“Good. This is just between you and me. There’s a twenty in it for you if it goes well.”
And that’s how, ten minutes later, he found himself with his arms wrapped around a strange man’s neck, holding him in an unbreakable half nelson, as Frank tuned him up. The punches weren’t easy; Frank’s fists were like anvils, diving into the man’s soft flesh like a baker punching down dough.
Adrian held on for dear life, and was embarrassed to realize he had a raging hard-on. He was holding this struggling man from behind, and every bump and groan and cry and flinch made him harder and harder until he didn’t think he could bear it. The punches were landing with regular thuds, and the man was trying to cry out, trying to fight, to do something, but he was struggling less and less, and Adrian didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to stop squeezing. It felt so good. He didn’t know why he was so angry, so full of righteous fury. The man in his arms was so much smaller he couldn’t even fight back anymore. Adrian squeezed, realizing dimly he’d pulled the man off the ground. His feet were in the air, kicking wildly and Adrian forced his forearm tighter against the man’s throat.
“Jesus, kid, stop. Let him go. You’re killing him. Adrian, you little shit, stop it!”
He heard the words in a fog, like the buzzing, annoying whine of a mosquito. He realized he was breathing hard, had actually climaxed in his jeans. Frank was pulling on his arm now, trying to release the man from Adrian’s death grip.
Adrian finally released his arms and stepped back, and the man dropped to the ground with a thud, gasping and wheezing for breath.
“What the fuck was that? Are you insane? I said hold him, not kill him. Idiot.”
Frank took one look at Adrian’s face and reared back. He fell on his ass, eyes wild, grabbed a piece of rebar and held it out in front of him. Adrian took a step toward his boss and laughed, a sound he’d never heard out of his mouth, high-pitched and crazy. He had no idea where it came from; he found nothing funny about the situation.
Frank shouted, “Get the fuck outta here. Don’t come back. You hear me?”
Adrian stopped. Frank was scared of him. Of him!
“Frank, it’s fine. I’m sorry.”
Frank waved the rebar. “No, it’s not fine. You’re gone. You get me? You’re fucking nuts. I shoulda known it. Too quiet, watching everyone, doing everything you’re told. Fucking freak.”
Time stopped. Adrian didn’t know what happened, what came over him, just that it was blackness and rage. He snatched the piece of rebar from Frank’s hand and brought it down on his head once, twice, three times. The wet splats told him to stop, but he couldn’t. He was riding high again, the pure energy of fury driving his arms up and down.
When he came back to himself, neither of the men were moving anymore, and Adrian was panting, covered in blood and sweat and tears.
His first and only thought was for himself. He’d just killed two men. He was going to go to jail. Forever. No one would let him see the light of day again. His breath hitched and he started to cry. What had he done? What had come over him? What had just happened? He began turning in circles, frantic, trying to decide what to do, when a voice spoke to him, quiet, calm, gentle.
That won’t happen. Look where you are. You know they’re pouring the foundation for Lot 8 tomorrow. You’re okay. You can cover this up.
Without hesitating, he dragged the two bodies forty feet to the edge of the foundation on Lot 8. He rolled them over the edge, then grabbed a shovel, jumped down and dug as if his life depended on it.
It took him an hour to get them in place, dirt two feet deep over them, leaves and branches laid down around the site just as they’d been before. He shoveled off the blood-soaked dirt into the bushes, scattering it around, found a half-empty bottle of Gatorade and washed his hands, then, realizing it wasn’t going to be enough, stripped off his shirt and pants and buried them, too.
All the while, the voice spoke, telling him what to do next.
There was nothing he could do about the man’s car, but where it was parked was safe enough, off the beaten path behind the 7-Eleven. By the time anyone connected it with the build site, the cement would be dry. Frank’s behemoth truck was nowhere to be seen, so he didn’t worry about it.
He snuck back to his own piece-of-crap truck and drove home, showered then went out to the truck and wiped it down. Bleach. Scrub. He made sure there was nothing, nothing, that could tie him to the two men. Showered again, thankful as hell his dad was out.
There. He was safe.