Frank thought of all the times he’d called Billy pretty since they’d met, all the times he’d called Billy pretty that night, and he felt a little sick with himself, a little mad that he couldn’t just cut that shit out. He thought of Billy, Billy eight or ten years ago and what he must have looked like then, and Frank could feel his face do something, this wrinkle in his nose.
He was mad at a man he was never going to meet or see. Furious. Ferociously, insidiously angry that some son of a bitch had thought he could put his hands—not just on Billy Russo, but on a child. It hurt because it was Billy, because he could look at him being far away and he could see the scars and he could feel him pulling back, but it made him mad because it had happened to a child.
“Jesus,” he said, because what else was he supposed to say? Then, viciously and because he couldn’t help himself, he growled, “I hope he fell on the third rail and fuckin’ fried.”
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-08-01 02:46 am (UTC)He was mad at a man he was never going to meet or see. Furious. Ferociously, insidiously angry that some son of a bitch had thought he could put his hands—not just on Billy Russo, but on a child. It hurt because it was Billy, because he could look at him being far away and he could see the scars and he could feel him pulling back, but it made him mad because it had happened to a child.
“Jesus,” he said, because what else was he supposed to say? Then, viciously and because he couldn’t help himself, he growled, “I hope he fell on the third rail and fuckin’ fried.”