Page 153 of Dirty Hit
I hate that he’s always lighter than I expected. He should eat more.I should feed him more.Stupid thoughts, but they keep my hands from shaking as I carry him out to the Charger. The night air hits us, and his body shivers against mine. I press himcloser with one arm, while I wrench the passenger door open with the other, then lay him across the seat as gently as I can.
“Stay awake,” I mutter, voice rough, as I sprint around to the driver’s side. “You go to sleep, you’re going to piss me off.”
He doesn’t answer. That terrifies me more than anything, because my boy always brats me.
The drive to the hospital is a blur of red lights I don’t stop for and speed limits I blow past without a second thought. The Charger roars, engine straining as I push it harder than I usually let myself on these streets. I take a route that avoids campus cameras, veer down the alley I already know has a blind spot, thanks to a busted security system, and file that detail away. I will need it in fifteen minutes when I build my lie. Right now, I’m making the car go faster.
The emergency entrance is a wash of harsh white light as I pull up half on the curb, the Charger’s tires squealing. Somebody yells about parking, and I ignore them. I’m out of the car and around to his side in seconds, ripping the door open, swearing under my breath as I try to move him without jarring the wound. He lets out a small, broken whimper that tears right through me.
“Almost there, baby,” I mutter, scooping him up. “Stay with me. You fucking stay with me.”
The instant the automatic doors hiss open, the smell hits me: disinfectant, stale coffee, metal. The ER is a rush of movement and noise—nurses behind the desk, a crying kid somewhere, the low murmur of TV news in a corner. Then somebody looks up, eyes widen, and the whole room pivots.
There are three things that work in my favor immediately. One, this is Lakehaven’s main hospital, and every nurse and orderly in this building knows who I am because my face has been on their TVs since freshman year. Two, I’m covered in blood, and I do not look like I am in the mood to be fucked with. Three, Brendon is small, and pale, and clearly dying in my arms,and that image triggers the part of every medical professional that moves before forms are filled out.
“Jesus—somebody get a gurney!” a nurse shouts, already moving around the desk. “Volkov? What happened?”
“Robbery,” I say, voice coming out steady even though my chest feels like it’s going to split. “I happened to drive past the alley off Mercer, behind that shitty liquor store. Guy was going through his pockets, but I chased him off and brought him here.”
The lie rolls out smooth and rehearsed, even though I only put it together in the drive over. I catalogued which alleys don’t have cameras years ago for other reasons; Mercer’s one of them. Let them go look, they won’t find shit. The only thing that may come back to bite me is leaving campus on my Ducati. Fuck it, I’ll think of a story later.
The nurse gives me a quick look, takes in my face, registers the name, and nods like she believes every word. Why wouldn’t she? Dominic Volkov saving a poor TA from a random act of violence fits the narrative a hell of a lot better than the truth.
“Let’s move,” someone barks. A gurney appears out of nowhere. Hands reach, professional and quick, and I force myself to let go. My arms suddenly feel weightless, wrong. They strap him down, cut the hoodie up the side, and when the fabric peels back and the blood-soaked shirt underneath comes into view, there’s a chorus of low curses and clipped instructions.
“BP’s dropping.”
“Get a line in.”
“Prep trauma one.”
They wheel him away, and part of me goes with him. The part that has been pretending for months now that I’m still just a weapon my mother sharpened, instead of whatever the fuck I’ve become with this boy in my life. I follow until a nurse plants a hand on my chest, and physically stops me.
“You can’t come back here, Mr. Volkov,” she says, firm but not unkind. “We’ll take care of him. Wait in triage. We’ll update you as soon as we stabilize him.”
“He lost a lot of blood,” I say automatically. My brain is already in calculation mode. “Please, if he needs… I’m O-neg, I can—”
“You’re his friend?”
“Yeah,” I say, and the word barely covers it, but I’m not about to explain our dynamic to a woman in scrubs. “Closest thing he has right now. Use me if you need to.”
She nods, already turning away. “We might. Sit tight.”
The empty feeling that opens in my chest is worse than anything I’ve felt standing over a cooling body.
A nurse with kind eyes and a clipboard intercepts me, steering me toward the side without asking. “Let’s get you checked over,” she says. “You’re covered in blood, hon.”
“It’s his,” I say automatically.
She nods, unconvinced. “You sure none of it’s yours?”
“Pretty sure,” I mutter. “I’ve been through worse.”
Her eyes flick over my face, lingering on the way I say that, and then she gestures for me to follow. She deposits me in a plastic chair near the waiting area, hands me a stack of antiseptic wipes, and tells me to clean up while she grabs some forms.
The wipes turn red as I scrub my hand, then pink, then finally mostly white as I scrub my fingers, my wrists, the smears on my neck. Somewhere in the middle of it, I register that there is more blood on me than there should be from just one wound. I push that thought away. I will think about my mother later.
I sit in one of the ugly plastic chairs, forearms braced on my knees, hands still tacky with his blood, and I stare at my hands until they blur.
