Beast
A Hate Story, The Beginning
Mary Catherine Gebhard
Contents
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Mary Catherine Gebhard
Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Copyright © 2016 by Mary Catherine Gebhard
Editing by C. Marie
Proof Reading by Love N. Books
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above copyright owner of this book.
First Edition: March 2017 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning – 1st ed ISBN-13: 978-0692853252
A Trendlettrs Publication Salt Lake City, UT www.MaryGebhard.com
To Becca, you midwifed the hell out of this book.
Prologue
“Take me,” she said, voice unwavering.
“And what will you offer?” His voice was low and gravelly. It was cruel.
“My life for his debts.” Her voice was steady even though the crystal pools of her eyes rippled. She was frightened. Good.
The Beast, as he was called, was going to kill her father. He’d racked up a series of irreconcilable debts. While some were to banks, most were to unsavory types like the Beast. Her father’s debt was past payment, past broken kneecaps and threats. There was no way he could pay it off, and if he couldn’t pay it, well…there was no point to his existence anymore.
Like a honeybee that couldn’t make honey.
That was the tacit agreement made months ago when Antonio Notte borrowed money from the Pavoni Family. When you took money from the biggest crime family in the world, if you stopped producing honey, they crushed you like a bug underfoot.
The Beast walked around the small New Jersey home touching things as he went. He didn’t normally go on routine collections; he was past his cracking-skulls days and now wore suits, no longer bloodying his knuckles. Yet earlier that day when the Beast stared out the windows of his Tribeca penthouse, he hadn’t felt luxury—he’d felt like a caged bird. So, he’d called his next in line and asked what was happening out on the streets.
Suddenly he found himself in New Jersey, a cowering man at his feet while to his left was the man’s daughter, who refused to cower.
Beast lifted his finger from the linoleum-wrapped countertop. Nothing in the house was new. The linoleum was peeling. The fake wood on the cabinet was coming up like paper. It smelled faintly of old earth.
Clearly Notte hadn’t used the money to redecorate.
The Beast had come expecting whining, blood, and splatter. Instead he got a girl with long, curling, chocolate hair and stone in her eyes. Her collarbone protruded gently from honey skin, sticking out defiantly with challenge to match her folded arms. Stepping around Notte’s prostrated body on the ground, Beast walked closer to her and placed a single finger on the protruding bone. She swallowed as he ran a finger down the wing, feeling the smoothness against his rough skin. Harsh laughter erupted behind him—his men enjoying the show. Beast raised a hand that quickly shut them up.
She swallowed again and smacked his hand away. The Beast smiled, but only a fool would think it was anything other than chilling. The smile was lazy and crooked, his teeth pearly white. Something in that smile betrayed pure wickedness, an evil born and not begotten.
“My life for his,” she repeated.
“Frankie!” Notte protested, but it was limp, like the way he lifted his head from the floor but couldn’t quite manage to get back to his feet. As the old man voiced his plea, he still remained where he’d been since Beast came through the door: on his knees.
“Frankie?” The Beast murmured her name, as if trying the taste on his tongue. It was a decidedly masculine name, and she was quite feminine looking. Notte reached for Frankie's arm impotently. Maybe the penniless fool realized if he did nothing save sit on the floor while his daughter traded her life so he could live, he wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.
“It’s finished.” The Beast grabbed her arm and dragged her out the door. “Come now, Frankie.”
She belonged to him.
One
New York City never lost its magic, at least not for me. It should have, considering I’d lived in Jersey my entire life, only a train ride away. Still, the tall buildings, the lights—it was like traveling into a fairytale. Now it was December, the most wonderful time to be in the city. The streets would be decorated in lights, snow would have blanketed all the ugly parts, the big department stores would have put up their decorations…
At least I had that to look forward to.
The town car jolted to a stop and I looked hungrily out the windows, trying to see past the dark tint. It was only minutes after we’d left. Left home. Left Papa. Left everything I knew. I swallowed, repressing the thoughts for the time being. I was focusing on survival, one foot in front of the other and all that, and I was pretty concerned about my location, because there was no way we’d arrived in New York City—which was where he’d said we were going. He’d not said it to me, of course, but to the driver.
Everything happened so quickly after I traded myself.
I didn’t get to pack anything.
I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
He’d said, “Come now, Frankie,” then grasped my arm, dragging me down the sloped, cracking cement steps of my home to the street where a sleek, oily black town car sat parked and waiting. I’m not sure if I was pushed, seated gently, or slid myself inside the car. Everything blurred together, my skin went numb, and my brain turned out the lights. I heard him tell the driver where to go, like someone yelling through a dark, empty room. I’d looked up to see the driver but all I’d caught was a flash of curly blond hair before the partition closed.
It wasn’t until now, when the car jolted to a stop, that I awakened to my circumstance. I could feel my hands again. Smells came back—new car, expensive leather, and something else, something rich and spicy.
I shook my head; cologne wasn’t important. What was important was that New York was close, but it wasn’t this close. It was at least an hour and a half car ride—and that was without traffic. I put my wrist to the window and rubbed the fabric of my shirt against the fogged glass, trying to see out more clearly
. I pressed my face close and squinted. Lots of asphalt. Buggies carrying luggage. And…planes?
“I don’t understand,” I pulled my head away from the window, brow furrowing. “Why are we at the airport?” The question kind of just came out. I hadn’t really yet acclimated to my situation. My toe was still testing the waters, not realizing I’d already thrown myself under frozen ice. For the first time since leaving home, I looked at the man.
My captor.
There had been four, or maybe five, other men—I honestly couldn’t remember. I’d been so focused on him, the one I was with now. I’d briefly recognized one of the men as someone who’d had dealings with Papa before, a gutter shark, a man who took money from people who couldn’t pay. This guy, though, he was next level. He oozed power and death and fear. All the sharks in the room waited for blood from him.
And I was utterly alone with him. Even the one who’d come for Papa was gone. Now it was just this man and me. There was something about him that made me want to try to scramble up on the seat and into the alcove behind it, but it was also the same thing that made my belly flip. Something about him was so captivating. I rested my palm beneath my belly button, trying to calm the odd ache there.
He was reading a newspaper, completely obscuring his face from view. One leg was across the other, a shiny black shoe resting on his knee. He was wearing a dark gray suit, the crossed pant leg lifted up slightly to reveal a slightly darker gray sock. Long, tanned hands gripped the thin newspaper. He looked so refined.
“Planes take us places,” he responded. It was a short response and I wasn’t even sure it was sarcastic. The low way he spoke, the utter dispassion in his voice…he gave nothing away, save unease. The rumbling resonance of his voice bled disquiet.
He folded the newspaper he’d been reading just as the door opened, ushering in a swash of bright, snowy white light. It nearly blinded me. I blinked, rubbing my eyes as they watered. It was evening, meaning the sun would still be pretty bright. Because it was winter, though, it would have a quick and fast death to the night. By the time I’d adjusted to the new light, my captor had left the car and in his place was the neatly folded newspaper.
It was frigid outside; December was never very forgiving on the East coast. A light dusting of snow started falling, and my captor leaned against the side of the car, most likely waiting for me to get out and join him. I swiveled my head from the plane on the runway back to the man I’d traded my life to. From my position in the car, I could only see his waist and how he folded his arms against his chest. Though he leaned on the side of the car, his frame dwarfed half of the car door. Muscles bulged in his tailored suit and I was reminded again just how massive he was. The sophistication I’d been studying in the car was dwarfed by his size and animalism.
“I don’t understand. I thought we were going to New York.” No one flew from New Jersey to New York. I didn’t even think airlines sold flights between the two cities.
“We are.” He didn’t bother to look back at me when he responded.
“But…” I trailed off, scooting to the edge of the leather seat to try to see around him. He was menacing in his height and encompassing figure. He dwarfed the door. “Why aren’t we taking a train? Or the car?” With car-accident slowness where I saw what was happening but kept trying to rewind to the moment before, I watched my captor bend down and meet me face to face. For the entire car ride his face had been hidden and I’d thought—hoped even—he was going to make that a tradition. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what he looked like—I’d met him eye to eye in my house when I’d sold myself to him. In fact, it was for precisely that reason that I was hoping he would keep his face hidden.
His features were too much. It made the fear in my belly pound, transforming into an ache that dripped lower and deeper. I throbbed in a foreign, terrifying, and amazing way. My heart beat sped up and as much as I wanted to look away, I wanted to look at him more. I just…I couldn’t think about what that meant.
I gripped the leather seat as if for emphasis, or maybe for safety. Maybe if I held on hard enough he couldn’t pull me out of the car. I closed my eyes, deciding that just because he was going to look at me, that didn’t mean I had to look at him.
“Open your eyes,” he said evenly. I tightened my grip on the leather. The cool touch of his skin on my chin was smooth and firm. Slowly I opened my lids. His gaze bore into me and I looked down, focusing on his grip on my chin.
“Let go,” he said.
“No,” I replied. My eyes flickered to his to see how he would respond. A quick flash passed through them, and I tightened my grip. For a moment I thought he might hit me. He was so refined looking, everything about him hemorrhaged elegance, from the car to the suit to the newspaper folded neatly on the seat, but in that flash, I saw my chin bleeding and the blood on his hands.
Instead the man grabbed my arm, forcing me out of the car. I was aware I traded myself, but this was a prime example of something being a lot easier said than done. It was a lot easier to say “take me” when my father was about to be killed, and a lot harder to let go of the leather seat when it came time to do so.
What did you do, Frankie? I thought as he silently dragged me across the tarmac. As the black town car drove away, getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared, I had this helpless feeling that I’d just jumped into the deep end with an anchor tied to my neck, but drowning was a mercy I would not get to experience.
I whipped my head around, overcome by the loud whooshing—what was that anyway? I’d only been to an airport once, to wish my best friend from high school goodbye before she moved across the country. That friendship didn’t end up lasting.
None of them did, but Jenny’s was the longest. It was hard for people to get to know me. I was the sick girl, the girl who barely went to school because she was too tired but who looked perfectly healthy. In junior high, I was diagnosed with a pretty obscure disease, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, and could barely get out of bed. I felt horrible, but I looked okay. I remembered it was right before the school play. I had been so excited, had been practicing singing to try to get the lead.
That kind of got fucked.
Instead of getting the lead, I became a ghost. Dad had his own demons, so he wasn’t much help to me. It was lucky I’d made an impression on the history teacher, Mr. Darkwood. He noticed my absences and got the school involved. Still, they couldn’t do all that much. In the end, I just taught myself most of my classes. I got better in high school and could go to school again, but still missed big chunks of time until senior year.
By then it was too late.
For most kids, I was either not on their radar or just plain weird. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a rumor started that I had AIDS, so I had that going for me.
Why was I even thinking of that? That wasn’t important now. What was important was the very real, very big plane we were approaching. I tugged on the hold on my elbow, struggling against my captor, small bits of asphalt skidded beneath my feet. He was unfazed, dragging me until we reached the steps to the plane. A man dressed in a pilot’s uniform stood next to the stairs, not paying me or my struggle any mind. He nodded respectfully to the man holding me hostage.
“Boss,” the pilot said. Without a word, my captor bypassed the pilot and tugged me up the stairs. He kept his tight, painful grip on me the entire time. As we ascended the plane’s steps, the gravity of the situation fell on me. When I’d crossed the last step and entered the plane, I had an impulse to tear my arm off and run away.
A plane.
I’d never been on a plane before. The farthest I’d ever traveled was Maine, but did it really count if you were too young to remember? I’d always thought when I went on a plane for the first time it was going to take me someplace marvelous. I had pictures up in my room of all the places I wanted to go and live. There was Paris, of course, but also Tibet and Shanghai. I wanted to go to Reykjavik too, and Sydney. Alaska. Rio de Janeiro. Auckl
and. Tokyo. London. Wales. Scotland. I wanted to see the edge of the world, and then I wanted to find where it kept its heart.
I had so many pictures they filled up my entire wall like wallpaper.
A plane could take me anywhere…could definitely take me some place beyond New York City. I could be dropped off in the middle of the Sahara, or thrown into the ocean and lost like Amelia Earhart. My breath stuck in my throat as I stared out at the blustery day, looking over the small airport. I wondered where the rest of the planes were going. I wondered if one of them was going to Paris. The sun was dropping now, painting the snow in oranges and yellows. It would only be a few minutes until the moon stole the sun away completely. This had officially been the longest shortest day of my life.
My captor gave a harsh tug on my elbow, pulling me away from the door. He shoved me down into a chair and stalked to the other side of the plane. Still stunned, it was all I could to do to grip the sides of the chair. The seat felt buttery smooth. I glanced down, watching my fingers run across the stitching as if in a trance.
Maybe he’d throw me out in Tokyo. If I died there, it kind of counted.
“Buckle up,” the man who’d taken me said lazily, drawing me from my thoughts. It wasn’t actually laziness in his voice, though, it was…boredom, as if what he’d done that day was no more interesting than taking out the trash.
I glanced around, taking everything in. Lights illumined the ceiling, but I couldn’t tell from where; it looked like they merely glowed from within. It was eerie, beautiful. We sat in quilted white leather seats and the floors were patterned. Were they marble or wood? I reached a hand down to touch, but the plane took off, jolting me back.
“I told you to buckle up,” he said. My eyes flashed to where he sat serenely. He wasn’t buckled, I noticed sourly. He was sitting at a table, looking at a laptop. They have internet up here?
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