Beauty: A Hate Story, The End by Mary Catherine Gebhard

Author:Mary Catherine Gebhard [Gebhard, Mary Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf, mobi, azw3
Publisher: Trendlettrs
Published: 2017-09-20T16:00:00+00:00

What are we going to do with you?

We. He’d said we. It was such a simple thing, but it made all the difference. It brought a smile to my lips and goose bumps to my skin as we whipped along the highway going at least ninety miles an hour. I wasn’t focusing on the speed. I wasn’t even focusing on New York disappearing behind us into the black, black night. I was stuck on him.

He hadn’t said a word after that, just grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around my naked body, and shoved me into the car, not bothering to turn on the heat. The silence between us wasn’t angry, it was a promise. It was heavy and thick, like a decadent chocolate sauce. Under the blanket I clenched my thighs, knowing the wetness wasn’t from the river.

His tank still clung to his muscles and he was bleeding, red weeping down his slick skin. I was angry with myself for not noticing it before, but it didn’t seem to affect him. Nothing did. His red lips were taut in concentration and his skin rose with a chill he didn’t notice. Soaked hair fell over his chiseled face while his hands gripped the wheel. The water made his skin shine, reflecting whatever light could be found in the night—light from the dash, the occasional street lamp outside. The wet sheen on his skin made his cheekbones even harder and more determined. I rubbed my neck, mesmerized by him.

We drove for about two hours before he pulled the car to a stop. We’d driven north, to some kind of forested area. It was pitch black now and the moon backlit the many, many trees. There was no real road, just a dirt path muddied with snow. I made out the shadow of a house and beyond that a lake that was black in the night.

I didn’t bother asking where we were. Maybe I should have, but I was too wrapped up in us. I kept thinking that eventually I would figure us out, but as he slammed the door behind him, I knew that would never be true. We were like a black hole—the more you learned, the less you understood. There was just feeling and experiencing, and trying to understand or predict only led to more misunderstanding.

He stalked around the car to my side, eyes burrowing into me the entire time. His shoulders were tense, muscles riveted, throbbing against his clinging shirt. He was predator, I his prey. He tore open the door and pulled me out, lifting me into his arms as he’d done when saving me from the water. Briefly I thought of telling him I was fine, that I could walk despite the bullet wound and the cold, but the way he clung to me, the way the veins on his neck bulged, told me he didn’t care.

With near death behind me, I again remembered the loss of my letter. I couldn’t see it on Anteros, but I wondered if he’d been able to save it.

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