Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder (19 page)

Mark used to scream at me until his face turned purple for not pacing myself properly during long-distance events.  I couldn’t help it.  I got easily distracted, and I lived for the win.  If it didn’t come soon enough, I got bored and ran out of steam.  Then he started fucking me, and I stopped winning altogether because I was sore all the time.  It didn’t matter, since my grades had dropped so low I wasn’t allowed to compete anyway.

We jogged until I had to stop to catch my breath, and he was barely winded.  Frank was a fucking machine when it came to physical exertion.  His breathing was only heavier now because I’d been ahead of him for fifteen minutes and he was working to keep up with me, unaware of our friendly competition.  I could’ve considered that a victory, but the concerned look on his face refuted any sense of accomplishment.

“You all right?”

I nodded, leaning forward with my hands on my knees.  He smiled at me.  At least he wasn’t grumpy anymore.  “Is this what you do every morning?”

“I like to get the layout of the town on foot.”

No wonder he didn’t overexert himself.  He was in work mode.  Frank had told me that when he was on a job, he didn’t notice anything else.  All physical activity became as instinctual as breathing.  He’d once chased an escaping mark until he was chest deep in water, only to come to his senses and remember that he couldn’t swim.  Luckily Bella had been with him, and she’d caught up with the mark on the shore.  Then she did terrible things to him for making her ruin her Prada dress, and for trying to drown her friend, even though it was clearly Frank’s fault.

“You think you can teach me that?” I asked, rubbing my face and looking around.  I had no idea where we were.

“I don’t know if it’s something that can be taught, V.”

“Does Bella do it?” I asked disappointedly, already seeing a flaw in the abilities I hadn’t even learned yet.

“She worked differently than I do.  She’s not as careful.  Don’t get me wrong, she’s good at what she does, but there are certain jobs she can’t take because she lacked patience.”

I was afraid to mention it to him that he was getting his tenses mixed up again.  “How’s she doing, anyway?”

He looked at me suspiciously.  “I don’t know.  I haven’t spoken to her.”

“How come?”

“That’s not work related,” he said with a combative look, daring me to make a big deal out of it.

“So, what’s next?” I asked, deciding it best not to press my luck.

“I want to get you on the road before rush hour starts,” he glanced at his watch.  “You have one hour to practice in the parking lot.”

“Yeah, right,” I laughed.

“Do you think I’m joking?” he asked.

He wasn’t.

Frank drove me to an empty parking lot of an office building up for lease, and parked in the dead center, away from light poles and the cement islands with sparse trees that had already lost their leaves even though it was barely the last day of July.  The only thing I could possibly be concerned about wrecking around here was his car.  That didn’t help my apprehension.  “All right, get out.”

I took a deep breath and did as I was told.
 
I’d already gone to the trouble of informing him about Mark’s failed attempts to teach me how to drive.  I’d even warned him that this torturous exercise would likely end in tears.  But when I walked around to the driver’s side, and he was still sitting there with the door opened, I realized that maybe I could learn how to drive after all.  I just needed proper motivation.  “I thought we weren’t gonna be friends.”

He smiled and patted his thigh.  “Have a seat.”

I squeezed in between him and the steering wheel, welcoming his arms around me, more secure than a seatbelt.  “We’ll practice shifting gears first, then you can work the pedals.”

This was what I’d call luxury car soft porn.  Me on his lap, his hand over mine, working the stick shift, whispering all the safety features in my ear that I really already knew about; dual front and side airbags, anti-lock brakes, traction control.  “There’s no way you can get killed in this car,” he said.  “You want to take a break?”

I needed to take a cold shower.  Instead I got to go at it solo, which is what I would’ve been doing anyway.  “This is fucking easy,” I laughed, in first gear, but still actually driving.

He squeezed my shoulder, and then patted my head.  “You’re doing well.”

I beamed at him.  I felt like an adult. 
No, Frank, let
me
drive.  You look tired.

“Drive in circles for a bit, then we’re going on the road.”

“Um—”

“Changing gears is the hardest part, V.  Traffic’s light right now.  You’ll be fine.”

A teacher once said to me that I had a tendency to forget a lesson the minute a new one was introduced.  The new lesson was driving.  The old one, the forgotten one, was learning not to question Frank.

“Hit that car.”

“What?” I asked, thinking,
knowing
, that I’d misheard him.  I was just getting the hang of things, actually on the open road, driving more or less straight without having to rely solely on the reflectors to keep me in my lane.

“Pull over.”

This I did very well, without hesitation.  Pull over was a nice command.  It was almost friendly, or would have been if he’d changed his tone.  Frank grabbed my hair, pulling me close for a scolding.  But he did it so quickly that my seatbelt tugged into action and locked my body in place, and my poor little head was nearly yanked right off my neck.  “If you question me again, this is over, Vincent.  Do you understand?”

“You’re hurting me.”

He pulled harder.  “Answer me.”

Mean I could handle.  Mean was familiar.  Mean was giving me a hard on.  “Yes.”

Frank released me.  “Signal, check for other cars, and steer back onto the road.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, tensing with each passing car, knowing what the other drivers didn’t know, that this was not going to be a normal daily commute.  Soon, Frank would give his command, and I’d have no choice but to obey.

When I saw a rust colored 1987 Mazda 626 with a cracked windshield and the spare tire being used way more than sparingly, I started steering toward it before Frank even told me to.  I held my breath and winced and hesitantly moved into the occupied lane, tapping Frank’s pristine BMW against the side of the Mazda like I was afraid of getting its cooties.

There was a hard jolt like being shoved, and the screeching of tires like a woman screaming.  And then it was over, the Mazda angled against the front of our car, no blood or bodies or broken families.

“Fuck, man,” the driver said, his voice high and shaky.  He wasn’t much older than me, teenage acne chasing him into his early twenties.  He’d spilled coffee on his shirt, and something else, salsa maybe, from a breakfast burrito.  I was starving.  I must’ve been okay.

The guy sighed and kicked the ground.  I could imagine his life, no money to get a new tire, much less pay for car insurance every month.  “I’m really sorry,” I said, and was close to blurting out that it was all part of my assassin training, and he shouldn’t take it personally, when Frank came to my side, also apologizing and telling the Mazda driver very matter-of-factly that I was still learning, while he counted out more cash than the car would’ve been worth back in ‘87.

It wasn’t every day a car accident was the best thing to happen to somebody, but the Mazda driver skipped back to his beater car and drove it into the sunrise a changed man.

“Are you hurt?” Frank asked, proudly looking down at me as if I’d done a good deed, like it had been my idea all along to wreck the man’s car and then buy him a new one.  I shook my head.  “Neither am I,” he said.  “Can you fix that?”

I ran my hand over the maroon gash in the side of the car.  It looked like it was bleeding.  “It’ll need a new paint job.”

“That can wait.  Get in the car.”

Frank did his profiling from the passenger seat, cars cheaper to scrap than repair, people who’d gladly take cash over exchanging insurance information, and although I’d never, ever admit it, I was actually starting to have fun.  The shaking stopped after the first three or four, and by the time rush hour started and there were too many cars on the road to crash into
accidentally
, Frank took over the driving and took me out for a well deserved breakfast.

We ate at the same diner for every meal.  It had a different name and a different address, but it never changed.  That was a habit he picked up from Charlie, who liked the greasy food and cheap price.  But Frank wouldn’t be Frank if he wasn’t slightly eccentric about it.  He wouldn’t eat at a place more than once, he tipped way too much, and he’d order exactly what the most average looking guy in the building was eating.

Frank never really ate, choosing instead to pick at his plate or share mine.  The man was half French; I figured he couldn’t rightly exist on anything but coffee, cigarettes, and the occasional bit of bread, but I did worry about him so I’d try to order something he might enjoy.

Smoking was another habit he picked up from his handler.  Frank told me that he only started in the first place because Charlie was tired of him lighting fire to inanimate objects instead of verbalizing his feelings, and finally he just stuck a cigarette in his mouth before he drove him nuts.  Or burned somebody.

The pyromania was a trait he’d picked up from his mother.  She used to set fire to their homes whenever they got evicted, a little fuck you
en français
.  Frank had mostly grown out of it, though he did get a certain amount of enjoyment from cleaning up a messy hit by razing the building to the ground.

That’s what he’d done with my first kill.  The man’s kitchen was such a disaster area when he showed up that he had no choice but to set fire to the place.  But what I’d heard on the news about the owner being missing wasn’t exactly true.  They just hadn’t found
all
of him.  Frank had a bit of aggression to get out that night.

People avoided parking next to us at the diner.  The car was streaked with paint from other vehicles, scratched and scarred and dented, with a broken headlight and the driver’s side mirror sitting on the dash.

Before I’d come along, any time he had even the slightest problem with his car he’d wipe it down, torch it, and abandon it on the side of the road, walking miles in any weather to get to a hotel, and then waiting for Charlie to come find him with a new vehicle.  I couldn’t imagine how many BMW’s had found their ends early because he didn’t know how to put water in the radiator or change a tire.  But now he had a legitimate excuse for getting a new one.  Charlie was still going to be furious with him.

“Have you ever been in an accident?  I mean a
real
accident.”

“Several,” he said nonchalantly.

“Anything serious?”

“A few.” 

“Did you get hurt?” I asked.  All things considered, I’d been lucky in the accident that killed my parents.  Orphaned, but basically uninjured.

“I destroyed Bella’s Lamborghini when I was nineteen.  Rolled it over three or four times, completely demolished it.  I was severely hurt after that.  Bell loved that car.”

“She kicked your ass?” I laughed.

“I told you she was tough,” he said. 
Was
.  If for no other reason, I had to learn to be as good as him so he’d never use my name in past tense.  “You want to drive back?”

“Will I get in trouble if I crash?”

“What do you think?”

I smiled and took his keys.

The sparring practice we’d begun in Tennessee became considerably more aggressive on the other side of the Mississippi, less play than fight, and each time he thwarted my full-fledged attacks, I became thirstier for his blood.

This wasn’t about learning to defend myself anymore; he was showing me how to cause extensive pain and damage to someone bigger than me without the use of a weapon.  So far I hadn’t accomplished anything short of getting bruises and rug burn, though to be honest, I was having a great time.

No one had ever affected me like this.  It felt so fucking good to let go of everything, to actually be able to let off steam without having to fear the consequences.  “I’m gonna kill you,” I said, and swung at him.  Frank grabbed my wrist and spun me into the side of the dresser, then knocked my feet out from under me.

“No, you’re not,” he said.  I pathetically grasped his leg and tried to pull him down, but he just glanced at me impassively and didn’t budge.  “You want to hit me?”

“Yes,” I panted.  I was starting to get tired.  He hadn’t broken a sweat.

“Then do it.”

I held the dresser and hauled myself back to an upright position. “Will you take off your shirt?  I need stimulation.”

He rolled his eyes, and then miraculously decided to humor my request.  The moment he started to pull it over his head, I tackled him.  In under a second, I found myself at his mercy yet again, with his shirt wrapped tightly around my neck from behind.  I wasn’t even sure how it happened.

“You’re
really
good,” I laughed breathlessly.  Apart from the restricted oxygen, I could’ve stayed in this position all day; Frank standing at my back, our bodies touching.  Sparring had officially become sexual.

He pulled a little tighter before carefully removing his shirt from my throat and neatly folding it.  How could I not be in love with a man who folded something after strangling me with it?  “For future reference, don’t grin when you’re trying to be deceptive.  I knew what you were up to before you did.”

“I can’t help it,” I said without turning around.  “Thinking about you naked always makes me smile.”

Frank swatted me on the ass, so hard that I couldn’t even enjoy it.  At least not at first.  “Behave,” he said, and he went to put on a clean shirt.

I winced, rubbing the spot that would undoubtedly continue to sting for hours.  It might even bruise.  But as I watched the scarred skin of his torso disappear under black cotton, I couldn’t help but think his mind was somewhere else.  We’d only been at it for an hour, and despite how much fun I was having, Frank seemed to have checked out.  “Does this bore you?” I asked.