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I've learned love is like a brick
You can build a house
Or sink a dead body
— Lady Gaga
Brock stares out at the dreary rural landscape as Jack drives. It's fall and the fields are harvested, cornstalks dead and broken in the dirt. In some places, cattle have been turned out to eat what the combines left behind. All the vegetation is dormant in shades of yellow and brown. The sky is gray and hanging low, threatening rain again.
This is fucking depressing, Brock thinks.
He wonders why anyone would want to live out here. He doesn't understand the appeal aside from the privacy and quiet, which Jack has in surplus at his acreage. His home is a white farmhouse standing at the end of a private lane that's almost two miles long. Brock supposes that it's his home too, since he always seems to end up there after a mission.
Brock wrinkles his nose at the smell of a massive hog confinement near the highway. He's not sure if it's worse than the reek of a cattle feedlot—there are many of them around here—but both fucking stink. Brock is snapped out of his thoughts when Jack speaks.
"If I ever get tired of you, this is where you'll go," he says, pointing with his hand on the steering wheel.
"What?" Brock asks.
"This pig farm," Jack says. "If I murdered you, this is where I'd get rid of your body."
Jack says creepy things like this all the time, so Brock plays along instead of getting freaked out.
"Pig shit would probably mask the smell of a rotting body," he says.
"No body. Pigs will eat anything."
"You'd feed me to pigs?" Brock asks incredulously.
Jack nods. "After some prep work. Take out your teeth so they can't identify you by your dental records. Cut you up into pieces."
"You've thought about this?" Brock asks. He's disgusted.
"No one would ever find you.” Jack grins. “Not a single piece."
It takes a lot to make Brock's skin crawl, but this is doing the trick. His stomach does a sharp somersault when he thinks about how Jack might kill him. When he goes quiet, Jack reaches over and nudges his arm. The friendly touch brings Brock back to reality. He reminds himself that Jack is just a little weird, that being a cleaner for HYDRA would mess anyone up. Jack is his second-in-command and works in demolition now, but it seems his former position has stuck with him.
Brock is quiet for the rest of the car ride, focusing on the familiar surroundings as Jack turns off the highway and starts down the gravel lane lined with trees. Black and orange NO HUNTING and NO TRESPASSING signs are nailed to a few of the trunks, although Jack has allowed people to track wounded deer through his land before.
While they unload and put away groceries, Brock wonders how long it would take for someone to realize that he was missing if Jack killed him. It's unlikely anyone would notice until he failed to report for his next mission in a few weeks. He has no close family or friends—just Jack. It's a strange life that he's made for himself.
Brock isn't sure if Jack loves him because he doesn't have a good idea of what love exactly is. Jack lets him stay at his house, keeps his favorite foods around, and makes sure his little Toyota is running okay. He came and pulled Brock out of a ditch when he tried to drive in a snowstorm last winter, and he takes care of Brock when he's hurt or sick.
But he often communicates his displeasure with physical aggression. When Brock opened a beer by smacking the bottle cap on the edge of the kitchen counter, Jack punched him so hard in the shoulder that he couldn't lift his arm above his head for three days. Brock reminds himself that he deserved it. Jack is particular. Nevermind that Brock had done it several times before, or that they had both acknowledged the recent disappearance of their bottle opener.
And sex with Jack is rough, even when Brock tells him to slow down or be more gentle. Brock is usually clinging to Jack's broad shoulders for dear life, or being pinned face down on the mattress. Sometimes Jack chokes Brock, with his hands or a belt. Jack is always taking things too far, skirting the edges of assault. Despite that, he's given Brock some of the best orgasms he's ever had in his life. Which is one of the many reasons why Brock is continually confused by his relationship with the mountain of a man that is Jack Rollins.
It gets dark early this time of year, a fact that serves only to make Brock feel more isolated. Jack delves into one of his many projects, leaving Brock to entertain himself for the evening. It’s not long before he’s threading his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.
"I'm going out," he announces.
Jack is sitting at the kitchen table, which is draped with a cloth and covered in greasy engine parts and tools. He looks up from the carburetor he's disassembling.
"Where?" he asks.
"Roadhouse on Highway 75," Brock answers.
His desire for the burn of tequila or whiskey goes unspoken. Jack doesn't keep anything stronger than beer in the house. Hard liquor makes Jack belligerent, and he stopped drinking it a few years ago.
"Say hi for me," Jack says, turning back to his work. “And call me if you get trashed.”
Brock doesn't ask if Jack wants to come with him. He knows the answer. Jack is downright reclusive in the days after they get back from a mission. Brock appreciates that. Sometimes he wants times to himself too. But, more often than not, he finds himself seeking the company of others. Not friends or even acquaintances. Just people. Being surrounded by noise and conversation is a comfort, even if he’s not the center of attention.
The Roadhouse really isn’t Brock’s kind of establishment. A dingy, low-slung building separated from the highway by a parking lot, it’s a bar frequented by both bikers and the roughnecks who make a living off the surrounding land. But he’s welcome because everyone knows him through Jack.
It’s a Thursday night and Brock can tell the place is busy when he pulls up. Bikes are neatly lined up front and trucks are parked all over the gravel. Brock parks his car behind the building where a few others are sitting.
The noise hits him right when he opens the grimy door and he lets himself be absorbed by it. There are familiar faces and a few back slaps; Brock says hi even though they’re all Jack’s friends. He takes his place at the end of the bar, several stools away from the patrons already there. A little wave to the bartender earns him the usual—two fingers of whiskey, neat.
The viscous, amber liquid is warm when it goes down. It’s a familiar sensation and it helps Brock settle in. Coming to a social place just to be alone seems counterproductive, but the silence at Jack’s house is liable to make Brock go crazy. Besides, he likes to people watch and overhear their conversations.
And that’s just what he’s doing when someone plunks down on the stool directly next to him. Brock is already on his second glass, a little buzzed, but he’s not interested in chatting. The man, dressed in cowboy boots and a Carhart jacket, isn’t someone that Brock recognizes.
“I haven’t seen you in here before,” the man says, practically shouting over the boisterous cacophony around them.
Brock doesn’t even have to look at the man to tell that he’s drunk. He can smell it. Brock takes a sip of his whiskey and sets the heavy glass down. “I don’t come here often.”
Out of his peripheral vision, he can see the man eyeing him. Probably taking in his leather jacket and nice jeans. Checking him out. Trying to figure out who he is. This is usually the point where Brock would tell this guy to fuck off, but he doesn’t.
“No motorcycle boots, so you’re not a biker,” the man says. “And you’re definitely not a farmer.”
“You’re observant,” Brock says dryly.
Brock still hasn’t even looked over at the guy. His eyes are focused straight ahead as he takes another sip of his drink. He’s about ready to slam the rest of it back and get the hell home when he feels a hand on his upper thigh. Brock reacts with a surprising amount of patience.
“Not interested, buddy.” He picks up the man’s hand and pushes it away from his leg.
“You sure? You look lonely.”
Brock finally turns to face the guy. He’s tall and broad like Jack, maybe even bigger. Handsome, with tufts of blond hair poking out from under his trucker hat. Definitely not Brock’s type, even if he was in the market for some dick.
“I’m gonna give you one more fuckin’ opportunity to find someplace else to sit,” Brock says.
He really doesn’t want to start a commotion. People will come to his defense and start a bar fight. And when Jack hears about it, he’ll be pissed.
“I’m right where I wanna be,” the man says, placing his hand on Brock’s thigh again.
Brock is beyond the point of using his words. He grabs the man’s middle finger and yanks it backwards sharply. The motion doesn’t break his finger, but he jumps and yowls from the unexpected pain of hyperextended ligaments and tendons.
“Fucking prick!” he snarls, snatching his beer off the bar and stalking off.
Brock rolls his eyes. So much for coming to here to have a good time. He takes his time finishing his drink, pays his tab, and leaves. It’s still early, but Brock decides that watching TV in bed with Jack is better than getting harassed in the bar.
The night is chilly, and Brock hates the quiet he’s confronted with when he steps outside. He’s not even thinking about the man as he digs his keys out of his jacket and starts walking to his car.
“How’d I know this faggy little Toyota was yours?”
Brock stops short. The man is standing next to the dumpster against the back of the building, bathed in the yellowish light provided by the singular lamp post in the parking lot. Now that the man is upright, Brock can see how big he is. Taller than Jack, which means Brock is very small in comparison.
“The answer is still no,” Brock says.
He’s more annoyed than scared, and he’s not interested in this confrontation escalating. Keys in hand, Brock starts walking to his car. The man steps further into the parking lot in response, and that’s when Brock sees the silvery flash of metal. Instinct tells him to reach for the gun on his hip that isn’t there.
The man has a long metal tool in his hand. Brock recognizes it as a torque wrench only because Jack forced him to change a tire once. It doesn’t look very threatening, but Brock knows that the heft of it could easily be used to brain someone.
Despite being two drinks down, Brock is ready when the man lunges and swings at him with the tool. Brock grabs the shaft of the wrench and bends the man’s arm downward. He’s not about to go down Brokeback Mountain style. Brock twists the wrench until the man’s only choice is to let go of it. Once it’s free, Brock swings like he’s hitting a homerun in the College World Series. Desperate. Lethal. The ratchet head of the torque wrench connects with the man’s temple and he drops heavily to the rocky ground.
Brock is suddenly aware of his heartbeat. His pulse is bounding in his neck so hard that it hurts. The man hasn’t moved from where he fell and eyes are open. Brock still kicks at his awkwardly positioned body.
“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “Hey, fucker.”
No response. Brock crouches and presses two fingers to the man’s still-warm throat. No pulse, either. Brock stands up, running a trembling hand through his hair.
It’s a bit ironic, he thinks, being freaked out like this. He kills people on a regular basis, but that’s his job. This is just straight-up murder. Brock is on the verge of a controlled panic when he thinks of Jack. His old job. He knows how to get rid of dead bodies.
Brock’s hands are still shaking when he pops the trunk of his car and throws the torque wrench inside. He has to move fast. Someone could pull into the parking lot or leave the bar at any moment.
The guy is heavy, especially now that he’s dead. Brock drags him over to the car and shoves his upper body into the trunk. Then he lifts the man’s legs and folds him into the small space as best he can. It’s a tight fit and Brock has to jam the trunk lid down to make it close.
Brock feels sick as he pulls out onto the highway, but he tries to reason with himself. He had never seen that asshole before. Probably not a local. Maybe a trucker. And there wasn’t any blood on the ground that he could see. He knows that there will be questions, but he hopes that he can cover his tracks well enough that there won’t be incriminating answers.
As he drives down the dark highway, Brock feels anxious for another reason. Jack is going to be so pissed. He might even hit him again. Jack has never done any serious damage—Brock can take a punch—but he doesn’t want to deal with the lasting repercussions of such a dumb mistake. He knows that this will last much longer than any bruise that Jack could put on his body.
Brock uses his blinker before turning onto the road that leads to Jack’s house, not keen on getting pulled over for something stupid. It’s bordering on paranoia since he’s not seen a single car since he got onto the highway, but he’s not taking any chances.
Jack is still sitting at the kitchen table when Brock comes in the house, making him wonder how much time has actually passed since he left. It feels like years. Jack looks up from his tinkering and there is a subtle shift in his expression. He can tell something is wrong.
“I killed somebody,” Brock blurts out.
“That’s not funny,” Jack says dismissively.
“There’s a body in the trunk of my car.”
Jack’s expression darkens. “There better not be.”
“It was an accident. He came at me—”
The words start to come out in a rush but Brock stops talking when Jack stands up and walks around the table. He’s bracing for all the pain that he’s been imagining, his trim frame tense with a sense of dread. But it never comes. Not yet, at least.
“Pull your car into the garage,” Jack says. There is no discernible emotion in his voice.
Brock normally isn’t allowed in the garage. That’s where Jack keeps all his tools and the ATV he sometimes uses to navigate his property. It’s just as immaculate as the rest of the house and Brock feels like he’s parking his car in the living room rather than the well-lit garage.
Jack is standing there, arms crossed, when Brock gets out of his dingy little sedan. “Pop the trunk,” he orders.
Brock is so nervous that he fumbles for the lever under the dash, searching blindly for several moments before he can pull it. Jack saunters around to the back end of the car. He’s expressionless when Brock comes to stand next to him. They both stare at the dead body in the trunk for several moments. The man’s eyes are glazed over, and he’s pale except for the livid contusion on the side of his head.
“What happened?” Jack asks.
Brock has to take a steadying breath so he doesn’t start babbling again. “He was botherin’ me at the bar. Put his hand on my thigh. Told him to get lost and he finally got the hint. But he was waitin’ for me in the parking lot when I went out to my car,” he says.
“And this ain’t yours,” Jack says, picking up the torque wrench with a shammy. “Pretty expensive murder weapon, though.”
“He came at me with that thing. I grabbed it and clobbered him with it,” Brock explains.
Jack is still admiring the tool. “I’ll say, slugger. But how drunk was he?”
“Very. I could smell it,” Brock says.
“So you beat a drunk guy to death with a torque wrench for propositioning you.”
That’s essentially what happened, but Jack is twisting it. Brock growls in frustration. “It was an accident.”
“You’re a fuckin’ Army Ranger,” Jack says. “You coulda settled this different.”
“He was gonna bash my skull in!”
Jack suddenly throws the wrench into the trunk so hard that Brock flinches. He shoves Brock, who loses his footing on the polished concrete floor and falls onto his ass with a yelp. Pain zings up his back from his tailbone.
“I’m gonna bash your skull in,” Jack snarls.
“Do it, then! Fuckin’ do it!” Brock’s voice is sharp with anger and fear. “Then I won’t have to deal with this fuckin’ mess or your bullshit.”
Jack laughs and Brock has never been chilled by such a cheerful sound. “My bullshit?” he asks. “Jesus, I’m actually glad this happened. It’s gonna be so much fun teaching you the trade.”
Brock is shell-shocked by all that’s transpired. He hears Jack’s words but is unable to comprehend them. “The trade?” he asks a bit stupidly.
“You know, my old job. We’re gonna get rid of a dead body.”
Jack looks likes he’s having the time of his life as he and Brock carry the body over to the three 55-gallon drums that stand against the wall. They lay the man on a tarp that Jack spread out on the floor.
“With this, the trick is to do it before they get stiff,” Jack says. “Otherwise you gotta cut ‘em into pieces. And that’s a fuckin’ mess. Unless you freeze ‘em first.”
Brock is already frustrated. He hates the way that Jack only feeds him little pieces of information at a time, always keeping him hanging. “What are we even gonna do?” he asks.
“Dissolve the body in acid,” Jack says, starting to get some supplies.
“Does that even work?” It sounds like something out of a mob movie.
Jack nods. “Takes a few days without heat and pressurization, but yeah.”
“And it’s just gone or what?” Brock asks with a frown.
“Most of it. The rest you can pour down the drain.”
“But it takes how many days?”
Jack tosses Brock a pair of elbow-length, black rubber gloves and a full-face respirator. “By the time anyone comes with a warrant—if that even happens—there will be no evidence.”
“Jesus,” Brock mutters. His hands are shaking again. “Fuck.”
Jack rolls his eyes as he puts his respirator and gloves on. His words are more of command than a comfort. “Just relax. Put your shit on,” he says, voice muffled by the mask.
Brock obeys the command, having to work deliberately to overpower the nervous tremor in his hands. Jack tells Brock to take the clothes off the body and put them in the first drum. There’s something awful about stripping the guy, but Brock works carefully. He’s apprehensive about throwing the clothing into the barrel and turns to Jack.
“Is there acid in here already?” he asks.
Jack is pulling large plastic containers from a cabinet. “No, dumbass. Put the clothes and torque wrench in there.”
“It’s gonna dissolve the wrench?”
“No, but it’ll corrode badly enough that they won’t be able to tell it was the murder weapon.”
The next step is packing the body into a separate drum. It takes the two of them to fold all that dead weight into a fetal position. Despite being so big and tall, the man fits inside with just enough room to be submerged completely in the acid.
“Can’t believe this drum is bigger than the trunk of your shitty little car,” Jack says with a laugh.
Brock’s first reaction is to get defensive, but now isn’t the time. Instead, he says nothing. Jack gives him a friendly nudge in the shoulder before he picks up one of the jugs of acid.
“Now’s the fun part,” he says. “Pour slow.”
The acid is a clear, viscous liquid that doesn’t splash much, but Brock can immediately see why being careful with it is important. It’s already working to dissolve the clothing in the first barrel.
“Shit.”
“Right?” Jack asks.
Brock can’t see Jack’s mouth because of the respirator, but he can tell he is grinning by the crinkles around his eyes. It makes Brock think of Jack joking about murdering him. Maybe he'll end up stuffed in a barrel rather than getting fed to pigs. The tiny hairs on the back of Brock’s neck stand up and he focuses on pouring in enough acid to submerge the clothing and torque wrench in the first drum.
The acid is already giving off some fumes, but it doesn’t get bad until they start pouring it over the body and there is a chemical reaction with the dead man's skin. The respirator doesn’t filter the fumes out completely and Brock coughs a few times. His eyes are stinging. The smell is a noxious combination of rotten eggs mixed with drain cleaner.
It takes quite some time to completely fill the 55-gallon drum with acid. Despite this, Brock doesn’t see the body liquefying like Jack said it would.
“It’s not doing anything,” he says.
“I told you it’s gonna be a couple days,” Jack responds. “Lots of meat to work through.”
Brock isn’t convinced, but he keeps pouring until the body is submerged. There’s some discoloration in the once-clear liquid, but nothing else. Jack seals the two drums with their lids and cleans up all the jugs. Brock wants to pry the respirator off his face, but the fumes are still too strong, even with the garage door open.
“What are you gonna do with all those containers?” he asks.
Jack is nonchalant. “My buddy at the fertilizer plant will come get ‘em. He’s my supplier.”
Brock is tired when they finally peel off their protective gear and get ready for bed, but he doubts that he'll be able to sleep. They take a shower together and Jack plays the role of detective, grilling Brock with questions that the police might ask him if they come knocking. The talk doesn't help with Brock's anxiety, but it gets his story straight.
He's trembling again when he slips under the covers next to Jack. Normally they lay separately, Brock curled up on his side and Jack spread out on his front. But Brock is having trouble getting comfortable tonight. He freezes mid-turn when he feels Jack stir, thinking he’s pissed about all the flopping around. Instead, Jack pulls him close.
“Jesus, you’re shakin’ like a little leaf,” he says.
Brock says nothing, but Jack seems to understand. He strokes the side of Brock’s head until he’s relaxed and lulled to sleep. The idea that maybe this supremely fucked up night brought them closer together is Brock’s last coherent thought for the night.
Jack is eager to check on the acid’s progress the next day, and he makes Brock pry the lid off the drum so they can take a look. The clear acid has been stained dark brown from the dissolved fats and blood. Jack laughs when Brock dry heaves. Brock manages to keep it together until Jack uses a piece of rebar to poke at the contents of the drum. The body is softened, flesh discolored and sloughing off, but still mostly in tact. The smell is horrific.
Brock gags again, and there is something trying to come up this time. He sprints out of the garage and barely has his respirator pulled up before he vomits in the grass. He is bent over and coughing when Jack walks onto the driveway just to tell him what a wimp he is.
The clothes aren’t as bad. Everything is dissolved, and the torque wrench is nothing more than a corroded piece of metal now. Jack sets the wrench aside for disposal and they neutralize the acid with baking soda. When the contents reach a neutral pH, they load the drum onto a dolly and drain it directly into the septic tank behind the house.
It’s a lot of work, and Jack makes Brock do the worst of it. But he supervises everything. From pulling the softened teeth out of the spongy skull and pulverizing them with a hammer to draining the barrels, there is a technique. It's disgusting, but Brock can't help but be a little fascinated. And he has to admit that he likes the attention from Jack, too.
They’re sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, when the pumping service comes to clean out the septic tank a few days later. Brock cranes his neck to look out the back door, feeling anxious.
“You sure they’re not gonna find anything?” he asks.
“It's not like they look through it,” Jack says.
Brock watches as the crew in the backyard opens up the access cover and hooks up their vacuum truck. When he turns back to his coffee, Jack simply winks at him. Brock isn’t sure how to feel about that.