Page 14 of Dirty Hit
On the surface, everything is normal. I ask one question. I answer another. The professor smiles at me. People glance my way like they always do when they need to know if they missed something important.
Inside, I’m screaming.
You’re in class.
You’re safe.
You’re fine.
No one here knows what you saw. No one here knows what you didn’t do. No one here knows that you just sat there and watched, then explained judicial review to a killer. You are just Brendon Lane: a good student, a good TA, a good Christian boy. Nothing is wrong.
I’m not complicit. I didn’t help. I just sat there and did nothing. That’s not the same as agreeing. Not saying no isn’t the same as saying yes.
If I repeat that enough, maybe my heartbeat will stop trying to punch its way out of my chest.
When my classes are over for the day, I stop by the library before my TA schedule officially starts and grab one of the corner tables, spreading out Dominic’s assignments in front of me. The pages are covered with my notes from last night: red pen underlines, arrows, and comments in the margins.
He’s smart. I hate that realization. I can see the sharp edges of his mind in his work buried under lazy bullshit. His arguments are aggressive and clear; he just doesn’t bother to flesh them out.
He writes the way he plays football: straight for the throat, leaving faculty to deal with the mess. It would be impressive if it didn’t make my job harder.
It’s almost four when I finally pack everything up and decide I need air. I step out of the library and onto the quad, blinking at the daylight. The grass is dotted with people lying on blankets, talking, scrolling on their phones. A group of guys tosses a football around near a statue. It’s all so normal that it feels fake.
I start across the quad, eyes on the path, mind already jumping ahead to my afternoon office hours. I have twenty minutes before students start showing up with questions. Twenty minutes to reset my expression intoBrendon Lane, TA. Twenty minutes where I can pretend I’m not counting down the hours until I have to drive back to that cottage.
I hear someone call his name across the quad, and my head snaps up on reflex.
Dominic is standing near one of the picnic tables with a couple of his teammates, a Lakehaven zipped hoodie hanging open over a black T-shirt and black jeans. His hair is down today, black strands falling around his face in loose waves that brush his shoulders. Blue eyes so light they look silver.
He looks the same as he does on posters and social media. Easy grin. Relaxed posture. Golden boy with the big hands. Campus god with the best arm. The kind of guy people stop and stare at without realizing they’re staring.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up, and yesterday slams back into me with brutal force.
Those same hands on a throat. Those same eyes looking up at me over a dying man. That same mouth saying “I’d hate to ruin that pretty face”in a quiet, certain tone.
I feel myself shrinking on the inside. I should look away and keep moving. He’s just a student. Another assignment. He’s just a normal guy.
He’s a monster.
I see the moment he spots me. His eyes slide away from his teammate mid-conversation, landing on me with unnerving precision. His smile changes, turning from crowd-pleasing charm to predatory. It’s subtle enough that anyone else wouldn’t notice, but I do. I feel it like a hand closing around the back of my neck.
I drag my eyes away and keep walking, every step measured, my face smoothing back into that polite blankness I wear for professors, my father, and God.
Shame curls low in my gut because another part of me—the part I keep locked down so deep I pretend it doesn’t exist—reacts to him in a way that feels wrong.
Whatever is inside me answers him, and it’s the same darkness I’ve spent my entire life praying away.
I quicken my pace, almost jogging by the time I reach the steps of the administration building. I take them two at a time, push through the doors, and move through the cool, quiet air until I reach the narrow hallway that leads to the TA offices.
Mine is at the end. It’s small and neat—a space no one cares about unless they need help with an assignment.
I unlock the door and step inside, shutting it behind me. The moment the latch clicks, the control I’ve been holding onto all morning slips. I drop my bag on the chair and start pacing. I drag in a breath that doesn’t feel deep enough, and then another and another while my mind spirals.
You need to report him.
You need to run.
You need to quit.
