Everything.”

  “No!”

  A chuckle escapes from his lungs. “Make it believable, and we’ll talk Echo.”

  I cross my arms and prop against the edge of his truck. He is as right as Selia. I have reached a desperate point in my dating career. I pull my phone from my bra, click on my ad, and hit disable.

  I don’t give it another thought as I pull my hair down and fluff the long blonde curls that cascade onto my blouse. I undo the top two buttons and await José’s return.

  He does.

  Glistening with sweat and looking good enough to eat, José pulls off his ball cap and wipes his forehead on his sleeve. He cracks open the water bottle, undoubtedly a gift from Morgan, and downs half of it. He smirks at me. “What?”

  “Dinner and a blow job?”

  He laughs. “Dinner and a blow job?”

  “Yes,” I maintain, feeling frustrated, and knowing I need a companion—anyone will do at this point. “You take me to dinner,” I whisper, leaning forward slightly to show off my cleavage. “And I’ll swallow.”

  “What do you like to eat? I mean, besides dick.”

  “Italian? Japanese? Thai?” I suggest avoiding the obvious cultural twist. “Burgers and Fries?”

  “Korean. And you eat Mexican,” he teases with an impeccable grin. “Six o’clock.”

  “Done,” I say with a smile as I bounce off the back of the truck with a hop. “See you then.”

  “… Hey, Echo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Try not to look like you just got out of Catechism class.”

  “José?” I reply, giving him the bird. “Fuck off.”

  With his hand perched on his hip, he laughs. “That’s better!”

  I hate to admit how much I like nice guy José.

  I spend the better part of the day training with Morgan as we have a staff of ten in the store. She is a nice, middle-aged woman who manages the shop—the job I imagine taking after two more years of school.

  I have a good deal of respect for Morgan Pellister.

  After I worked a year at the café next door, she got to know me and offered to take me under her wing. I spent the first two years, underage, in the back of the wine store. She hated doing the books, preferring to be out on the floor and working with the customers. I didn’t necessarily enjoy crunching the numbers, but I was good at it.

  Midway through the day, we sit in the backroom over salads from the café when I ask, “Do you date?”

  Setting down her tea, she laughs. “I do.”

  “Haven’t met the one?”

  “You’re assuming I want to meet the one. Not every girl grows up dreaming of a white fairytale gown and a prince, and that is okay. Someone should tell all the little girls in the world they can be more than enough without the guy. The guy should be a choice, not a societal necessity.”

  Knowing very little of Morgan’s personal life, I politely inquire, “What about kids?”

  “I have two.”

  I almost drop my fork. “You do?”

  “Yes,” she giggles. “A ten-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl.”

  “… And no, husband?” I question, almost sounding condescending. I hate to think of myself as the judgemental type, but her evident eschewing of romantic relationships perplexes me.

  I am damn envious.

  “I have lovers,” she heavily annunciates the plural. “Of both genders.”

  Oh. Morgan.

  You kinky bitch.

  I don’t want to pry, but I long to know how she managed her life without the one. The moment I think it, the stark reality hits—she is the one.

  She chose herself before a man…or a woman.

  However, she wasn’t a radical feminist, either. She was just a woman—happy and content in her existence. She was the only child of the shop owners with two kids and multiple lovers.

  I bravely ask, “What is your goal?”

  “Right now?” She peered up with her big greenish-blue eyes. “I’m trying to master hydroponic gardening with my father. I’m planning a vacation in June to New Zealand, speaking of which, I’ll need you to attend to Dower wedding because I will be in Seattle that weekend. I don’t always attend the events, but this one is huge, with dozens of our cases. I need to make sure it runs smoothly.”

  I ignore the fact that I have to go to a wedding and blurt out, “Are you going to New Zealand alone?”

  “I’m going with Ravi.”

  I blink. Both genders. Multi-cultural. Two kids. Life. Happy. Goodness.

  I am so fucking jealous.

  During lunch, my new idol appeared before me in the form of my boss.

  “Ravi is a banker in New York. We meet a couple of times per year. Last fall, when I took a few days off, we went to Tulum. He loves his work and life and doesn’t want any of it to change. I’m the same. We meet up, and sparks fly.”

  “But no talk of marriage?”

  “Why would we ruin a perfect thing?”

  I ponder her choices as they inspire my hope of finding someone to do to my body what I yearn for. And maybe the old sa
ying that there is someone for everyone isn’t that far off.

  I lower my voice and ask, “How many do you keep?”

  “Currently, I have about a dozen I rotate depending on my mood.”

  … A dozen?

  … A dozen lovers?

  My eyes and mouth open wide. “I can’t even get one.”

  “Because you’re a hot mess trying way too hard,” she informs, blotting her lips on a napkin. “You’re never going to bait the kill if it knows you’re hunting. Stop hunting. Go back to the drawing board, listen to some music, have a glass of wine, get lit. Find out who YOU are. And I guarantee they’ll find you.”

  Little does she know, I’m hunting for a bear to maul me.

  Proverbial bear, not literal, unless he has a great beard.

  God, beards…

  “Reverse the situation…”

  “Exactly! Think of it like making yourself marketable. We have lavish displays in our store windows, not wine, but moments—moments create memories. Make your moments, and the customers—or lovers—will bang down your door to get in.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, finishing my salad. “Really.”

  “Years of experience, Echo,” she replies, piling her trash into the plastic container. “But be careful about who you choose. Don’t take them all. The best one will be the next one.”

  “How will I know when to stop?”

  Standing up, she grins. “Oh, trust me, you will know when to open the door and take aim. Or spread your thighs. Or open your heart. Right now, focus on you.”

  She wanders back to the front as I mull over her unexpected lesson in dating, love, and life. I twist my hair up into the clip and refasten one button.

  No need to go overboard.

  I glance at my phone and the message from Selia. “I’ve met someone. I may be an extra day or three. And likely won’t be capable of walking when I get back. I’ll need ice for the tub. Lots of ice.”

  I smile and snicker. Selia practices Morgan’s theories, but I missed a lecture—putting myself as the one. I see another message from my mother. “Brandon is going to rehab. He’ll miss your graduation, but Daphne will be with us.”

  My brother. Alcoholic. Player. Trouble.

  I have an honest moment where the words change. Brandon is a depressed, lost soul. And then, it hits. He isn’t alone.

  We were the alphabet siblings.

  I inherited sadness from my mother.

  My psyche was the sole reason for my studies in psychology. My eldest brother, Alan, died at three when he fell into a neighbor’s pool and drowned. Brandon was one, but instead of my parents going onto C with the next baby, they put me back at A—Abigail Renata Maines. Renata, meaning born again, and also my mother’s maiden name.

  No one calls me Abigail, except for my mother. It’s a curse.

  And myself—Abs—when I am scared shitless.

  My father nicknamed me Echo after his Korean grandmother, who I never knew. My father was ethnically blended with a Korean mother and an American father. My mother was Scandinavian. When I told Selia I was part Korean, she didn’t believe me until I introduced her to my parents.

  “Your father looks Korean!” she shouted as soon as we arrived home.

  I laughed, “Yeah, no shit.”

  “And you look like a white girl!”

  “Good thing you didn’t study genetics. Bottle blonde goes a long way.”

  My sister, Caroline, would be born next, but my mom miscarried.

  My parents went on to D with Daphne.

  I carried the burden of Alan’s death for my entire life, and my mother’s grief led to my attempting to earn her attention by being the super-achiever—straight-A student, book worm, head cheerleader, and soccer star. I was popular but quiet…until he came along.

  He slipped into the perfect snow globe I had created.

  I fell in love.

  And then, he shattered it.

  I meet José at my favorite Korean restaurant, and we end up talking for hours. During our conversation, I accept the date will not result in the expulsion of seminal fluid in my mouth but cups of tea in my apartment where I confide my sinful study of the male mentality.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he chuckles after I reveal my tactical strategy. “No guy in his right mind will respond to a rape ad.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” I argue, curling my knees under my bottom. “If women have the fantasy, so do men.”

  “Yeah, but you’re talking about a guy as rare as you,” he points out. “Most women won’t admit it, and neither will men. You’ll either find a real creeper or hit the lottery but not both. That said…” He runs his finger beneath my chin. “Keep up the innocent look.”

  “… Does it work?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a rapist, but purity looks good on you.”

  In short, we become friends as my one meager attempt at dating ends up going nowhere. I’m put off, full of despair, and frankly, done with romance. I’m not getting anywhere.

  I know it is one date. But better to pull out (no pun intended) now before I have a dozen, leading to a downward spiral of my unworthiness. It isn’t confidence or even a self-esteem thing. The lack of men I find attractive on multiple levels is a real problem.

  Take José.

  He’s good looking, friendly, and employed, but after speaking with him for several hours, he is way too metrosexual for my tastes. Almost gender fluid. A better fit for Spencer than me.

  And that is the problem.

  Everyone knows exactly who they are and what they are looking for these days. Subsequently, it’s like looking for a needle in the manure stack. Hay is way too kind of a word for what we’re dealing with. It isn’t just the missing puzzle piece; the piece was never made.

  Dorky guys ignite my mind; buff guys bring on the waterfall between my thighs. Having that—in one package—together? Near impossible. Needle. Shit pile.

  Unmanufactured puzzle piece.

  Something is always missing.

  José is absent of the masculine bravado I desire to sweep me off my feet. His lack of understanding old school courting techniques is a no-go, which means I may as well return to soliciting for a monster.

  His attraction to me was about as fleeting as mine for him. He thought I was pretty but real chemistry? We didn’t have it. He managed to compliment my physique by telling me I had a nice rack and ass. I told him he had a nice smile. He’s a pretty boy who would do well in a gay disco with tight pants and a g-string.

  But that’s the thing.

  I can assess what everyone else needs, but knowing what I need?

  Fuck it.

  After washing our cups, he departs with a hug and words that would haunt my mind for hours. “Save your dick sucking for someone who earned it.”

  Would my rapist earn it?

  It doesn’t matter. At least, not in my mind.

  Spencer and his flavor of the month (the one on the landing) are heading for dinner and a show. I note the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes; he is checking out José.

  Great.

  A love connection.

  Just not my own.

  The three chat for a minute. Flavor’s name is Rod. I think I’ll stick with Flavor. Or maybe expand it to Flavored Rod. I have no doubt there will be a lot of banging going on next door.

  Gay ménage, anyone?

  I’ll get the rundown from Spencer in a few days. The odd thing is in the cluster of Spencer, Flavored Rod, and José—José proves to be quite the man. Dare I say, gentleman? It’s weird. He’ll extend his arm for them but refuse to open a door for me.

  Interpersonal gender dynamics are fascinating.

  One girl’s trash is another man’s prince charming, or something like that.

  I can break it down even further.

  My baby sister, Daphne, is the apple of my mother’s eye. They’re best friends—lunch dates, hair appointments, trips to the spa, and vacations for the two of them.

&
nbsp; Mom and me?

  We barely know each other’s names. She’d never go on a luxurious European train trip with me or have our nails done together while we gossiped over the latest headlines on the trashy magazines.

  Sadly, I’ll sit with Brandon and analyze the hell out of our existence over a whiskey bottle because that is who I am. Bran is my person. I didn’t know about rehab, but I knew he was considering it when I brought up the ad.

  He knows.

  And he thinks I am crazy.

  I think he is crazy for following our Dad’s genetic trait—both of them—booze and philandering. We grew up with the knowledge of our Dad’s affairs. They started after Alan passed when my mother essentially died. Brandon has a few memories, those precious moments, where he remembers her happy and whole.

  Alan’s death broke my family.

  I should have healed her, but fate wasn’t so friendly, and it would be five years later before the presence of Daphne would cauterize the wound.

  I seek refuge in a hot bubble bath with my favorite explicit piece of fiction. It was written by (presumably) some girl online and always brought waves of pleasure to my aching core.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight, I want the real thing.

  Tonight, I want dick.

  But not just any dick.

  A certain special kind of wielder.

  I toss the papers from the edge of the tub and watch as they scatter to the tile floor. Tears brim in my eyes as I scan over the typical dating website. Far too many of them begin with–Good Looking Guy Seeks Companion—but one catches my attention—Lost Soul Hoping to Find Another.

  I click the link and read his appealing spiel but no picture, no way.

  My toe pulls the drain plug as I leave the dating site and click my want ad back on. I’ll find someone, or I’ll find a grave.

  One or the other.

  And either is okay with me.

  5

  Be Still

  Jynx

  Sitting at the Dower wedding’s overcrowded outdoor reception, I smile at the bride and groom dancing. They’re a cute couple appearing as though they belong together. I attended the hour-long service, which was beyond boring—a stupendous snoozer of splendor. I have been at the reception for thirty minutes when I decide I cannot take anymore fake.