“Devil Side” - Foxes
Janine's singing along to the radio. And she is as tone-deaf as they come. I drive her car along the twisted road through the thick woods. We top a small hill, and Edwin's cabin appears in the distance—along with that shed and his tent set up between it and the house.
Janine laughs. "He actually set up a tent." She shakes her head. "EA, the survivalist."
"Yeah, and let me tell you, I feel weird staying in his house alone."
"Don't." The car rolls to a stop in front of the walkway that leads to the porch. "He'll only stay out there a few days, and when he comes back in, you'll be praying to the baby Lord Jesus for him to go back out there." She laughs at herself. "I promise."
I stare at the tent, my gaze drifting instinctively toward the shed.
"Well"—she pats my shoulder—"you call me if you need anything, alright?"
"Yep." I feign a smile as I open the driver’s door and gracelessly clamber out of her sports car. "Thanks again."
"Don't thank me." She’s already climbed out of the passenger’s side, and her eyes are set on the tent. "Thank him. That spa's not cheap."
My eyes remain trained on his tent, wondering if he's out there or in that shed or gone. The wooden porch steps creak beneath my weight. A crow in a nearby oak caws, its wings fluttering as it takes flight, and I suddenly realize how eerily quiet it is out here. How alone we are. So far away no one would hear me screaming—stop it, Miranda. Stop being so ridiculous.
The door's still unlocked, and it swings open to the empty living room. The late evening sun pours in from the bay window, casting a warm light over the elk head mounted on the fireplace.
What do I do? This is honestly the most awkward situation I have ever found myself in—and for me, that says a lot. He said to make myself at home, but really, who in the hell could do that? The only place I feel somewhat comfortable is my room, and I think that's because I can shut the door and lock it… so that is exactly where I go.
I drag out my new laptop, boot it up, and open the writing program Edwin mentioned. For half an hour, I read over what we've written, surprised at how well our writing styles complement one another. To be honest, I'm not sure who wrote what; it’s almost as if we have the same voice. I guess that’s the perk of obsessing over and dissecting the way someone writes.
I come to the abrupt end of my last chapter, and my fingers hover over the keys, my brain scrambling to get into the right headspace. She's in the room. All the lights are out due to the blizzard. He's somewhere in the house… what would I do if it were me?
Finally finding the words, I type.
She sits, waiting, her heart in her throat, knowing that at any moment, she may draw her last breath because she's finally realized he's utterly mad. Although his demeanor appears calm, she knows that deep down inside, a constant bloodlust drives his next breath. He's a monster, not even sure of who he really is himself…
A floorboard outside of the door creaks, and I stop typing. I sit in the middle of the bed, staring at the door, waiting to see if the knob twists. My pulse clangs in my temples, adrenaline buzzing down my arms to my fingertips. Seconds tick by, but there is no movement, so I go back to my writing. I stare at the blinking cursor… and all the thoughts, the words, they're now nothing but a jumbled mess.
Groaning, I shove the laptop away and shake my head in disgust. I stand and make my way to the window, pull back the curtain, and peer out at Edwin's tent. Not once has he come inside. He's just been out there "finding his inspiration." I have to laugh at it because otherwise, it unnerves me. And the longer I look out at the scenery—that tent billowing in the breeze, that shed—my imagination runs wild. What if he's really crazy? What if he's out there roasting human flesh over that open fire at night? What if…
"Miranda, stop it." Tossing the curtain back, I walk to the end of the bed and flop back on the soft mattress.
I can't write. I don't want to go out of this room, and there's no TV in here. There's nothing to do but sleep. I close my eyes, but the sun's just barely crept below the horizon. There's no way I'll fall asleep. My mind goes into overdrive, sifting through thoughts about this damn book and Edwin, and then Jax and his smile and his dimples and muscles pop into my head, and there—my thoughts cease.
Something about Jax gets to me. I recall how I felt when, on the night I first met him, he told me I was beautiful. Incredibly beautiful… I don't take compliments well—always thinking it's a lie, something the person is doing just to dig at me—but for some reason, when he said it, I believed him. And that makes me uneasy. It makes me feel vulnerable because I don't let people get to me—not on that level. It was because I was drunk. That has to be why it seemed natural. A frustrated groan works its way up my throat.
Since the moment I laid eyes on him in that damn bar, I've had this crazy attraction to him. And it's not the superficial bullshit. It’s not his rugged jawline or messy hair or those muscles evident even through his clothes. No, I think it's the fact that Jax is a walking, breathing oxymoron. He looks like the type of guy that would be an arrogant asshole, but he's awkward and uncomfortable and nervous. I'm not sure many people see that, but I do. And, above that, I think it might be his eyes that draw me in. I can see a profound level of depth in him—I can see twisted demons fighting behind that smile and those dimples. What fool can't appreciate dark things wrapped in pretty packages?
The longer I think about Jax, the more those innocent thoughts morph into the image of him with his hands in my hair, my back against a wall. I find myself wondering what his lips would feel like pressed against mine, his rough hands roaming my bare flesh. What he would look like between my thighs, his skin slicked with sweat, his chest rising in ragged swells. And before I realize it, I feel my hands playing out exactly where I want his hands on my body.
My fingers skim over my stomach. Goose bumps sweep over my skin before I shove down my jeans. I let one hand trail beneath my shirt to palm my breast while a finger from my other hand slowly slips beneath the waistband of my lace thong. I imagine Jax pinning me to the bed, his mouth working down my neck as he sweeps his fingers underneath the lacy material, feeling the reaction my body has to him. And that thought has me biting my lip with a soft moan. He'd slip one finger inside me then groan at how good I felt… my finger sinks inside me, then another, my legs falling shamelessly apart as I enjoy this little daydream.
He'd kiss me, and it would be brutal—his hand gripping my jaw before his fingers wound around my throat. He'd whisper what a dirty girl I am, what a filthy little slut he wants me to be for him, right before he'd end up with his head between my thighs. The thought of his mouth on me like that, my fingers tangled in his messy brown hair—that first warm lick would be enough to send me over the edge.
My heels dig into the mattress, my back bowing away from the bed as that blissful heat jolts through me. I fight the moan, tossing my head to the side and biting my lip as I give in to that feeling. And then, as soon as that heat dissipates, with my fingers still buried deep inside me, guilt slams over me.
I stare at the ceiling, my heart still slamming against my rib cage from the sudden release of endorphins as I pull up my jeans and fasten them. When I sit up, I sigh. This is what they mean by idle hands are the Devil's workshop, and I'm terrified the next time I see Jax, all I'm going to be able to think about is this—me playing with myself while thinking about him. It will be all over my face. I'll turn beet red the second I lay eyes on him.
My thoughts are cut off by the sound of the back door slamming. My pulse speeds up.
Footsteps come down the hall. There's a cough then a soft knock on the door. "Miranda?"
I swallow then unlock the door, praying my cheeks aren't still flushed when I pull it open. Clearing my throat, I force a smile. "Yep?"
"I know I'm a day early and that I promised not to bother you, but I was just struck with some incredible inspiration and was hoping you might be up for a little writing session." Edwin smiles, his dark eyes never leaving my own.
"Oh, um, yeah." I nod. I can feel sweat beading on my brow. "Sure."
"Well, I'm already in the office, and I've got a fresh pot of coffee going if you'd like to join me." He turns without waiting for a response and makes his way down the hall, humming "Singin’ in the Rain."
Something about him is way off, almost like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Maybe that "incredible inspiration" came in the form of drugs.
He stops behind the desk and pulls my chair out for me. I eye him cautiously as I take a seat and turn on the desktop computer. And he's still humming. He takes his own seat, looks over at me, and smiles.
"I hope your spa day was as beneficial as my writing retreat was for me," he says, cracking his knuckles before powering up his computer.
"It was relaxing. Thank you, by the way. That was very nice of you."
"Please, don't even mention it. I'm glad you enjoyed it." He turns, an eyebrow arched. "I noticed you all got back later in the afternoon. Enjoy the city a bit?"
Inhaling, I nod. "Yep. Janine took me to some diner. So… what are we writing?"
He looks at me as if he's trying to read me, studying me. He smiles once more, a slanted, unnatural smile, then turns his attention back to the screen. "Hmmm, well, we're right at the part where Deacon has captured his first victim. He's confused, angry, thirsty. Your girl…" He looks at me and smiles. "Your girl is obviously shit-scared." He laughs.
"Right." I glance at the screen, skimming over the last few paragraphs.
And he goes back to fucking humming. "So I think we just go through the natural progressions. He's got her in the house, bound to a bed. What’s next? Does he torture her? Does he play with her? Or does he just get the deed over and done with?" He taps his chin, eyes to the ceiling. He finally puts a finger up and nods approvingly. "I think he fucks with her. It's his first kill. He won't be able to control himself."
Natural progressions? There's a natural progression to murder… and it evidently begins with torture. I clear my throat and look back at the computer screen, at the flashing cursor.
And then he begins to type.
I can barely believe my eyes. It's almost like a dream, like if I pinch myself, I'll come jolting from my sleep back to my hideously boring reality. But it's not a dream, and her trembling, naked body handcuffed to the bed frame is a nice little reminder of that. So is the smell of piss that's taken up the room since I started handling the hacksaw.
"What’s wrong, sweetheart?" I lift the saw and shake it. "Just because I brought it doesn't mean I'll use it."
I smile and wink at her, then I look back at the table holding a duffel bag and all the tools I just pulled from it. I brought a lot with me. It's my first time, so I'm not really sure what I'll end up using. As I survey my inventory, a rush takes over me. I look back at her quivering on the dirty mattress, and I can't help but smile. Twenty-seven years have led to this day right here.
Edwin stops typing and glances at me with a curious look in his eye. "What would you say to him in this situation? Would you beg him?"
"I mean…" I drag in a breath. "I haven't ever really, um…" A slight smirk plays across his lips, and it leaves me unsettled. "I guess I would beg him. Try to make him see me as a person…"
"Haven’t ever really what? Please, finish that sentence."
I swallow. Hard. "Uh, it's just that I've never really thought about what I would do, you know?"
He chuckles, shaking his head like a disappointed father would. "Well, dear, this is fiction, and you are a fiction writer. If you ever hope to become something in this world, I hope you can find a way to put yourself in those positions. To dig and claw and fight for that inspiration. I've never been a detective either, but I've made millions writing them." He turns back to the screen, his head shaking again and his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Don’t worry about it. I've got this."
And he goes back to typing and humming. I watch him. Every so often a crooked smile forms on his lips, and I find myself wondering…
A relentless mix of both fear and exhilaration stirs in my head as I glide a finger over the jagged edges of the saw blade, my gaze fixed on her as I wait for a response.
"Please." She chokes on a sob. "Please, God. Please…" Her words are lost on a pitiful cry.
"God?" I smile, looking at the ceiling then back down at her. "Fuck God." I lean in, my mouth to her ear, and I can feel her breath against my neck. "God doesn't give a fuck about you… and neither do I." I pull back and laugh, tossing the hacksaw from one hand to the other.
She's crying so hard she chokes, gagging on her own goddamn tears. "I'll do whatever you want. I won't tell anyone. I promise. I swear. I swear…" Another long sob racks her body. "Just let me go. Please don't kill me. Please." Her eyes are riddled with tears, her plump lips quivering.
I pout, one of those exaggerated ones with the bottom lip sticking way out. "Oh dear, I wish I could help you. I really do. I've just waited too damn long for this."
She shakes her head, those beautiful tears cascading down her pale cheeks.
I slide the teeth of the hacksaw softly over her shackled leg, right at the ankle. Screaming, she fights to yank it away, the handcuffs jangling against the steel-framed bed.
"No point in screaming. No point at all. There's not a soul for miles."
I do it again, and she wails, coughing and choking. It's the look in her eyes—the wide-eyed horror swimming in her tear-filled eyes—that motivates me, propels me to feed the lust that has been burning inside me my entire miserable life.
The typing pauses for a second as he continues that constant humming, and he exhales, tapping his fingers over the desk. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, and he's staring out that damn window. At that fucking shed. With a smile. And that lump forms in my throat.
When the hacksaw's teeth begin making a mess of her flesh, blood spurting from the gnarled skin, her eyes roll back in her head. She screams, a pointless cry that sends a wave of pleasure over me. I can feel my cock swell in my jeans. The thin skin at her ankle gives way to bone, which makes a much different sound when the hacksaw grinds through it. It's like a zipper being done and undone over and over and over again. Her foot is halfway off, veins shooting off like fire hoses, when I notice her face go pale. I set the hacksaw down next to her and walk gingerly to the duffel bag. I pull out a syringe, a vial of adrenaline, and four tourniquets.
Settling back down by her side, I first put on the tourniquet. Not above her ankle though. I set it all the way up near the hip so I can work my way up. Once the tourniquet is fastened, I fill a syringe with a bit of adrenaline, stick the vein in the crack of her bicep, and within seconds, she comes charging back to reality, her eyes bulging from her head and mouth gasping for air.
"Aw, there you are, sweetheart! Good to have you back. You can't go leaving me so soon. Our date has just started."
The humming stops, and Edwin pushes back from the desk with a pleased sigh. "Well, I’m tapped for now. Would you like to go get some food?"
I glance from him to the flashing cursor then back, wondering what the hell he even needed me here for. "Uh… yeah, yeah, sure thing. Let me just go grab my purse."
"No rush, I’ve got a few things to handle first anyways," he says with a grin before walking toward the front door, resuming that damn unnerving humming.
I scoot my chair away from the desk, the legs scraping over the hardwood floor, but my gaze strays to my computer screen. Chill bumps sweep over my skin as I read what Edwin so effortlessly wrote. It’s so gruesome—and that humming and his wicked little smile while he was typing.
It's just a story.
Just words strung together to make thoughts, so I shouldn't feel this moral war waging inside me over what was just written. It doesn't make me sick or deranged that I like this, so it doesn't mean that Edwin is sick or deranged for writing it. It's just imagination… but what makes someone's imagination live in such dark places? What drives our stories to come from within the shadows? The more I watch him write these words, the more I'm a little scared that maybe something's not right with either one of us.