Page 49 of For Fillies and Monsters

“They died when I was fourteen, in a car crash. After that, I was raised by the devil himself. And nothing was ever that good again.” His eyes track back to mine, something akin to sorrow in them, before he blinks, and it’s gone, replaced with the bottomless black pits devoid of emotion he usually wears.

“Growing up, my mom had an old friend from high school who would watch me for weeks at a time, when things were especially bad. And when I turned eighteen, I moved to Colorado to live with them full time,” I venture on, trying to offer him another small piece, feeling like he gave so much.

Gus tilts his head, his black curls falling over his molten eyes, a quizzical look crossing his face. He looks like he wants to ask something, like he is waiting for me to draw some kind of conclusion to a problem I’m not looking at properly, but then he closes his eyes, thinking better of it.

“What did your dad do to you?” Gus asks. I hate talking about Gibson, hate thinking about him. But for some reason, I answer, anyway.

“Gibson. Not my dad.” I pause, but Gus makes no move to interrupt. “He beat us, horribly so. I know he forced himself on my mom more times than not.” I flail the spoon in my hand to emphasize the importance of my words. “Just because they were married didn’t mean the sex was consensual.” I always get defensive about that part. He nods, face grave, as if he agrees.

“He’d leave me locked in my room for days when he was on a bad bender. Partly so he could beat my mom without me trying to get in the middle, and partly because being hungry and alone and terrified of when it would be my turn was his favorite kind of torture. Because there was always my turn. It just was a matter of when. He liked to chase me, always letting me think Icould escape my fate. And then he would, well…” I rub at the column of my throat, lost to the memories.

Gus growls next to me, tearing me from the trance. His face is no longer locked up or devoid of emotion. It’s murderous and dark. And terrifyingly sexy. His chest heaves as he sucks in deep breaths. I reach out a hand and then stop, my fingers suspended in midair.

“Where is he?” He says the words in a hushed, hate filled tone, and I step back, afraid of his sudden outburst of rage. I look at Dale for help, but she is busy watching Gus spiral, her mouth hanging obnoxiously open.

“Uh, what?”

He steps toward me, my still extended fingers brushing his chest and I hurriedly drop my hand.

“Gibson. What the fuck happened to him?”

My pulse quickens, feeling cornered by his attention and questions.

“I… Well, you know my mother died. He killed her. And he was never seen after that. That’s how I got this place.” I feel my racing heart crawl painfully up my throat, and I attempt to swallow it down. “He could be dead, for all I know.”

His skin quivers, but he just nods once, the dark curls bouncing, and then strides from the kitchen. With his exit, I feel the heat bleed from the room, an eerie silence replacing the once loud space. I place a shaky hand to my chest, trying to keep my heart from bursting.

He’s fucking crazy—a psychopath with multiple personalities that I can’t get a fucking read on. He’s angry and withdrawn one minute, and dominant and invasive the next. I feel like I’m suffocating with him around, and suffocating when he’s not. He makes me cold with fear, and hot with desire, my body, mind, and heart warring and confused.

Would he someday snap? Has he already? Will I survive him?

I look over at Dale again, hoping to find some semblance of calm or reassurance. Instead, I’m met with a dark smirk and twinkling mischievous eyes. She pops her hip, mouthing the words,“He loves you,”while drawing a heart in the air in front of her face.

I shake my head. That isn’t love; fucking toxic is what it is.

Then again, what the fuck do I know about love?

TWENTY

STETSON

April 13th, 2024

It’s so unbearably hot,my skin is clammy and sizzling with the remnant of a vicious sunburn. Except, I haven’t been in the sun all day, and it’s the middle of the night. Cold air blasts full tilt around the room and across my exposed flesh.

Gus lies in the room beneath me, possibly shirtless, or better yet, naked. He could be asleep, and I can’t help but wonder what he looks like when he finally relaxes enough to allow sleep to claim him. Does his angular face go slack, his scowl melting away into a peaceful expression? His lips parted in sleep, his muscular chest rising and falling slowly?

I want to see him like that.

I groan, these thoughts far from helping to cool my fiery skin. Gus is moody and withdrawn fifty percent of the time, grouchy eighty percent of the time, and teasing and tempting one hundred percent of the time. I need reliable people in my life, and Gus is anything but reliable. He’s inconsistent—a mystery I don’t even know the beginning of. There are just too many red flags.

His mood swings alone make me nervous and insecure. Theway he can’t control his anger makes me wary. He’s hot in a way only the devil can be. And I’ve spent too much of my life creating myself and my future to allow one super-toned and tanned man to ruin it all for me. I can’t allow it.

But if he wants to take it from me?

“No.” Slamming my fists into the mattress, I sit up. I have a million problems, including a man who has broken into my home and threatened me more than once, and yet the man sleeping downstairs seems to be my biggest concern. Which just goes to show how fucking delusional I am. I have always been drawn to bad men and bad choices—I’m no doubt a therapist’s wet dream—and I’m incapable of changing my habits in one night. No matter how bad I want to.

So, because I’m especially delusional when I’m horny, and a coward when it comes to real men—always—I reach for my phone. The stalker feels like the safe choice, and if that doesn’t scream issues, I don’t know what does. Rolling onto my stomach, I open up the chain of text messages that just earlier today Dale told me will make great evidence in my own murder trial.

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