Page 134 of Dirty Hit
By the time we’re done, his face is red, my shirt is untucked, and there’s at least one new smudge on the wall from where his back hit it too hard. If anyone ever turns the lights off and shines a blacklight around in there, his office is going to glow like a crime scene. Which… fair.
The night before the away game, the tension is so intense that practice doesn’t take the edge off. Keller rides me hard, bitching about film and footwork and staying calm in the pocket, and Itake it, because I have to. The whole time, my brain is half on the field, and half on the fact that in twenty-four hours, I’ll be on a bus heading two towns over, and the only thing I want to do before I leave is touch Brendon until my palms remember his shape.
By midnight, I’m done pretending I can sleep.
The apartment complex is quiet at this hour. The security light over the entrance flickers when I pass under it, buzzing like a dying fly. I take the stairs two at a time, because the elevator in this building sounds like it’s been trying to fall for a decade. My hood is up, hands shoved in my pockets, head down, in case any other late-night wanderers decide they suddenly want a selfie with the campus quarterback.
Brendon lives on the third floor, at the end of the hall. I know exactly how many steps it takes to get to his door, which is closed now. My heart starts beating harder, which is stupid, because I’ve been here a hundred times. I knock once, knuckles tapping softly, then do it again when there’s no immediate response.
There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of movement. Something thumps, there’s a muffled curse, then the lock clicks and the door opens a crack. He peers out, hair mussed, T-shirt wrinkled. Jericho’s black head appears near his ankle, his yellow eyes judging from the gap.
“Dom,” Brendon whispers, blinking up at me. “What time is it?”
“Midnight,” I say. “Put pants on. We’re going somewhere.”
He just squints. “I’m already wearing pants.”
I glance down, and he’s in gray joggers that hang low on his hips and a shirt that says:
EAT SLEEP STUDY REPEAT.
“Real pants,” I clarify. “Shoes. Hoodie. We’re going out.”
He stares at me, looking like he’s trying to decide if I’m a dream or a break-in, then his brows draw together and sleepy brat mode starts kicking in.
“I have class in the morning,” he mutters. “And essays to grade. And also it’s midnight, you psycho.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And I’m leaving tomorrow. So get dressed.”
I can see the argument forming in his eyes.Responsibility. Sleep. Schedules.The way he always puts everything ahead of himself.I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and give him a look.
“You want me to beg, baby boy?” I ask, voice dropping to the register that always makes his dick twitch.
His throat works. “No,” he says quickly.
“Then go put some fucking shoes on,” I say. “I’ll wait.”
“You’re bossy,” he grumbles, but he steps back and opens the door fully, letting me in.
Jericho threads himself around my ankles, and I bend to scratch behind his ears once, while he purrs like a small engine.
Brendon shuffles toward his bedroom, muttering under his breath. I lean against the wall and watch him go, clothes rumpled, shoulders tense.
“What’s with the kidnapping?” he calls from the bedroom, voice muffled as drawers open and close.
“It’s not kidnapping if you want to go,” I say.
“Who says I want to go?” he shoots back.
I smirk. “Your feet. They’re already moving.”
There’s a soft sputter that sounds suspiciously like him trying not to laugh, and when he comes back out a few minutes later, he’s in jeans, a black hoodie, and sneakers. With his hair pushed back, he looks more awake, but there’s still a crease on one cheek from the pillow.
He crosses his arms, trying for stern. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” I say.
He gives me a flat look. “Last time someone told a horror-loving millennial it was a surprise, we got Scream.”
