Before Killing Was Cool ➊ FRERARD

5: You Call Shotgun, I Call It Fate

C h a p t e r | F i v e

Present Day - Frank

What's wrong with me?

I know the kid for barely a day and I'm already doing things to him I shouldn't even be thinking of. I kissed my hostage. Things could have easily gone further and gotten out of control and it's all kinds of wrong. It was like some alternate force of nature was drawing us together and my brain was fried, blindly chasing a good feeling that was never meant to be in the first place.

I try not to think about it much, mainly since if I were to let my mind wander, it would lead to the thoughts of an idiot. I figure there must be a psychological explanation as to why I got the sudden urge to make out with my hostage. Is it all in possession? I finally get some human contact, someone who doesn't want to hurt me - or can't, at least. I finally have control - the upper-hand. Or maybe it's just fun to wind Gerard up.

The car is pretty quiet after. We need gas. I pull up beside a thrift store and gas station combo in the middle of nowhere and weigh my options. Option one: I take Gerard inside with me and face a high risk of recognition (and the handcuffs and his lack of shirt wouldn't look so favourable either) or option two: I leave him in the car to avoid suspicion, locking the doors, taking away objects he could use against me or to aid his escape. I'll have to take the shots out of the shotgun, of course.

In the end, I decide on the latter because I'm not going into a public shop with a cuffed, shirtless teenager who could very easily attract attention if he desired and whose face is likely plastered all over national news. No amount of fear I could hope to install into him will prevent him from seeking help from the shopkeeper, and I don't want to have to kill them too. It would be an inconvenience to say the least.

"Listen," I speak up, and his attention shifts from the window to my lips as they move, "I'm going to leave you in the car but I swear to God that if you find a way to unlock the doors and run, I will catch you and I will hurt you for it. Understand?"

He chews on the inside of his cheek, probably debating whether to make a dumb sassy comment, then agrees with a sigh, "I understand." His voice is shaky. I narrow my eyes and he turns away from my heated glare, back to the window, hunching his shoulders as if to appear smaller.

"Are you scared of me?" I scoff. I mean, fair enough, I did shoot up his school yesterday but he didn't have a problem backchatting me before.

"No." He answers too quickly and his cheeks taint pink. I don't know what answer I was expecting.

I roll my eyes at how uncomfortable I obviously make him. "Like I said, Gee, I'll only hurt you if you give me a reason to."

Part of me doesn't care if he gets away - I'd be looking at the resurgence of the New Jersey death penalty specifically made for me, regardless. But I suppose I should try to hold onto him in case I need him as a bargaining tool.

I secure the knife in my back pocket just in case I have to use it and make sure to lock the doors on my way out. Each step and motion I make is miserable and weird - I shouldn't be here. I should've shot myself. I was seriously going to do it, not exist anymore. It's like the shoes are walking around of their own accord, the body detached from reality.

After filling up the tank with gas, I keep my head down and walk into the shop. I've spotted the security cameras from outside and take caution to avoid appearing on them. Hopefully security doesn't see us and recognise the plates. Gerard is slightly taller than me, but leaner in his frame, so I conclude he'll be the same size as me. The thrift shop surprisingly turns out to have a few nice-looking things so I grab some t-shirts for myself and Gerard as well other pieces of clothing we'll need. I didn't expect this to be a long term thing but I guess this is what we're doing. I'm heading to the counter to pay - imagine, a serial killer who doesn't steal - when I almost drop the items in sick horror as I realise something.