2. Brody

What the actual fuck was that?

If I'd known taking this assignment would mean having a guy shoot his load in my mouth and declare his undying love for me, I would have told the agency to go fuck themselves. I know I don't have much say in the marks I'm assigned, but I never agreed to be spank bank material for a gay man with daddy issues. The man—this freakshow—is absolutely depraved.

It's half-past midnight when I walk into my house, ignoring my dachshund as she rushes around my feet like a flailing torpedo. She probably wants a snuggle, but my need for a non-cummy face takes priority. Puppy cuddles are going to have to wait.

In the bathroom, I squeeze some soap into my palm and furiously rub it into my skin, taking longer than necessary when I get to my lips. Fuck. I can still taste his cum in my mouth. As hard as I try, I can't get the image out of my head of the twisted motherfucker's cock exploding, or his semen shooting into my mouth. I've never met anyone more shameless.

But you didn't stop him.

Why the fuck didn't I stop him?

Once I've got my face clean, I grab my toothbrush from the cup by the sink and slather an excessive amount of toothpaste onto the bristles. There isn't enough toothpaste in the world to rid me of his flavor. It lingers like Brussels sprouts, relentless and unrequested. I stare at the toothpaste, giving my tongue a final chance to taste him.

What the fuck are you doing, Brody?

Once my mouth is as clean as I can get it, I head into the bedroom, wanting to be done with this day. My dog, Daisy, trails behind, and when we make it to the bed, I lean down and scoop her up, setting her on top of the bedspread. After sliding between the sheets, I chuckle at the sight of Daisy wriggling beneath them, making her way to the end of the bed. I reach for my laptop, which is lying on the bedside table. The browser is already pulled up, and I log into my email account, going to the last message from the agency.

It should be a simple job, the email says.

I don't understand how you keep fucking this up, it says.

You've got one month, it says, and I have to swallow down my nerves. If I don't get this right, Scotty won't be the only one with a target on his head. After typing out another detailed report of my failed hit, I bring up Facebook and load Scotty's profile. His picture is one I know by heart. In it, he's standing proudly next to his mother. I still don't understand what the kid could have done to warrant having his father place a bounty on his head. Judging by his post history, the kid seems like a nice enough guy—murder attempts and unwelcome ejaculation aside. From what I can see, he used to be an active member of his former college's LGBTQ outreach program. In the pictures, it's like the rest of the members are purposely distancing themselves from him. A strange, bitter feeling settles in my soul. I kind of want to track every one of them down.

I'm starting to think the bounty might have to do with him being a queer. His father is a staunch opponent of gay rights, so it would make sense.

Staring at Scotty's face, something happens. I focus on his lips. Those soft, pretty pink lips had been pressed against mine earlier. Their smoothness was a stark contrast to the force he used them with. He tunneled his tongue through my mouth with abandon, not giving a fuck how I felt about it. The worst part was, I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about it either.

The front door clicks, and my dick rises like a phoenix from the ashes. As the bedroom door opens, I wrap my hand around my shaft, giving it a tug. The second she spots me, she sighs.

"I've asked you not to do that with Daisy in the room."

I look down at the bedspread. Daisy is burrowed under the blankets, all the way at the end of the bed. There's no chance of her witnessing what I'm doing. I lean back, stroking myself obscenely as my wife stares with disinterest, shaking her head.

"Not happening." She points at the bathroom. "I just spent thirty minutes sucking off Kincaid, I don't have the energy to tend to you too. Either go take care of it in there, or roll over and go to sleep." She slides out of her dress and bends over, giving me the perfect view of her tight ass.

Honestly, I should probably be more annoyed by the admission. Our relationship has been floundering recently. I don't know if it's down to her, or if the fault lies squarely at my feet. All I know is she and Kincaid have been spending more and more time together, and less and less time with me. Almost as much as I miss the physical connection with my wife, I miss my best bro, Kincaid.

When Fee broached the subject of turning our relationship into a triad, inviting my childhood best friend to share her heart and to share our bed, there hadn't been a single morsel of jealousy on my part. Now, it courses through my veins like lifeblood. For half a year, we spent every night in this bed. At first, Kincaid slept between us. I knew it was a weird arrangement. Even weirder, I didn't seem to mind all that much. Though I've never looked at him sexually, he's always been a really good cuddler. As kids, after his parents died and my family took him in, we slept top-to-toes in my beds. I'd wake to find my arms wrapped around his leg and his morning wood digging into my thigh. Sometime over this last month, our sleeping arrangement had changed, though. Fee started sleeping in his spot, and it didn't take me long to realize he's been the glue holding us together. With him on the other side of the bed, it feels like he"s a million miles away. Eventually, they stopped sleeping in our bed altogether, choosing instead to stay at his place. I rarely even get a heads up when they won't be coming home.

The time they spend together is time they no longer spend with me. They fuck like bunnies while I'm left at the mercy of my right hand. Sure, I could go out and find a fuck buddy of my own, but it's easier this way. We've had an open relationship from the beginning, and it's an arrangement she's well and truly taken advantage of, but I only agreed to it to keep her happy. Most men might feel jealous to see their wife taking another man's cock, but it's never bothered me. I don't get anything out of it sexually, but I enjoy knowing she's being taken care of. Less work for me in the end, and I can relish in the afterglow. It's not the sex I miss. It's the connection we all share. Fee. Kincaid. Me. I'm feeling like I'm being iced out of this thing we share, and I can't lie and say it doesn't sting, because it does. It fucking aches. Maybe that's why I didn't push Scotty away earlier. I was lonely, as he was.

Resigning myself to another night of blue balls, I shove my cock back into my underwear and bring the blankets back up to my chest.

"Did you do it?" She grabs an oversized shirt with a panda on the front and slides it on, hiding her naked form from me, the same way she does every night these days.

"No," I simply say, not wanting to hear the judgment in her tone.

But there it is in the passive-aggressive sigh she lets out. It marinates in her mouth before she opens it long enough to say, "Seriously? He's a twenty-two-year-old twink. A trained monkey could have killed him by now." She sighs again before sliding into bed. When I look down, I notice a small spatter of blood on her palm. Licking my thumb, I rub it against the spot, wiping it away.

"What about you? Did you take care of your mark?"

She nods before reaching for the Kindle on her bedside table. I watch as she loads some book with a long-haired hipster on the cover. Going off experience, I'm sure it's another one of those stories where men take turns raw-dogging each other for two-hundred pages. Once, I'd peeked over at the screen to read about the big guy who was carrying around his little twink boyfriend on his hip. I wonder if that's what Scotty likes. He's small enough. I'm sure he'd fit snugly on someone's side.

"If you don't kill him, they'll?—"

"I know," I say sharply. "You think I don't know what they'll do to me?"

"To us," she clarifies. "I'm just saying. If it was me, I'd do everything I could to kill the kid before his father set his sights on me."

I bump my shoulder against hers, trying to be playful. "You'd miss me though." In part, the statement is meant as a means of reassurance. My cry for help. I need her to tell me we're still okay, because nothing about this feels okay anymore.

"Debatable," she replies, tapping the right side of the screen to flip the page. "Right now, the only thing I miss is peace and quiet."

I know I should just leave her be, but I'm tired of feeling like a third fucking wheel. The way she glosses over the subject—like if we don't mention it, it can't be real—is really getting to me.

"Fee?"

To my surprise, I'm not met with another unkind gaze. Instead, her annoyance seems to be fading, thank God. "What's up?"

"It's just—I mean . . ."

"Brody? Spit it out."

I close my eyes and push out a heavy breath. "Kincaid hasn't slept over in a while."

She eyes me curiously. "Do you miss him, babe?" The question isn't cruel, and there's no tease in her tone, thankfully. Maybe that's why it makes it a little easier for me to work up the courage to nod. Like with Scotty earlier, I can't get my mouth to work. She closes her eyes and sighs. "Total honesty. That's the rule, right?"

I nod, because it is. We don't have many rules when it comes to our arrangement, but honesty is at the top. Sure, she's broken that rule more times than I can count, but we're supposed to talk about our feelings. It's hard for me though. I wasn't raised the way she was. My parents never sat me down in a sharing circle to discuss my emotions. In the Frost household, the atmosphere was—what was the stupid, gay word Scotty used earlier? Apropos to our family's name. The Frost crew is frosty by nature. Now, I'm the only one left. Same as Scotty. Sure, his dad's still alive, but the guy paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to have the kid killed. I'd hardly call him a paragon of fatherly love.

"You've been making him uncomfortable," she says, and it feels like someone sucker punched me. I've gone above and beyond to keep them both happy. I've allowed my best friend to forge a relationship with my wife, and never questioned them about what they do without me.

"What? How have I made him uncomfortable? That doesn't make any damn sense."

She sets her Kindle beside her and turns my way, giving me a rare hug around the waist. Leaning closer, she presses a kiss to my bare shoulder. I can't lie, it's nice to feel her again. I've missed this connection. "Ever since you got this assignment." Our eyes lock and she studies my face. "Kincaid is bisexual."

I cock an eyebrow at her. "Obviously, I know that. We've known each other since we were kids. I was the first person he came out to."

She nods. "You've been making a lot of really off-color comments about Levinson's son. Calling him a queer. Saying he dresses like a flamer. I don't know what's going on with you. You've never been like this before. You're starting to sound like one of those right-wing harpies on Fox News." I open my mouth to defend myself, only to realize I have no defense. "If you want to be around Kincaid, you're going to need to get that in check. I know you, Brody. I know your heart." For emphasis, she pats my chest, her brown skin contrasting beautifully with my golden tan. She keeps her hand right over my heart—right where it belongs. "I think this goes deeper than you're willing to admit."

"The fuck does that mean?" I look away, because a mental picture of Scotty jacking off in my arms flashes through my mind.

"Something tells me you know exactly what it means." She gives me a final kiss on the cheek before grabbing her Kindle and resting against her pillow. "You're going to need to sort out whatever internalized shit you're working through, or you're going to lose him."

It takes me a second to realize she's still talking about Kincaid. For a moment—one single, confusing, terrifying moment—I thought she meant Scotty. It was a ridiculous thought, mainly because, why the hell would it matter if I lost the creepy twink who masturbates for me at random? Of course she's talking about Kincaid. Of course.

"And," she adds, tapping the side of her Kindle to flip the page, "I think you should explore it."

I raise an eyebrow, but she isn't even looking at me. "Explore what?"

She taps to the next page and slowly looks up at me. "We have an open marriage. I think you should take advantage of the arrangement."

"I don't want to screw another woman."

"I wasn't talking about another woman—although that would be fine too. Go on, Brody. Ride the rainbow. Worst-case scenario, you have a shitty lay. Best case, you learn that you enjoy cock. Cock is awesome." In a rare show of emotion, she perks up and kisses me on the cheek. "You'd look cute with one in your mouth."

I bang the side of my fist to my chest, trying to dislodge the stray droplet of spittle that just went down the wrong pipe. "Jesus, Fiona!"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I'm just saying. It's okay to be curious. If you don't feel like trying with a stranger, there's always Kincaid, but with it being your first time, I don't know if he's what I'd consider a starter dick. I still have trouble taking all of him."

A mental image of Abi Kincaid flashes into my head, but when I blink, his face morphs into Scotty's. Scotty between my legs, leaving little trails of kisses down my thigh. Scotty on all fours, kneeling in front of me, staring at me over his shoulder. Begging to be claimed. Demanding to be dominated.

With a sigh, I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. I don't know why the hell I'm having such a hard time killing the guy. I've taken out thirty men during my time with the agency. Politicians, anarchists—fuck, I'd even managed to snuff out a popstar once. Why can't I kill this guy? I've tried ten times, and for the first time in my professional career, each attempt has been a colossal failure.

The first night I saw Scotty, when he was out on his balcony, I had my gun's laser trained right on his heart. It should have been a one-and-done. Instead, I'd stupidly looked into his eyes. It was the briefest of glances, but when I saw the tears in his eyes, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself pull the trigger. He seemed so hurt. So wounded. So goddamn broken it almost broke me too. The way the moon lit up his face, making his tears glitter against its light, made it seem like his hurt was illuminated just for me.

The next night, I went back to his apartment like a man on an unstoppable mission. I'd psyched myself up, only to be let down. For some reason, there was a ladder below his window, like it was leading me right to him. After climbing up, I stared into his bedroom, with the gun cocked and aimed at him. It was like he'd been waiting for me. Like he knew my reappearance was inevitable. He was kicked back on his bed, shirtless, a blanket pulled over his hips. His short hair was drenched in sweat. That night, as I stood on a ladder where only God and Scotty knew my shame, I watched him, unable to move. He kicked off the blanket and turned his head to stare at me. Again, I tried to pull the trigger, but the look he gave me stopped me dead in my tracks. He'd shoved down his underwear—these little pink things that left nothing to the imagination—and swiveled around in bed, giving me an unobstructed view of his cock. His hand worked the shaft quickly, his big brown eyes never leaving mine. I couldn't look away. Not as his finger dipped lower, rubbing roughly against his hole. Not as his balls drew closer to his body. And not when his load shot out, coating his chest. Even worse, I continued to stare as he traced a finger through his mess and brought it to his mouth, licking it clean.

The memory of him making himself into a whore—just for me—sends a rush of blood pumping into places it has no business pumping, and I know this has to end. I need a plan. Something foolproof. I need him vanquished from my to-do list and my memory. Scrubbed from my subconscious. I want every one of these unwelcome, unexplainable feelings out of me. I'd rip them out with my bare hands if I could.

If Scotty wants a date, then that's exactly what he'll get. A date to end all dates. A date with destiny.

"Say your prayers, Freakshow," I growl, staring at his picture, amping myself up for the task at hand. "Even God can't save you from The Wrath."

There's a tap on my shoulder, and when I turn to face my wife, she's blinking slowly at me. "Brody?"

"Don't," I warn her.

"We've talked about this."

"It just slipped out."

"You know I don't like when you refer to your penis as The Wrath."

"Yeah, Fee." I roll my eyes and close the lid to my laptop, setting it on the nightstand. Rolling onto my side, I pull up the blankets and hug my pillow, hoping it'll somehow hide my embarrassment. Once I'm half-submerged beneath a sea of duvets, flat sheets, and throw-pillows, I close my eyes and try to get the image of Scotty Levinson out of my head. He's like a mental wraith—always there. Always waiting. Tomorrow, he'll be waiting for me to pick him up, and for once, I'm at a loss as to what my next move should be. I could barge into his house and slit his throat. There's also the option of breaking in tonight and turning on his stove, letting his place fill with gas. I'm not sure how long it would take to fill his home with fumes, but his apartment is basically the size of my bedroom, so it couldn't be too long. Then there's the easy option. Retreat. Hide. Give him a few more days of life before I'm forced to snuff it out. Of course, it would mean standing up the little creep for the date he'd demanded, but I never intended on indulging him in a romantic dinner for two before killing him. Maybe I should? Fuck. I don't know.

My head's a mess, and I don't know how to pull myself back together.