Page 168 of Dirty Hit
Thewesettles in my bones, heavy and warm.
I shift as much as my side allows and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling myself closer. He adjusts his hold without missing a beat, one arm braced under my thighs, the other banded around my back. My head tucks under his chin. I can hear his heartbeat again, steady and strong.
“I’m scared,” I admit into his hoodie.
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
“You don’t sound scared,” I mumble.
“I learned how to sound like this from someone who thought fear was failure,” he says. “I’ll unlearn it. With you.”
Jericho jumps up and wedges himself in the tiny gap left between us, purring like a little engine, one paw pressing into my neck. The three of us are a ridiculous, precarious pile on this old sofa, stitched together with bruises and bad decisions and confessions.
“Fine,” I say. “You can hover.”
“Damn right I can,” he says.
“I reserve the right to complain.”
“Wouldn’t recognize you otherwise.”
I close my eyes, listening to his heart, the cat, and the night sounds outside. My body is exhausted enough and my head quiet enough that sleep feels possible.
If this is overbearing, I can live with it.
He’s overprotective because he almost lost me. I’m angry because I almost lost myself. Somewhere in the middle of that, we’ve carved out this bloody, messy, tender thing that feels suspiciously like a life, and as much as it terrifies me, as much as my upbringing screams that this is all wrong, I know one thing with the kind of clarity I don’t get often.
I would rather be in his arms on this torn couch, stitches pulling and tears drying, than anywhere else on earth.
Dominic
Practiceleavesmebuzzingand wiped at the same time, that weird post-adrenaline crash where my muscles hum, and my brain is just white noise. Keller rode our asses hard tonight, like he’s trying to squeeze every last drop of filmable greatness out of us before scouts show up again. My shoulders ache, my legs are heavy, and my hands smell like chalk and leather when I grab my bag and head out to the lot.
My headlights sweep the gravel as I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. For a second, I just sit there, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel, the quiet slamming into me after hours of whistles and yelling and the thud of bodies.
Home.
The word still feels fucking weird when I apply it to anything that isn’t a place my mother owned. It fits here, anyway.
I grab my duffel, slam the door shut with my hip, and make my way up the creaky porch steps. Inside, the air smells like laundry detergent and the cinnamon tea Brendon got obsessed with this week. The cottage is dark except for the soft glow spilling outfrom the bedroom at the end of the short hall. My chest loosens just seeing that rectangle of light on the floorboards.
I toe my shoes off by the door, hang my keys on the hook, and move as quietly as a guy my size can, which is still more silent than it should be. Old habits. Soft footfalls. Avoid the squeaky boards.If she doesn’t hear you, she won’t look at you.
I shut that thought down before it can go anywhere and head for the bedroom.
I pause in the doorway and take a second just to look. My chest pulls tight and warm at the same time. It’s fucked up that this is what does it—not a win, not a scout in the stands, not Keller telling me I nailed a route. This. A boy and a cat in my bed.
Mine.
Brendon is curled on my side of the bed, which is a thing he does now without even thinking about it. When he first started staying here full-time, he’d hover near the edge, tense and polite, waiting to see where I wanted him. Now he starfishes when he’s alone and curls toward my pillow when he’s not.
Tonight, he’s small and tucked in, lying on his uninjured side, arm wrapped around my pillow like it’s me. The bandage under his T-shirt pulls the fabric just enough for me to see its outline.
Jericho is a black lump by his ankles, tail flicking lazily, golden eyes tracking me. There are a couple more new claw marks on the footboard. I’m not even surprised anymore.
Brendon’s hair is a mess, flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, face slack in sleep. His mouth is slightly open, lashes dark smudges against his cheeks. There’s still a faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes even like this, but the tightness he carries when he’s awake is gone.
No pinched brow, no tension at the corners of his mouth. Just my boy, breathing slow and steady in my bed. My heart feels too big for my ribs for a second. It actually hurts.
