Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder

by Nicole Castle

  “Vincent, dear, something came up. I won’t make it for lunch tomorrow. Oh, and Frank’s coming over to get that road kill book of his, try not to get in his way.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and rolled my eyes as I dropped the phone on the receiver. “That was Charlie.”

  He nodded once, the first time I’d ever seen him respond to me.

  Then I opened my big mouth again and ruined it. “How come you have a key and I don’t?”

  Frank stared at me for a second, then took out the key card, thoroughly wiped it off on his shirt, and tossed it on the bed without touching it again.

  “I didn’t mean―”

  He walked as far from me as he could on his way to the door, and avoided touching the handle with his fingertips. No evidence. I was too busy watching him walk away to even notice that he hadn’t bothered to grab the reason he came back to begin with. I picked it up and ran after him, only to see his shiny black BMW pull out of the parking lot; the sleekly sexy but still conservative M5 Series sedan, V8 engine with an MSRP that could just as easily buy him the entire trailer park I grew up in; license plate South Dakota of all fucking places.

  A second later, I heard the room door shut behind me with the key still inside.

  I threw his book to the ground and sat beside it in a huff, angrily picking up the pages that had fallen out. I was furious, though much more at myself for being an idiot than at Frank for being so weird. It was about ten degrees out, and I was stuck outside with no shirt and no shoes, only his stupid book to keep me warm. I didn’t even have any matches to make it useful.

  Poor Frank. He was probably completely normal when he didn’t have to deal with someone like me. Everyone I spent prolonged periods of time with ended up wanting to cause me harm in one way or another. I likely would’ve driven my parents to child abuse if they hadn’t wisely gotten themselves killed before I reached my hormonal teenage years.

  But then something unexpected happened. In less than five minutes, Charlie stopped by to let me back in. Even though he was laughing pretty heartily at my expense, I couldn’t help but smile. Frank must’ve told him. There was no other explanation. But I didn’t mention it. I just thanked him, pretending to have forgiven him for humiliating me, and I hid the book as soon as I could. I didn’t want Charlie to return it to its rightful owner. I wanted Frank to come by again.

  It happened sooner than I would’ve thought. Much, much sooner, and at what couldn’t have been a worse time.

  I’d gotten used to having the mornings to myself, and I was sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel around my damp hair, watching The Young and the Restless and absentmindedly fondling myself. Since there was no point in getting dressed until noon, I relished in the fact that I could laze around with no clothes on and not be expected to perform.

  This had been the first time since I’d run away to Chicago that my living arrangements hadn’t been purely in exchange for sexual favors. For the most part, I considered myself homeless. But I’d never had to sleep on the street. There was always someone to take me in; a businessman separated from his wife, a retiree whose grandsons had grown past the point of delicious boyhood, or a guy with mommy issues who needed someone with a pretty face to wear a size four dress, and tell him to clean his room while hitting him with a wooden spoon. They gave me somewhere to stay, and I did my best not to wear out my welcome.

  But I always wore it out eventually. They’d want more than I was willing to give, or I’d say something I shouldn’t have and get smacked for it, and I’d be back to the street with a renewed feeling of worthlessness, looking for the next lonely guy with extra room in his bed.

  I supposed that was why the aspect of being a prisoner didn’t bother me. Apart from my brief escape to try and catch Frank, I hadn’t so much as seen the other side of the door since I’d been bleeding to death.

  Charlie had never actually come out and said that I couldn’t leave, but he made it pretty clear by keeping me dependent on him for food and things I might be going without if I were on my own. I was still waiting for him to bring me a new shirt, a promise he’d been breaking from day one.

  Other than that, Charlie took pretty good care of me. He’d occasionally provide clean sheets and towels, stolen from the maid I had yet to meet, and he supplied toothpaste and any other reasonably priced personal effects I may have needed as long as I kept pestering him about it.

  In fact, the loneliness got to me more than the feeling of being imprisoned. My only contact with the outside world was Charlie, who had the tendency to be creepy, and occasionally Frank, who wasn’t company at all. At least I had HBO.

  Like a true warden, Charlie had even taken the keycard from me, claiming that I couldn’t be trusted with it. How could I have known he’d give it back to Frank, who apparently was a morning person?

  I’d always been comfortable in my own skin, so my embarrassment at him walking in on me stark naked and aroused was more for him than from him. Frank turned bright red, and was in such a hurry to retreat that he actually hit the wall on his way out. I wrapped the towel around my waist and followed, grimacing as the door once again shut behind me.

  “Wait!” I yelled across the parking lot.

  He stopped and turned around slowly, staring at me like the volume of my request caused him immense physical pain.

  “Can you let me back in?” I asked quietly, feeling my bare toes begin to freeze to the sidewalk. My teeth were already chattering. “Please?”

  Frank glanced around the parking lot before he came forward, still purposefully keeping about a foot away from me as he swiped the card.

  I held the door open. “You want your book?”

  He looked toward the room hesitantly as if it were a trap, and then went in. I followed him, watching as he put his book in his coat pocket, sighing slightly as if he was relieved I hadn’t done further damage. I could distinctly see a gun welcoming it home.

  “So, he gave you the key back?” I asked.

  I didn’t get a chance to continue my line of questioning before he was wiping off the key and tossing it on the bed again. “Thanks,” I said.

  Frank gave a slight nod without making eye contact, and skulked out. He’d gotten what he came for. I dramatically threw myself to the bed, flinging my arm over my face in despair. I’d taken a bit of pleasure in knowing Charlie wasn’t the only reason he’d stop by. Frank was starting to become an obsession of mine, and as unhealthy as it was to romanticize a man who hated me, it wasn’t the dumbest move I’d ever made.

  I had a long history of getting involved with older, somewhat married men. My first love had been my track coach, Mark. I was twelve, and he was forty. What he did to me would’ve been considered illegal just about everywhere, and immoral everywhere else. But even looking back at all the pain he’d caused me, both physical and emotional, my heart still ached for him.

  When I met Mark Johnson, I was at the lowest point of my life. My parents had just died, and I was being bounced through foster care because my family was the only one in Irish history who didn’t breed like rabbits and provide me with living relatives. He talked to me when everyone else was still afraid of saying the wrong thing, and he never let me feel sorry for myself.

  Mark truly believed that every emotion should be suppressed by physical exertion. He was an army man, with strong arms and an even tougher attitude. If I was having a bad day, he’d make me do laps. Crying was for sissies and he was dead-set on making sure I wasn’t one of those.

  For awhile, he really was good to me. He helped me come through the darkness of my parents’ death, offering praise for things I wasn’t even good at and taxiing me to and from the neighboring towns so I could stay at the same school, even though I hated that school and it sure as hell hated me back. I’d thought it was too late to have any sort of childhood, but Mark let me be a kid again. Until he didn’t.

  It wouldn’t have taken much to get me into bed. I was desperate for attention, and he provided it. I wo
uld’ve done anything he asked me to, no matter how hesitant I was, as long as he didn’t ignore me.

  Mark was the only man I’d ever had sex with. Everyone after him was strictly oral. But it wasn’t out of adoration that I remained celibate in that way. I was terrified of letting anyone else fuck me. It had hurt, more than I’d ever expected, and had left me feeling fragile in ways I never wanted to experience again.

  I’d known that I was gay before I knew what it meant. It never occurred to me that sex with someone I was attracted to, someone I cared about, would be different than it was on TV for the handsome man and his beautiful wife. I thought making love was something two people did, and enjoyed, and they’d cuddle afterward and maybe share a cigarette.

  But with Mark, it was like I didn’t even have to be there. It was all about him, fucking me violently, grunting in my ear “You love this, yeah, you love this” over and over while I stared at the increasing wet spot on the pillow under my cheek, trying to concentrate on how much pleasure I was giving him, and how it would make him love me forever.

  The realization that this was what it would be like for me because I was gay was shattering. It felt like sex between us was something shameful, having to look away while he did it, knowing that he was staring at the back of my head and not at my face. But in spite of the devastating disappointment with my newfound sex life, I came really hard the first time he fucked me. He hadn’t even been jerking me off, I just came, even though I didn’t want to, and I didn’t think I would because it hurt so much and I wanted him to stop. It had felt like he was tearing me apart, each thrust worse than the last, and I didn’t love it no matter how many times he said I did.

  But it wasn’t the pain that got to me. I could handle that. I’d developed a tolerance for physical discomfort after years of getting my ass kicked by a jury of my peers. What really hurt was how he’d given me the best orgasm of my life, and then yelled at me for it.

  Mark had berated me for coming in his wife’s bed the second it happened. He was still in me, still fucking me, all the while calling me a stupid kid, “You’re gonna clean that up, yeah, you’re gonna clean that up.” It was the last time I came for him, even though our relationship stayed physical until the end. He never noticed.

  To this day I thought about what he’d said every time I was with a guy, warding off the inevitable climax with memories of Mark’s disgust the way other boys thought of baseball statistics or presidential history. And when I did come I could hear him saying “Stupid kid” like he was watching me, disapproving of his replacement.

  I knew it wasn’t possible, but sometimes I still felt him inside of me. Though, I was partly to blame. I hadn’t told him I was a virgin. In fact, I told him otherwise. But even if I had been as big of a slut as I made myself out to be, it didn’t change the fact that he had one of the most enormous cocks I’d ever seen, and I was physically the size of a ten year old.

  I hated Mark for hurting me, almost as much as I’d loved him for everything else. That was why it was so strange the way I fantasized about Frank. I didn’t merely think of blowing him or of him blowing me, which was usually the direction my fantasies went. I actually thought of having sex with him, of him being close to me in every way possible.

  And not just sex. Rough, on the floor, sore in the morning but in a good way sex, followed by breakfast. I’d even jerked off to the thought of it, something I hadn’t done since I learned that I was good enough looking to have someone do it for me.

  Knowing that Frank wanted nothing to do with me made part of me frightened of how fanatical I’d become. I fell into lust very easily, but this was different. I actually had feelings for Frank. My heart sped up when I thought about him, and when I saw him I felt like I’d faint. Even more disconcerting than that, I worried about him. I didn’t like how exhausted he looked. I wanted to give him a hug and tell him to relax, but I couldn’t seem to think straight when he was around. Plus, I suspected that he’d kill me for even trying to touch him.

  It was during one of my frequent daydreaming sessions it occurred to me that I’d never heard him speak. Not once. Even when Charlie asked him a question, gave him ample opportunity to say something, he never did. He’d only shake his head, or scowl, or storm from the room, but he never spoke.

  After that, my imagination took over. My mind started going in multiple directions, visualizing what could’ve happened, whether he was born that way or if Russian gangsters cut out his tongue. Then I started thinking more seriously, about what it would be like to kiss his empty mouth and if he’d make a sound when he came.

  I decided that the next time I saw him I would ask him about it. I’d thought it over, and regardless of how the words came out, I just had to know. There was a pad of hotel stationary and a pen that Charlie and I had used to keep score when we played cards, he could write it down.

  The only thing standing in my way was Charlie. Frank seemed even more reticent when he was in the room, completely ignoring me almost as if Charlie was a strict chaperone intent on keeping us apart. But being alone with him wasn’t much easier. He always looked at me like I’d wronged him. No, that wasn’t quite it. Stared was more like it. Stared as if I’d wronged him, and would certainly do it again.

  Nearly a week went by before Frank returned. It was the longest five days of my life, not because I missed him, but because of Charlie. He had become increasingly short with me as though I’d over-stayed my welcome, and I’d been spending more and more time alone. I didn’t even know what I’d done to upset him, but it had actually gotten to the point where I wanted Frank there for protection more than satiating my curiosity.

  I wasn’t sure why, but even with the knowledge that he’d murdered someone, being around Frank made me feel inexplicably safe. His hatred for me aside, I felt like he’d defend me if Charlie ever got out of hand. And things were quickly going in that direction.

  Charlie had started making comments, little things I wouldn’t necessarily have taken offense to if I hadn’t learned from experience what came next. His belittling “dear” had transformed into princess or other emasculating terms. And he made remarks about me needing to wash my hands before I ate, because he didn’t know where I’d been.

  From the very beginning I’d told him that I was queer, and he’d seemed not only okay with it, but actually interested in hearing about my boyfriend troubles. Now he had changed his opinion entirely. He’d even finally brought me a shirt, as if my being half naked was suddenly objectionable. To make it worse, the goddamned shirt was pastel pink.

  We were watching Wheel of Fortune in silence when Frank came. He took his usual chair and opened up the same torn copy of Jane Eyre. Then the opportunity for my interrogation presented itself.

  “You have any cigarettes, Frankie boy?” Charlie asked. I’d never seen Frank smoke, so I wasn’t surprised that he shook his head without looking up from his book. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Frank, then turned to me and added with disgust, “Behave yourself.”

  I could’ve taken the time to let this offend me, but I only had about a minute to get information. Armed with the pen and stationary, I was prepared to ask what happened to his tongue, and maybe offer to let him share mine. I used it too much anyway. But when I turned to him, the only thing I could think of asking was, “Are you okay?”

  He looked at me, stunned that I was addressing him. His eyebrows were knotted, his lips slightly parted. It took just a moment for the shock to disappear, and then he got this pained, almost haunted expression, and Charlie walked back in. “I’m fine,” Frank said quickly, facing away from me as he spoke.

  “You can talk!” I gasped, though in my head it was more of a question or a quiet statement of revelation, rather than an outburst that caused both of them to gape at me like I’d lost my mind. Then Frank smiled, just a little, and it brought so much light to his eyes that it felt like I was looking at a different person.

  Charlie was laughing behind me, getting a real kick out
of it, but I didn’t care. I kept watching Frank, hoping he’d smile again.

  “Did you tell him I couldn’t talk?” he asked accusingly, looking beyond me to the old man cackling at both of our expense. I couldn’t possibly have been the first person to make that assumption.

  “No, no,” Charlie said, and then he decided to make it even more uncomfortable for me, “but I’m amazed he didn’t ask.”

  Frank blushed and turned back to his book. The attention had only been on him for a few seconds and it looked like he’d never make it out alive. I decided to help him out, since it was my fault. “You’re just quiet, is all,” I said under my breath, and pressed the volume on the remote, hoping to change the focus.

  Charlie chuckled some more, and not only did my plan not work, it backfired completely. “Well, it’s late, kiddo,” he said to Frank. “Let’s get going.”

  I turned to him without thinking, and pleadingly mouthed stay. I regretted it as soon as I did, hoping I didn’t come off as vulnerable or worse, desperate. But Frank nodded, so slightly that I could have imagined it, and then Charlie was bidding me a good night and following him out the door.

  I found myself satisfied despite it all, thinking of Frank’s smile. It had amused him. I had amused him. And his eyes weren’t black after all. They were green. Bright green! My new favorite color green.

  Flopping back on the bed and feeling victorious, I grinned up at the cracked ceiling. But then I started remembering all the questions I’d wanted to ask him, and why I hadn’t. He really had looked awful, and the expression on his face before he’d answered was one of agony. I closed my eyes. He wasn’t fine at all.

  Frank didn’t return to the room right away. I was starting to seriously doubt he would when the door handle finally turned, sending my heart fluttering to my throat. He’d gotten his hands on my key again. I had no idea when that had happened.

  “I’m fluent in seven languages,” he said a bit defensively, his voice still as hushed as before. It was deep, with almost no inflection. The kind of voice that would’ve been insufferably dull on a science teacher, but fit his calm presence perfectly.