Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

“Do we have to stick that one up there too?” Little O asked, gesturing to Dario’s severed head. “I think four is pretty, you know, intimidating.” Anteros shot Little O a look that indicated, yes, the head did need to go up on t

he balcony. “Make Crazy A do it, he hasn’t done shit,” Little O whined.

Crazy A stepped forward. “No.”

“But—” Little O started.

“I only came,” Crazy A interrupted, “to tell Beast how I’m gonna kill the girl.”

“You still haven’t killed her?” Pretty Boy furrowed his brow. “Cutting it close to the wire.” Technically the deadline had passed. He should have killed Frankie before The Council’s death, but one more fucking day wouldn’t matter.

“I’m doing it tomorrow night,” Anteros growled, pushing past Pretty Boy to get to the stairs. The blood was starting to dry, making his clothes stiff and starchy. He kept a spare set of clothes in the office—all of them did. He climbed the stairs, the footfalls of the rest of the Wolves hot behind him.

When he reached the office, he was already unbuttoning his shirt.

“Then you won’t mind if I tell you how I’m going to do it.” Crazy A’s impassive, slightly amused voice drifted to him from behind. Anteros paused, fingers on the blood-crusted buttons of his shirt.

“Tell me how you’re going to do it,” Anteros said, continuing to shed his clothes. “I don’t give a fuck, but you’re wasting your goddamn time because I’m going to kill her.” Anteros ripped off his bloody shirt, not bothering to finish unbuttoning it. Throwing it on top of a plastic tarp on the floor, he faced the room. The other Wolves had come into the room and began doing the same, unbuttoning their shirts and pants, throwing them into a pile on the floor.

“I was thinking I’d make you shoot her,” Crazy A said, voice light and airy, nonchalant. There was an edge to it though, sharp, like the tip of a needle…so fine you couldn’t see it, but lethal and malignant. Anteros paused. He knew what Crazy A was implying, the history he was alluding to. Ignoring him, Anteros continued undressing.

Big O and Little O paused, exchanging looks. Pretty Boy stopped with one arm in one sleeve, then slowly continued putting the shirt on.

“Okay…” Big O said.

“Good luck with that,” Pretty Boy said, shrugging the rest of the new shirt onto his body. Anteros opened his desk and pulled out a vacuumed-sealed shirt, tossing the plastic square on his desk.

“Like I said, I’m doing it tomorrow night.” Anteros locked glares with Crazy A, new shirt untouched. The energy was feral and raw. With his chest bare and Crazy A covered in blood, it was like two animals at night.

“What a way to start off the New Year,” Pretty Boy said, sinking into the couch. Arms up on the top, he looked completely relaxed.

“I wish I had a girl to kill for the New Year,” Little O replied wistfully, joining Pretty Boy on the couch.

“We should start that tradition,” Big O proclaimed, sounding excited.

“I’m down,” Little O replied. “We could do it right when the ball drops.”

“I’ll call The Institute,” Pretty Boy said.

“Fuck. That,” Big O said with emphasis, squeezing into the couch. “Don’t waste money on high class, I’ll just find someone off the street.”

“And here I was worried I wouldn’t have anything to do this New Year’s,” Pretty Boy said. While they worked out the finer details, Crazy A continued to stare relentlessly at Anteros. He leaned back against the wall, eyes pinned on Anteros, as if ready to settle in for the night. With a snarl, Anteros grabbed the vacuum-packed shirt off the desk and headed for the door.

“Tick, tock,” Crazy A said to his back. Anteros paused, gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Tomorrow night,” Anteros growled, not bothering to turn around.

“Happy New Year!” Little O, Big O, and Pretty Boy cheerfully called back from the couch.

When Anteros got home, Frankie was in his bed—just as he’d told her to be. Her brunette hair fanned out wide over the pillow and her arm was stretched across his bed as if reaching for something. Though he’d had the other room made with her in mind, something about having her here, in his bed, was right.

A need to crawl into the sheets and pull her to him overcame him. A need for her skin. To smell her feminine, fresh scent. To consume her. He tightened his fist, feeling the plastic of the vacuum-packed shirt. Blood crusted his skin and flaked in his hair. It drenched the hem of his pants, splattered on his knees and thighs. With one last look at her sleeping face, he went to the shower.

“Shower on,” Anteros said, stepping into the bathroom. Steam filled the large space, hot and muggy. He removed the last of his garments, kicking them into a corner. The tile was warm beneath his feet when he stepped inside the shower.

Hot water pelted his back and he groaned. Anteros watched as the water ran red, disappearing in a spiral down the drain. The color was fruity looking, like punch. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d been in the shower, with Frankie.

It should have been red then.