Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

14. Butthole Eyes & Bad Drivers

CHAPTER 14

BUTTHOLE EYES & BAD DRIVERS

MARGAUX

A nother couple of hours later, Timmy approaches me and looks deep into my eyes.

At first, I think he’s going to say something nice, but then I see the cruel glimmer in his gaze.

“You are butthole eyes,” he says, smirking.

I frown. “That’s not very nice.”

But I leave it at that. Because I have barely any energy, and I really don’t know how to respond.

ABOUT FORTY MINUTES LATER

He throws a marble at my crotch for seemingly no reason, laughing like a child with a cruel streak.

“Stop throwing things at me,” I say, my patience fraying.

Why is a nearly 40-year-old man throwing things at me?

Why is any of this happening?

He responds by rolling into me on the bed over and over again, his weight crushing me as he cackles, “Hahahahaha!” each time he does it.

I’ve had enough.

This is too much.

With all the strength I can muster, I shove him away, sending his 200-pound ass right off the bed.

Ahahahaha yourself, dickhead.

“You’re so fucking lame!” he screams, scrambling to his feet. ”You suck balls!”

I don’t respond.

His attention turns to the TV. “I want to watch a show. That one we just favorited.”

“Okay,” I shrug, because at least he’s not physically slamming into me now.

I find the remote and put on the show he mentioned earlier, hoping to pacify him.

He doesn’t seem to be watching it closely, but at least he’s calm.

I hug him. “Didn’t you want to watch this show?”

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, smirking.

I shake my head. None of this makes sense. My life has stopped making any semblance of sense.

TWO DAYS LATER

We’re driving back from a beach on the other side of the Cay, and his nitpicking is relentless.

There’s a weird part of the route where the freeway exit is on the left instead of the right. Confused, I take a wrong turn, and he berates me.

“You went the wrong fucking way!” he sneers. “Jesus Christ. It’s a really straightforward route. What are you, stupid?”

I feel flustered by his admonitions and compelled to defend myself. “It’s a confusing intersection!” I snap, my frustration bubbling over. “The exit is on the opposite side of the road from usual!”

“Well, you’ve been here before! You should know! ” he screams.

“Leave me the fuck alone and let me drive.” My own voice rises to a shout. “You’re getting me all flustered!”

He smirks, satisfied, his voice now calm. “Look at you yelling at me. You really need to learn to control your temper, Margaux.”

I grit my teeth, tears of anger stinging my eyes.

When we get home, he immediately picks another fight. “You make me feel small!” he yells.

Guilt floods me, unearned but potent. I did yell at the top of my lungs back in the truck.

“Look, I’m sorry I raised my voice in the car on the way back. I was stressed about driving at night. I’m sorry, I should have tried to stay calm. I shouldn’t have yelled. I apologize.”

Without a word, he storms out of the apartment.

When he returns twenty minutes later, the smell of cigarette smoke clings to him like an accusation.

TWO DAYS LATER

He paces around the apartment like a caged animal. “I’m angry because of resentment,” he says finally. “Not at you or myself. It’s really not you. But I would just be happy if I had a Black and Mild.” He looks at me, his gaze laden with expectation. “If you just let me go get a Black and Mild, I’d love you so much and everything would be great.”

I sigh, the weight of his constant and trivial demands pressing down on me. He always fucking wants something. “Your mood really shouldn’t be so driven by whether I use my life savings to buy you a cigarette that you don’t need. I can’t afford to waste my money on things like cigarettes. It’s not right to expect me to.”

“Well, I want one,” he replies, shrugging.

He’s pissing me off and I poke him back. “Who did you smoke with the other day?”

Guilt flickers across his face. “Some lady who was like seventy years old.”

It doesn’t matter. Their age is not the point. Doesn’t he get it? Or does he get it, and that’s why he does it? “See? I have a problem with that. I don’t care how old someone is. You’re standing outside at night chatting away with people while I’m sitting here wondering if you’re safe in this neighborhood. It’s weird and inappropriate.”

“Okay, I promise I won’t do that ever again.” His face is solemn, and his tone is convincing, but he’s giving me snake vibes. He’s showing his charm, and now I’m just waiting for the strike.

I’ve learned by now that Timmy’s promises mean nothing. They’re just words, empty and hollow, like the man who speaks them.

Timmy’s presence is a storm I can’t escape. Every moment with him feels like another step deeper into a labyrinth of manipulation and despair.

And yet, despite everything, I stay.

Maybe out of hope.

Maybe out of fear.

Or maybe because I’ve started to believe the lies he tells about me.

Lies that feel like truth when whispered in the dark.