Beautiful Things Evil People Do

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  I would find someone or find a grave—and I believed it.

  Half an hour later, we drop his car off, and I pop the tailgate for his bags. He sets them inside of my car before returning the keys to the office. He jogs around to my door and opens it. “I’m driving.”

  “Okay,” I reply, getting out, as he lights a smoke. “You can do that in my car.”

  “Are you sure?” he confirms, walking me to the other side. He opens the passenger door. “Don’t call me a gentleman again.”

  “Yeah,” I giggle, sitting down. “Selia smokes her weed in here.”

  He darts around the front and plops in the driver’s seat. “If you’re sure.”

  I pull the special ashtray cup out of my door compartment and stick it in the console where my bottle of water was. “I’m not sure of much anymore.”

  “I gathered that much,” he replies, tossing his sunglasses on the dash. His blue eyes spark at mine. “What’s your brother in rehab for?”

  “He’s an alcoholic. A surprise visit from his sister.”

  He nods and looks away. “Been there. Done that.” We sit for an awkward minute of silence. “Are you hungry?”

  “I should probably eat.”

  He surveys the area filled with fast-food establishments. “Taco?”

  “That’s fine,” I say, smiling as he grabs my hand resting on my thigh. I stare at the setting sun, casting an ombre drift of yellow to pink through the sky. “Thank you.”

  “Do you want to stop for the night?”

  I open and close my mouth several times as the blush rises on my cheeks. “I…I don’t know…that’s up to you.”

  “I’ll get us a couple of rooms in Amarillo.”

  “How do you know I won’t leave your ass?”

  “I can catch a plane,” he informs, without any emotion. “You won’t catch another me.”

  I lick my lips, knowing he’s right. “One room is fine.”

  “Okay,” he says, tugging his phone from his pocket. “I’ll feed you and provide shelter.”

  “Sounds like heaven.”

  Jynx

  I bought her dinner—three supreme tacos that she scarfed down like a starving child—and she passed out as I drove into Texas. The roads were relatively empty, which was a good thing because I needed to figure out what I was doing with her.

  If I left her in Birmingham, which a gentleman would do, she would end up back in Northern California with her ad still posted while I was in South Carolina.

  See my problem?

  She’s sawing logs while I smoke, drive, and think. I can’t let her go back to California. That’s a death sentence. Even if she survives a rape, the act will destroy her innocence. She didn’t ask me to be her hero, so I must be the monster. We wound up together by fate, but I cannot let this one go.

  She may ruin me.

  But rewards don’t come without risks.

  A win with her is worth it to me.

  I pull up to the hotel and run inside to check us in. When I return, she’s awake. “Sleep well?”

  “Yeah,” she whispers. “I can’t thank you enough for all of this.”

  She won’t be saying that very much longer.

  I’m about to be the dick of a lifetime, but in doing so, I might get through her thick skull that what she thinks she wants isn’t what she needs. I park near our room and grab our bags. “My name is Abigail, but everyone calls me Echo.”

  “I know,” I reply, scanning the room key over the reader and opening the door. “Abigail Renata Maines.”

  “You know a lot.”

  “More than you think.” We quietly ride the elevator up to the fourth floor and locate our room with one queen bed. “It was the best they had on such short notice.”

  “It’s fine, considering.”

  “I’m not raping you,” I inform as the door shuts, and I set down the bags. “Take a shower, change your clothes, or whatever. I’m going to smoke and get some ice.”

  Outside, I call Deacon and explain the situation. He only says, “Meet me in Lafayette tomorrow.”

  I don’t argue that Lafayette is a bit out of my way, but I trust the guy. He’s got a solution. Still, there are many hours between here and there, and somehow, I doubt the magic pill to her sleepy time is always three tacos.

  I could be wrong.

  I’ll accidentally get lost in Texas and end up in southern Louisiana. Or maybe we jolly ride. Or who knows. But I will not let her go until someone says otherwise.

  When I return to the room, she’s brushing her damp hair and wearing cute pajamas. I set down the bucket of ice and grab a pillow for the loveseat. With concern, she says, “You’re going to kill your neck on that thing.”

  “I’m not sleeping anywhere near you.”

  Echo

  I’m hurt by his words and cry into the pillow as I wrap the blanket around me. I’m so black-hearted that even he won’t pursue me. A few minutes pass in the darkened room when he asks, “Why are you crying?”

  “Because you won’t sleep with me.”

  “I won’t,” he callously replies. “You’re right.”

  “Not even have sex,” I argue, sitting up and clicking on the light. I blink several times, adjusting to the brightness and staring at him. His inked, scarred arms and masculine chest sprinkled with hair prompt swoon worthy butterflies. “Holy shit…”

  He tosses his feet to the floor and stands up in one swift move. My mouth gapes open as he steadily approaches. His ripped abs undulate with every breath, leaving me speechless. He clicks the light off, bringing on the pitch blackness.

  Without warning, he dives on my body, pinning my hands down with his as he spreads my thighs. I can’t stop him because I’m in too much shock. I long to lift my hips in exploration. I feel his warm breath hit my lip. “Is this what you want?”

  “I’ve never had a guy on me.”

  “Wait…” he mutters. “You’re a virgin?”

  “I am,” I admit as the tears stream down my cheeks. “I had a crush on a guy in high school. I was so focused on my studies and him that I never dated. He was a good Christian boy, vowed to abstinence. He ended up being valedictorian and was headed to some Ivy League school. I woke up the morning after we graduated to learn that he killed himself. Dating will never be my thing. Love will never be my thing. I need one time with a guy to take this fucking thing from me because I do not want it anymore.”

  “That’s pretty warped.”

  “You don’t understand,” I cry. “The few friends I do have all talk about their sex lives, and I have nothing to compare it to. I need to know, so I never have to experience it again. I can’t find a guy to fuck me to save my soul.”

  He snickers, “One and done?”

  “Yes!” I say, laughing through my hysterical sobs. “One time.”

  “So, get a boyfriend?”

  “You’re not hearing me,” I reply. “I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t want any emotional commitment. I cannot handle that. I want a monster to breech the band, and I never want to see him again. Feelings only get me hurt. And love only gets me harmed.”

  “Echo,” he mutters, petting my hair. “You need help.”

  “Just fuck me.”

  “I won’t do that,” he whispers, laying his forehead against mine. “But it’s not because I don’t want to.” He moves, grinding his hips slightly against me. I feel his erection and bawl, knowing he refuses to use it on me. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for.”

  “You’re a guy with a hard dick,” I say, sniffling. “You’re exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m the bad guy, baby.”

  “Then you’re the bad guy with a big heart.”

  “It’s been an empty cage,” he informs, rolling off of me. “For a very long time.”

  I cannot stop crying, but he doesn’t leave.

  He quietly lays beside me.

  When I finally settle down, he holds my hand, which is more than anyo
ne else has ever done for me. “Thank you, J.”

  “You’re welcome,” he mumbles. “Just don’t call me a gentleman.”

  8

  Mental Mutiny

  Jynx

  I wake up in the hotel room before dawn. Her body is way too close to mine—a few more inches and she would be clinging to me.

  I quietly get up and glance at the clock—4:55 AM. I go to the bathroom and lock the door because I don’t trust that she won’t just magically appear in my shower out of desperation. And I don’t know that I will be able to resist her advances again. I step into the steaming hot water, needing to clear my mind before an accident happens.

  It took all of my willpower not to claim her last night.

  I review the facts, once again, drilling them into my head. She’s not my type at all. She’s a bubbly dark cauldron, a chaotic mess of highs and lows, possessing zero stability. She’s way too young with fourteen years between us; even if she has a particular maturity, that doesn’t negate the life experience difference.

  I was five-fingering shit out of houses when she was in diapers.

  And that matters.

  About the only thing she wins me over with is the fact that she is clean and neat. From eating her tacos in the car to abiding by a bedtime routine, this girl understands self-discipline and self-care but fails miserably on self-valuation on a social level.

  It is non-existent.

  Not even low.

  Where someone should have filled her with love for herself, she holds a blank space.

  Empty.

  Vacant.

  An assault is her solution, but after spending a few hours with her, I know that a random rape will decimate this girl. She isn’t strong enough to handle the trauma.

  What the fuck am I going to do with her?

  I don’t have a damn clue.

  I didn’t plan on raising a twenty-two-year-old girl into adulthood, but some greater power seems to believe I need Echo Maines in my life.

  I grab the towel and wrap it around my waist, realizing in my rush to disappear from the bedroom that I forgot clothing. I take a deep breath, opening the door and hoping she is still asleep.

  I am not getting that lucky.

  Sitting up in bed, she smiles, holding a cup of coffee. “I made you one, but I didn’t know what you liked in it.”

  “Black is fine,” I gruffly reply as I feel the heat of her gaze on my body. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “I will be as soon as I throw on some clothes,” she says, tossing the covers and getting up to rustle through her bag. With her back to me, she pulls the shirt over her head, and I marvel at her swirling ink from her left shoulder blade running diagonally to beneath her shorts on the right side. She’s full of surprises—read: bubbling dark cauldron. She glances in the mirror at me. Her forearm covers her breasts. “You want to see what you’re missing out on?”

  “No.” I should look away.

  Turn around, J.

  Don’t do this.

  She bends and pulls down the cotton shorts, exposing everything.

  Fuck.

  Do not breathe.

  Do not inhale.

  Do not fucking move, bastard.

  Her arm drops from her breasts as she straightens up, providing a full frontal view in the reflection—my dick throbs with determination beneath the towel.

  “You’re struggling with me.”

  “And you’re not helping matters,” I curtly remark, sipping my coffee. “Nice ink.”

  “Thank you,” she says, pulling her hair down from the messy bun. The tips skirt the top of her ass.

  “I would so pull that,” I absentmindedly mumble. “I would jerk it just to hear you cry.”

  She spins, facing me. Her breasts offer a generous roundness with pronounced nipples as her waist tapers significantly, indented by abdominal muscles and a small belly button. Her gloriously full sex holds plentiful amounts of dark curls that intrigue my senses. Taking a step closer as my eyes drift over her graceful curves, she taunts, “You should, or prohibit your eyes from having sex with me.”

  “I can’t,” I admit with barely a whisper as she crawls on all fours to the middle of the bed. “Don’t do that.”

  “Fuck me, J,” she begs from her swollen, dampened lips. “You know you want to. I know you want to. And I want you to.”

  “I will not be putting my dick in you, Abigail.”

  Her eyes well with tears. “… Am I not enough?”

  I move my arm that was concealing the shadow of my erection under the towel. “Do you see what you do to me?”

  “So use it.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not that simple,” I respond, finishing my coffee. “Just because you are wet and I am hard doesn’t mean that we should…that I should…take your virginity. You just want sex.”

  She sits back on her heels. “And you cannot say that you aren’t the kind of guy who hasn’t fucked just to have sex. You’ve used women. So use me.”

  “You’re assuming a godawful amount.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong!”

  “I can’t,” I say, stepping closer. “I have used multiple women in a night, but I will not use you.”

  “Why?” she screams as the droplets fall from her eyes. “Am I so grotesque that you won’t do the deed?”

  “I won’t do the deed because you aren’t a slut or a whore or a one-night stand.”

  “No,” she snickers, shaking her head. “I’m not a fun girl. I’m the girl guys want to marry, not fuck.”

  “You act like that’s such a bad thing.”

  “It is when all of my friends are getting it on!”

  I furrow my brow. “You don’t see how rare you are. How special you are…”

  “I’m just a girl.”

  “No, you are not just a girl,” I argue, standing at the side of the bed. “I’m just a guy. And you’re so far out of my league. You don’t want to be where I am.”

  “So I’m a mutant,” she says with determination, sulking, as I put my finger under her chin and tip her head up. She avoids looking at me. “I should just become a nun.”

  Trying not to laugh, I smirk. “You’re something else. Get dressed. Wear something comfortable. It will be a long day.”

  “This was our one chance.”

  “Don’t be fatalistic.”

  “It was,” she rallies. “We are alone in a hotel room. We won’t get this chance again.”

  “Chances happen all the time,” I inform like a wise old owl. “But that doesn’t mean you need to take every single one. It will help if you have faith that more opportunities will show up, and they’ll be even better than this. There is a perfect guy for you out there somewhere. But he isn’t me. And I won’t take what is his.”

  “Fuck you, J.”

  “Hate me,” I sneer, wishing she would look at me. “It’s the most passion you’ve shown.”

  “A naked girl is sitting in the middle of your hotel bed, and you won’t fuck her. I don’t know what that says about you, but if that’s not passion…”

  “It’s not passion,” I interrupt, scowling. “That girl is misbehaving, and you’re a demanding cunt because she isn’t getting what she wants. Throw a tantrum, babygirl. I’m not sticking anything of mine in you.”

  She lifts onto her knees and swings at me. I catch her arms, and we are face to face. “Take me home.”

  I narrow in to her supple lips and whisper with a low growl, “You have no idea what it is taking for me to not throw you down on this bed and have my way with you, do you? You’re fucking beautiful. But I am not yours. And you damn sure haven’t earned me.”

  Tears cascade down her rosy cheeks as I release her, walk away and cross my fingers that I did enough emotional damage to exhaust the girl.

  I’ll feed her and pray for her dreams.

  Echo

  After we dr
ess and leave the hotel, I realize how embarrassed I am by my actions. He is an absolute gentleman in my book, whether he acknowledges it or not. He opens my door, making sure I am comfortable and secure.

  Selia is right; he cares.

  He would never admit that, though.

  “What can I feed you?” He starts the car and rubs his hands on his jeans. “Are you a granola/oatmeal type or a biscuit type?”

  “I’m a bowl of cereal girl.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, backing up. “How many bowls?”

  He grins, and I do the same. “Depends on the mood. Sometimes one, sometimes three.”

  We laugh. “Favorite kind?”

  “Frosted Flakes.”

  “Alright,” he replies. “And juice or coffee?”

  “Sparkling water, preferably fruit-flavored, no lemon.”

  “Got it,” he says, pulling across the street to the large gas station. “I’ll be right back. Do you eat sunflower seeds?”

  “I prefer jerky or pork rinds.”

  He gets out, shuts the door, and quickly returns. “What kind of milk?”

  “Whole or almond,” I say, smiling. “I’ll even do chocolate with Frosted Flakes.”

  I watch as he makes a dash for the entrance and holds the door for a woman carrying a baby. Glancing at the clock, I know Selia probably isn’t up at 4:54 in the morning, but I call anyway. Surprisingly, she answers.

  “Why are you up?”

  “I haven’t been to bed yet,” she giggles as the water cuts off. “I am in the bathtub. Ben is here.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “Shit is getting serious,” I excitedly mutter. “You’re falling…”

  “Like you don’t even know,” she readily admits. “Problem is he is moving to Houston to play college ball.”

  Ben is eighteen to Selia’s twenty-three.

  They’ve been knocking boots on and off for about six months. He even took her to his senior prom. I understand the gap, but Benjamin Grant doesn’t act like a typical teenage boy. He’s more mature than me and brilliant beyond reason. His parents are both surgeons in San Francisco, and he is a heavenly biracial mix with a Caribbean father and a Thai mother—which is quite unusual for Selia. She generally avoids Asians—her own kind—like the damn plague.