Rubble and the Wreckage

by Rodd Clark

  “If you have some place in mind, then lead the way. I’m new to clubbing, so I’m not familiar with the trendy spots of Seattle.”

  “I say we let our passions pull us. We’ll stop into any bar that strikes our fancy. To hell with trendy or chic. We’re just two fuckers looking for fun!”

  Christian threw a twenty on the bar then opened his arms suggesting Church lead the way. There might have been a couple of waitresses sad to see them leave, but Church was in his company now, and he was going to let his caution fly, allow the man to pull him wherever he wanted to go . . . even if that meant pulling him under exotic waves. As they hit the sidewalk outside, both men took a lasting glance in all directions; the world lay at their feet and now the only decision was which way to go. Church chuckled at the options from lights and sounds rolling out of every nearby bar and pub. There were many downtown nightclubs in the vicinity; the only option not available was if Church wanted to hit a titty bar. They were hidden on less favorable streets, far from the safety of downtown.

  Choosing to go left, they walked close enough to hear each other talk, and Christian had to hurry his pace just to keep up with Church, who was racing ahead with an excited thrall. They eyed each bar they passed and would look at each other with indecision, before Church would shake his head in over-exaggerated fashion, a slight sneer curling his lip, suggesting a better, livelier spot may be just ahead in their journey. A couple of places drew them in for a single drink, but it didn’t take long before they both found themselves shaking their heads and laughing before heading back into city sidewalks. This was how the evening progressed for a time. It seemed their own company and the derision they found at each establishment was the bond that tied them together. They were enjoying walking alone together with an intermittent beer or drink, before choosing to travel on.

  At one point Church grabbed Christian by his arm and forced him through the doors of a loud oyster bar with an inviting patio. They ordered a tray of the white mollusks and a pitcher of draft. They leaned against a railing upstairs on a patio that overlooked the street. They talked while gobbling down their snacks with Tabasco sauce then balsamic vinegar. It was either the consumption of mixing spirits and beer or the company, but Church began offering tidbits of information about his childhood. It was as if he’d forgotten he was speaking to his biographer, which was perfect for Christian. He spoke about regrets he had leaving his sister behind and confessed it had been many, many years since he’d made the effort of ringing her up, just to see how she was doing. Christian asked him how long it had been since he phoned his mother, and he professed it had been even longer.

  Christian had lifted the veil. He’d seen into parts of the man’s core that had been previously concealed. He saw aspects of the man’s soul, which, had you asked him earlier, he might have sworn didn’t even exist. Amid the glassy-eyed effects of drink and the pain of distant regret, Church was quickly becoming less of an imposing figure and more of someone who needed something other than a quick lay. Had he been anything other than a killer, Christian might have pulled him closer and hugged him in comfort, as he might for any friend in the same circumstance.

  But one thing you could always hold with Church was whatever mood he was in wouldn’t last long. His face changed suddenly, as Christian had seen happen on numerous occasions, and he looked up and smiled, the wash of remorse dissipating like fading storm clouds. He was Gabriel Church once again.

  He drained the last guzzle of his beer and looked encouragingly up at the writer from his bent posture over the railing and said, “Is it onward and upward, my boy?” It was simultaneously a question and a command. The words “my boy” dawdled in Christian’s head. It would be nice to be considered a possession of Gabe Church; the thought made him smile outright.

  Without words, the writer trailed Church down the stairs, brushing past patrons squeezing up to visit the patio, smiling at each inebriated college student as he descended and they headed up. The ever-constant mist of rain had come back, but it was too faint to worry about—it was Seattle after all. The drizzle was enough to dampen Church’s hair and plaster his locks to his forehead. Christian noticed himself becoming aroused at the seductive image. It reminded him of Church standing there in all his glory just out of that steamy shower. He considered what he must look like, but forgot himself as Church tugged at his sleeve and pulled him under the awning of the nearest outdoor café.

  “This looks like the spot where we first met up,” he said as if fondly reminiscent of his first meeting with Christian.

  “I doubt they serve coffee here, but where next?”

  “Back to the Mayflower,” he said, rather cool.

  Instantly the writer suspected another burgeoning personality arising in his companion and then settled on the idea of them being alone in a room together that he’d rented for the evening—a room currently housing a large inviting and empty bed.

  “You sure? We can always try that place across the street with all those pretty lights and the crowd of hot younger people who just seem confused standing there by the front door?”

  “Hotel,” was all Church said. The lack of his former enthusiasm seemed to suggest he had indeed changed into somebody new, someone who Christian hadn’t yet met. They turned back in the direction of the Mayflower Park and walked with their heads down to avoid the rain. The laughter was gone now, and Christian felt a foreboding to Church’s mood.

  “You feeling all right, buddy?’ he asked with genuine concern and the trepidation of what response might follow.

  “No, it’s all good. Maybe the beer got to my head faster than I thought. I just wanna slow down a bit, and that sounded like the best plan.”

  He lifted his face and smiled slightly when he said that, relaxing Christian to know whatever transition had occurred hadn’t been the onslaught of some violent mood swing to shadow his earlier jovial disposition. They walked quietly back the three or so blocks as the drizzle increased and drowned out any chance for their conversation. Christian was tense with the picture of them together alone. He was unprepared for what might happen, and he didn’t trust himself not to make some unwanted advance on the man who was quickly becoming his friend.

  Back inside the luxury of the Mayflower Park, room 1512, Church had peeled off his wet shirt without a word. He kicked at his boot heel with his other leg and discarded his shoes haphazardly on the floor beside the door. Christian was amazed at how comfortable he’d become in his writer’s expensive digs. His torso was damp from the rain, and his matted chest hairs licked at his broad muscles. He immediately sank into one of the chairs and asked if the hotel room came with an honor bar.

  “I’m sure it does. I hadn’t looked yet . . . Do you want something strong to drink?” Church nodded briskly like a child being promised if he was good he could visit the circus. Christian pulled two miniature bottles of terribly expensive alcohol from the fridge and grabbed up the glasses they’d used for tea.

  “The ice is melted I’m afraid, but I’m sure there’s a machine on one of these floors.”

  “No need to stand on formalities my friend . . . just pour me something straight up.”

  He was a picture there, resting back in a dainty fabric salon chair, all wet and half naked. He had pulled off his socks, and Christian couldn’t help but see how little denim there was to protect him from being completely nude. He was nervous while he handed Gabe his drink of bourbon, which he had mixed with a can of cola from the same fridge. His reach was tenuous as Church whisked his glass away; it seemed Gabe could tell just how unsettled he was in his presence.

  “Let’s get something clear. I can see you’re a little anxious, and I might hazard a guess as to why . . . but I don’t want you to be uneasy.” Church was contemplating his words, almost as if he were counting the exact number.

  “You guessed I’m straight, and you’d be correct in that assumption. Whereas I guessed you weren’t . . . as I’m sure that was made certain.” Christian had to turn awa
y and walk to the nearby chair at the table, his knees risking buckling under his own weight, and he couldn’t bear to have Church see his expression, or his panic.

  “I’ve never actually been with a dude, but granted I have let one drop to his knees to try and suck me off, as I’m sure you remember me telling you, but if you need it . . . I mean to continue our ‘working relationship,’ then I’d be agreeable. I guess I like you better than I ever thought I might. And I don’t even rightly know why.”

  Christian fell into his chair and brought shaky hands to his lips and starting sipping quietly at his strong drink.

  Chapter Eight

  THE WRITER SAT staring at his lovely serial killer in his rented hotel suite as the straight man was offering his body like some sacrificial gift of cock. Christian had never been with a man, but the entire time he had been gaining the killer’s trust, he’d found himself preoccupied and dreaming lascivious, sexual thoughts that had been alien to his nature . . . or so he thought.

  “I don’t think I ever asked you for a fuck, mister.” His words came out colder than he wished, and he could see the glint disappear from Church’s eyes. Was it regret or was it resignation and sadness on his face?

  “I think I’ve offended you. Not my intention, you understand.” Church got up and emptied the glass with one full gulp, then walked over to the honor bar fridge for another miniature bottle.

  “I think, for the moment, all I want is your story. I’m willing to continue if you are? But it’s up to you . . . naturally.”

  As Church twisted the cap off the little bourbon bottle, he plopped back down in his chair and refilled his glass.

  “Straight bourbon. You’re a better man than I?” Christian said with a smile.

  “Then let’s begin with that,” Church whispered. “Let’s talk about being a better man.”

  Christian rushed over and picked up his notepad and pen from the table while Church began speaking and that distant, remote look reassembled on his face. He brought up Bennett Church again . . . not unsurprisingly. He claimed that he’d always wanted to be a better man than his father was. His head dropped sadly as he confessed he hadn’t been too successful. He admitted the first person he ever wanted to kill was his dad, but that had been years before the telling white light first came into being. He wondered now if he’d successfully located his father, and he was still living, would Bennett Church have been bathed in that same white radiance. He just knew without a doubt he wouldn’t be. So killing him would be something personal, but other than that, would have little reason or purpose.

  This was the enigma of Church. He’d begun his killing with a strong emotional need, but none of the killings since then had been the same. The way he spoke about wanting to kill his own father, one might assume by now that his father would already have been dead by his hands. When you have left a river of victims in your wake, one vile, dead fuck wasn’t going to unbalance the scale by any degree.

  “Have you ever tried to look your father up, if for no other reason, than to test your hypothesis?”

  Church had turned to look out the window overlooking the city as if he were tugging back something so far from reach that he had to concentrate just to get it in focus.

  “No . . . and I don’t want to. I don’t want to know that he wasn’t chosen. In the same light, as much as I want him dead, I don’t want to be the one who takes his life.”

  “Interesting . . . Do you want to elaborate for your readers?”

  It was obvious he didn’t. He got up to stretch and absently peered out the window at the skyline of Seattle and the hundreds of cars below. Christian stared at his naked back and the way he raised his arm to rest on the window’s edge. He wondered if he’d made a mistake not taking him up on his offer of sex.

  “My father was a cruel and sadistic man,” Church said, “and he left his scars on me and my family, but tracking him down and killing him would completely end that pain for me. And I must be a masochist myself, because I think I rather enjoy the bittersweet horror of him being present in my life . . . even as a bad memory.”

  Looking at Church then, it was easy to forget his murderous trek across the country and the numerous victims he’d left behind. You could almost feel sadness for him in that moment. He was a killer, and his reasons were screwed up and perverted, and mostly came from his own distorted reasoning, but he felt things very deeply. It was hard to imagine someone so thoughtful being a murderous, sick, twisted man. Christian had previously considered sex with the man, and now his mind raced to the idea: What if that was just a prelude to Church killing him?

  “You said sex wasn’t a factor in your murders, but have you ever killed anyone you’ve had sex with?” Christian asked quietly.

  At that realization, Church turned quickly around, and the grin was back and his eyes danced with fiery curiosity.

  “There we go. You were afraid it wasn’t just a suggestion of sex. You thought it was something sinister, didn’t you? You assumed I was gonna murder you instead of just get you naked.”

  “It crossed my mind, of course not until now, which tells you how stupid I am.”

  Church chuckled under his breath and threw his body back into the salon chair with animated force, spilling a couple of beads of whisky, which flew like raindrops in midair.

  “Baby . . . that was never the plan. And besides, sex was never a property of murder in my eyes. Of course, sometimes the thrill can give me a slight rise in my nethers, but no . . .” His voice trailed off under his smile and became something imperceptible.

  Christian’s crotch was thankfully protected by the legal pad, and his own smile protected him from Church thinking he’d been frightened. He had no real fears of being murdered by him. He did have to admit that if he were going to become one of Church’s next victims, at least he’d get to see him naked one more time. There was that anyway . . . and the word “baby” the killer had whispered, seemingly unintentionally. It was sweetly unexpected, strange, but somehow right in his ear.

  The fabric between the men was at risk of tearing, and at that moment, Christian could feel it unravel and fray in his grip. He could see the strong man across the room was sinking under waves of his own making, but he was wise enough to understand why. He had hurt him when he suggested Church could so easily murder him. It had only been a hint of a joke, but one he could see Church took as real. He began to wonder why he hadn’t seen it more clearly before—the man truly wanted them to be friends; maybe the first for him in a tragically long time.

  Church blinked, as if trying to snap himself out of his bad mood, then stood up and headed in the direction of the bedroom. As he brushed past Christian, he was unsnapping the top of his jeans, but he never looked down. Surprised, Christian felt the rush of air as the killer passed him, could smell the scent of the man, and glimpsed the smallest extract of sadness in his eyes. Turning to watch the killer from behind, he could see the denim beginning to fall from the killer’s hips and noticed the rise of taut ass cheeks as the jeans fell to the floor.

  “Are you coming?” Church said stoically without turning around.

  The writer could hear his own oxygen being pulled in and felt his heart freeze from an icy-cold grip. He watched dumbly as the killer walked naked into the hotel bedroom then disappeared. He looked down at the legal pad in his lap and noticed his hands tremble with apprehension. This wasn’t expected, and he didn’t know what steps he’d take next. The seconds seemed to turn to hours in his mind, and he was afraid. Church wasn’t in the same frame of mind as before, which meant he could be anyone other than the last man Christian had seen. Maybe this man was the killer Christian had yet to meet?

  He could hear the sound of Church rustling on the comforter as he crawled on top of the mattress in the other room and wondered what exactly was expected there. Desire took the wheel, pushing aside any reason and logic for danger. Christian stood up and placed the notepad down with his pen then pulled his own shirt over his head and kicked off
his own shoes. His body was shaking as he stepped over Gabriel’s discarded jeans, and he did what he’d seen done, he unsnapped his jeans and let them fall to the floor. Unlike Church, he’d been wearing underwear, which he quickly yanked off and looked down as if surprised to find himself naked under his jeans, but it was his engorged shaft that bounced in midair and the anxious twitching in his stomach muscles that really made him smile.

  He stepped into the room and spied Church laying propped up in the bed, unlike Christian his cock was soft but even flaccid it was impressive. If he wasn’t aroused then what were they doing here, wondered Christian.

  “I only know the one way to kill tension. I also wanted to show you that it was important for me to be friends with you.”

  Strange words for a stranger picture, thought Christian. It sounded as if Church was offering himself to him, out of some weird gratitude, wanting to be liked, as if the only way he could get Christian to stay was to allow his self to be fucked. For a second he considered saying nothing just to get the sexual promise he’d been dreaming of.

  “Not to break the mood, or to lose my chance . . . but do you want to do this? I mean, really do this?”

  There was a pause that stayed too long in the air, but eventually Church said, “Yes, I do, but only because it’s you, and only because I think you understand me.”

  “Neither one of us have ever done this apparently. So what now?” The distillation of Christian’s nerves and the sight of the masculine fucker lying naked on the bed closed the gap in his mind of who he was inside. There was no doubt which way he was swinging now—the blood in his erection told the truth. Without waiting for Church to change his mind, Christian moved to the bed and stood beside it, unsure of how to follow that up.