Can’t Refuse Him (Monsters & MENaces #1)

Chapter 1 – The Spirit Within

Some people hate their jobs; my job turns me on. Which, for a janitor, is just about the most humiliating thing imaginable.

I wasn’t always like this–five years ago, a malicious ex laid a curse on me, and now I’m breathless over the aroma of day-old coffee grounds, ache at the sight of a perfectly crumpled and stained takeaway bag, and I get hot under the collar every time I take out the trash.

What used to repulse me now drives me wild—the smell, the way it feels in my hands as I pull it out and sort it from recycling, food scraps or refuse—ugh. The way a rubbish bin sits there, waiting to be filled–I can’t get enough of it.

I’ve not held a permanent cleaning job in years.

I should have switched jobs to something less trash-adjacent, but my limited experience meant I had to take what was assigned to me.

Then… well, there is the other thing; when your coworkers catch you rubbing yourself with a half-eaten sandwich fished out of the bin when you think no one is around and you are safe to indulge your curse, workplace gossip gets around.

Now, I work through an agency that keeps things discreet–short-term contracts, rotating locations, no questions asked.

Right now, I’m at a private law firm, Graves it’s not exactly the place I want to be caught eye-fucking used and empty takeaway coffee cups.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an exhibitionist; it’s just that I can’t control myself when I let my feelings go too far and the curse takes over. I keep my head down and do my job.

The law firm is eerily quiet today, more so than normal.

Some people mill about, but they aren’t chatty.

It’s the kind of place that smells like fresh money and expensive letterhead stationery.

My footsteps echo against the polished floorboards as I wheel my squeaky cart of cleaning and maintenance supplies down the empty hallway.

The sooner I finish what I came here to do today, the sooner I can go home and pretend my life isn’t a complete joke.

Well, at least it’s more entertaining now, with the revelation of the supernatural world being made public a few years ago.

Zombies, vampiric himbos, marsupial shifters, demonic bakers and various other supernatural hauntings of the night have cropped up, and the last thing I want to face is any of those today.

It’s already hard enough controlling these urges.

I make it to the office kitchen where, aside from regular cleaning duties, I was given a job to inspect the faulty fluorescent lights.

Hanging a ‘maintenance’ sign on the door, I shut it behind me.

I flick the switch, and, after a hopeful flicker, it cuts out.

No further response or light. The only thing illuminating the room is the green glow from a nearby exit sign–there are no windows.

I try to ignore the eerie feeling I get as my eyes adjust to the dark.

The dust of the day reflects off my glasses lens.

I make a mental note to clean them on my shirt later.

As my eyes focus, I hate that the first thing I notice is a row of full, almost overflowing rubbish bins, seemingly waiting for me like a damn temptation lineup.

General waste, recycling, organic waste–each one brims with discarded leftovers from people who actually have careers.

My throat goes dry as I reach for the closest bin, swallowing hard against the awful thrill creeping up my spine.

Don’t react. Just do the job.

I glimpse my name tag’s reflection on the bin lid–Oscar. Come on, Oscar, you’ve got this.

I grab the plastic liner and–oh, fuck.

It’s warm, and I want to shove my hand inside.

It makes my stomach flip. I lose all control of my body.

My glasses slip down my nose. I feel a tightening under the waistband of my briefs.

The collar of my janitor’s uniform feels like it is strangling me.

My fingers instinctively clench around the bag, but I can’t let the moment progress.

I take a steadying breath and grip the edge like it's a lifeline.

I picture safe thoughts: puppies, clean countertops, new books.

Ones that will bring down my desire, and my anxiety of having to work with trash and be around people who might see me getting turned on by it.

For a second, it works, and the feeling subsides.

But then, I feel the bag almost grip me back.

I yank my hands away from it so fast I nearly tumble backwards.

The fluorescent tubes above me suddenly flicker, and an ominous gust of air rattles some dishes drying nearby on the communal drying rack.

I turn to look at them, but then a deep, gravelly masculine voice mutters from inside the bin.

It’s low, irritated, and definitely not mine. I snap back around as it speaks words.

“Hands off my trash, pretty boy.”

I freeze. That’s it. I’ve finally snapped. Not only am I turned on by trash, but I can also hear it say things now. Great! And say weird things. Pretty boy? I stare at the bin, my eyes wide with shock and fear. I shove down the excited feeling I get.

The bin stares back.

…OK, that might be an exaggeration, but I swear the air around the bin had shifted or something. Or did it? Who knows, now that I know bins can speak to me, I wouldn't be surprised if they could watch me too.

I take a few slow steps back, my pulse hammering in my throat.

“I-uh-” words don’t come out. My mouth is dry. My brain can’t find words.

I have exactly two rational explanations for what just happened. One, my brain is finally dead from years of horny-trash-curse suppression and I’m hallucinating and hearing voices from the trash, or two, some asshole at this firm has learnt of my condition and is playing a prank on me.

Maybe some half-cocked lawyer is standing behind the shut door just waiting to mess with me.

But if he’s hiding there, why did I hear the voice come through, clear as day, from the trash can?

Neither of these options makes me feel better.

As if to make me even more rattled, I swear I see the bin shift, like it’s ever so slightly adjusting itself.

As it does, a protein bar wrapper falls out.

Ignoring the pulse that shoots through me, I reach to pick it up.

I flinch as it speaks again.

“Did… I… stutter?”

I leave the wrapper where it lies. The voice is annoyed now. It’s irritated, deep and carries the exasperation I’d expect from a man forced to deal with idiots all day.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I grab the closest mop from my cart and point the wooden end at the bin. I move closer, closer, and nudge it, as if to prove to myself the voice is coming from the bin.

The voice booms again, and I nearly drop the mop in shock. “I… said… HANDS OFF!”

Most people would run. But I’m not most people and felt a little brave. Steeling myself, I clench the mop harder and brandish it like a sword.

“Listen, I don’t know what kind of Annabelle-haunted-trash bullshit is happening here, but I will start swinging.” I threaten, trying to make my voice as confident, deep and intimidating as possible.

Silence.

For a split second, I believe I am imagining things.

The fluorescent lights even work normally again.

Then, just as I convince myself the voices aren’t real, the fluorescent lights shut off, and I’m plunged back to the scarily dim green exit light.

The bin does a slow, deliberate movement; the lid creaks open, lifting like a clamshell.

A mixture of smells floods my nostrils and then–a hand emerges, like some sort of zombie hand breaking soil out of a grave for the first time.

The supernatural world being public had been great and all—I’m not a Nuller, anti-supernatural, but zombies in my bin is not what I signed up for!

My entire body jerks backward so fast, I trip over the wheels of my cart, crumpling down to the floor. A bottle of disinfectant also clatters down with me.

I shift up, and my eyes widen with shock as something crawls out of it.

The pale, slightly grimy hand reaches for the rim. Fingers grip around the edge, and then, it’s no longer just a hand–a figure pulls itself up from inside the bin.

I see his eyes first. Sharp, amber-coloured, and glowing faintly in the dim green light.

He has dark seaweed-coloured hair and is wearing a jacket that definitely looks like it’s seen better days.

What gets me is his skin–it’s slightly see-through, glowing a green so subtle I thought it had been the exit sign reflecting off him.

And I can’t tell if he’s slick with sweat or whatever juice that pools at the bottom of this bin, but something’s dripping off the bits of skin I can see.

The next thing is the smirk; lazy and unimpressed. Like he had just sprung me sniffing the rubbish bin.

The man leans against the bin’s inner rim–the angle looks impossible without tilting the bin over from the weight, but he makes it look like the most natural thing in the world. His fingers drum against the plastic rim. Is it from impatience? But what would he be impatient for?

“Weeeeell?” he says. “You gonna scream like everyone else, or can we move past the whole ‘Oh no, a talking trash ghost!’ bit?”

I don’t scream. I just keep holding my mop like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded and say the only thing that makes any sense.

“…What the fuck?”