Beauty, a Hate Story the End

Twenty-Three

Anteros allowed himself three heartbeats after Frankie fell. One to make sure she was still breathing. Another to steady his own. A third to control the scream in his chest, to manually stifle the sound that threatened to rage free.

“She was always just some cunt,” Anteros said with a slight warble. He shrugged, shoulders feeling broken with the movement, and put the knife back into his waistband. He used every ounce of his willpower to avoid looking at Frankie. She’d screamed when the knife broke the skin, but now she wasn’t making any noise.

It should have been just a nick, but maybe he’d missed and made a mistake. He’d tried not to hit any major arteries or bones while still making it look real. She shouldn’t be bleeding profusely and if she was, he’d fucked up.

Crazy A laughed. “You fucking dumbass. Do you take me for some kind of idiot? Do you really think I would just accept that and move on? After everything? After the fucking docks?”

Anteros ground his jaw. It would have been nice if that worked, but no he hadn’t really thought it would. Still, it was his only hope to save her. If he hadn’t stabbed Frankie, Crazy A would have shot her.

Now he had time.

And a knife.

“I know what love looks like. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.” Crazy A’s voice was so bitter and serrated it was hardly recognizable. The gun trembled in his hand. He was losing himself.

There it was, Anteros’s opening, the weakness he could exploit. Crazy A was losing his steel. Then again, Crazy A had always been weak when it came to this. At least Anteros could understand now.

“I just wanted to see if you would do it.” Crazy A did a loop around the library, muttering things Anteros couldn’t hear. He ran the barrel of his gun along the books in the shelves, knocking them to the plush rug. “And you did!” He turned around to aim his gun back at Anteros.

“None of this matters,” Nikolai cut in, pointing his gun at Crazy A. “We had a plan. We’re here to kill him and get out.”

Crazy A exhaled through his nostrils, long and slow. Then before the boy could react, Crazy A shot him in the arm. Nikolai yelped, dropped his gun, and clutched his bleeding arm.

“Lucia was right, your vendetta has ruined this,” Nikolai hissed. Blood trickled through his fingers like water escaping through a dam. Anteros watched the exchange silently, thinking the boy got off easy. You never pointed a gun at Crazy A unless you were ready to pull the trigger.

“I think I’m through with your whining.” Crazy A gestured toward the exit with his gun. “Go on. Get out of here, slave boy.” Nikolai’s gaze flicked from Anteros, to the gun he’d dropped, back to Crazy A. His intention was obvious. Apparently Crazy A thought so as well, because he taunted, “I was going to let you live. I know how fucking happy your death will make him…” Crazy A looked at Anteros, then back to Nikolai. “But go on, give me a reason to change my mind.”

Nikolai slowly backed up until he was out of the room, his hatred and frustration palpable. Anteros felt it too, a fury in his gut so hot the

smoke clogged his lungs. With gritted teeth, he had to watch Nikolai escape, couldn’t do shit about it. The boy who’d somehow wormed his way into a place of affection—a place no one man had ever been—then betrayed him, was getting away. When the elevator doors dinged, Anteros’s jaw hurt so bad from grinding, he knew it would be sore.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Crazy A said, drawing his attention back. He’d gone to stand by Frankie and now curled his fingers around her bicep. He tugged her off the floor until she was inches off the ground, ends of her hair whispering against the plush red rug. She screamed in pain, other hand going to her side.

Suddenly Nikolai was barely a blip in his mind.

“You get a choice—” Crazy A broke off with a grunt as he readjusted his grip on Frankie, pulling out his gun’s magazine and emptying the clip. The bullets fell like metal raindrops on the rug, and dread filled Anteros’s gut. “You get a choice,” he continued, double checking the magazine and clicking it back into place. “Mercy or pain—but first, you tell her the fucking story.” He threw Anteros the pistol, reaching into his waistband to pull out another as the one he’d thrown sailed through the air.

Anteros caught it easily and aimed it at Crazy A without hesitation. “Maybe I’ll shoot you instead.”

Crazy A laughed. “Wow, how history repeats itself.” With a grunt, Crazy A adjusted his grip on Frankie then reached into his waistband and pulled out another gun, aiming it at Anteros. “If you try, I’ll shoot you first and spend days making her wish she was dead.”

“I’ll still get a shot on you,” Anteros ground out.

“If you want to gamble with her life, go for it. I have nothing to lose.” Crazy A grinned maniacally. “You’re dying anyway, Boss. You just get to choose whether she goes easy, first.”

Anteros rubbed the Glock’s pebbly handle, trying to work out a plan. Everything had gone to shit. Their plan was a smoldering pile of garbage. The only silver lining was that Frankie was only dripping a small amount of blood on the floor and Crazy A hadn’t noticed. She’d require stitches, but she would be fine—if he figured out a way to finish this without killing her.

“Tell her the goddamn story or I won’t give you the choice, Boss.” Crazy A tugged at Frankie again—causing her to groan in pain—then shook the Glock aimed at Anteros for emphasis. Her body was held up by sheer force of will by Crazy A and the minute he let go, she would drop to the floor. Anteros wanted to assure her everything would be okay, but he couldn’t.

“Anteros, please, just do it.” Frankie’s sideways, exhausted gaze met his. A second after she spoke, Crazy A hit her over the head with his gun.

“Good dogs learn to speak when spoken to,” he hissed, and Frankie groaned again. Anteros saw red, absolute fucking crimson. He gripped the trigger so hard the bone in his finger ached.

“Tick fucking tock,” Crazy A said. The gun was heavy in his hand, but he couldn’t do shit with it. The only thing Anteros could think of was getting more time, so he prepared to retell the story to Frankie.

“Joseph,” Crazy A growled as Anteros finished. “His name was Joseph, but you probably never learned that.” Crazy A unceremoniously dropped Frankie. He heard the thud, heard her small moan of pain, but he couldn’t look. It nearly fucking tore him in two that he couldn’t check to see if she was okay, but he had to keep his trigger and eyes on Crazy A.