Page 132 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
I echoed his nod, then turned quickly and got out of the car.
A sob blossomed in my throat, so big I couldn’t swallow it down so I held my breath as I rounded the car to the curb and climbed up the stairs to my slightly unfamiliar front stoop.
I didn’t look back.
I knew if I did, I would run back to that car, throw myself on the hood, and never look back at my house, New York, and the life I’d painstakingly built for five years.
I’d just follow Dante blindly into the night.
The door to my house swung open, and Beau stood there, backlit by a halo of warm light.
“Elena,” he said, so much in the one word I made a note to ask him how he did that so I could try to learn.
And then I collapsed into his open arms and gave up trying to stand.
Behind me, the car pulled away soundlessly and disappeared down the street.
Beau made me shower.
Which was fair.
I was covered in the blood of my father and my lover.
I should have been disgusted by it, but I was only numb as I stood under the hot spray and let it sluice over me, pink water swirling around the drain.
Beau was waiting when I got out, holding the towel out for me like a child. I didn’t say a word. He hugged me in the fabric as I stepped into it, rocking me back and forth for a moment.
“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted into my ear as he held me close. “I want to give you advice, but how can I? A stranger named Marco calls to tell me to be at your place ‘stat’ and not to be alarmed that you’re covered in blood.”
He sighed raggedly as he turned me in his arms to face him. “Lena, I was gone for six weeks, and I come back to find you shacked up with a mafioso?”
“He’s more than that,” I whispered impulsively. “I-I can’t explain how much.”
Beau’s blue eyes widened as they searched my face. He pushed a wet lock of hair back from my forehead and then pulled me in for another hug. “Okay, Lena.”
I sighed into the hug, trying to take comfort from the short, slender arms of my friend when I ached for the all-encompassing embrace of another man.
“Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll make some tea, okay?” he suggested as he pulled away.
He kept looking at me like maybe I would turn to dust if he did something wrong. I tried to reassure him with a little smile, but it felt like cracked plastic between my teeth.
“Sure.”
He left with one last look over his shoulder.
My wrists and ankles were aching, cut open into smooth circles by the zip lines. I pulled out the antibiotic ointment and hissed as I tended to the wounds before getting dressed in a comfortable cashmere set. I brushed my hair and teeth, then moisturized my face and body all on autopilot.
If I didn’t think, I wouldn’t think of him.
Or the fact that I’d probably killed my father.
Patricide.
That was what it was called.
A class-C felony for manslaughter.
Maximum fifteen years in prison if convicted.
