Page 174 of Dirty Hit
My life used to be neat and sorted into boxes: church, school, family, sin. Dominic kicked the wall down, poured gasoline over the boxes, and decided we were going to dance in the ashes instead.
His jersey hangs on the back of the bedroom door, the black and red of the Los Angeles Kingsmen bright even in the dim light. Number thirteen. Volkov. I’ve watched every snap he’s taken in that uniform. I’ve watched analysts lose their minds over his arm, over his composure, over the way he stares down defensive lines like he’s daring them to come closer. They talk about his “killer instinct” and have no idea how on the nose that is.
The first time they showed my boy in his jersey, I ugly cried on this same couch. Kyra was there that night, sitting cross-legged on the rug with a bowl of popcorn that Samson tried to steal out of sheer greed. She didn’t even laugh at me. She just leaned back against my legs and said, “He used to dream about this when we were kids, you know. You’re part of why he can enjoy it now.”
Kyra comes by a lot now. She started at Lakehaven this semester and has adopted me as her unofficial big brother. Which is both comforting and terrifying, given her last name. We watch games together, cook, fight over the remote, and talkabout everything except the parts of our lives that are built on blood.
It’s good. It’s better than anything I thought I would have.
But it is not the same as having him here.
He’s supposed to be visiting this weekend. Officially, it is a “bye week” for his team, which means no game, fewer practices, and just enough freedom for him to hop a red-eye back to the wrong coast and fall into my bed. He told me he plans to spend the whole weekend “on you or in you,” which made me choke so hard he laughed for a full minute straight.
We have been counting down in our texts like teenagers.
Daddy:Three more sleeps, Little Sin. Try not to get stabbed again before I get there.
Me:Fuck you, you’re the one in a city full of lunatics, I’m in farm country.
Daddy:You say that like you’re not in a murder cottage in the woods.
Me:Touché.
Tonight, though, it’s just me and the animals and the soft tick of the cheap wall clock. I finish marking the last sad essay, and rub my eyes. Samson sighs and rolls onto his back, paws in the air. Jericho jumps down from the couch, stretches in that boneless way only cats can pull off, and pads toward the bedroom like he is done with today and everyone in it.
I’d planned to stay up late tonight and mark essays, but my body has other ideas. My eyes burn every time I blink. The clock on the nightstand reads 01:17 in hazy red digits. I fall asleepcounting down the hours until I can press my face into his neck again and breathe.
I don’t know how long I’m out before the growl wakes me.
It’s low at first, a vibration more than a sound, like distant thunder. For a heartbeat, I think it’s part of a dream. Then Samson’s weight shifts on the rug, claws scraping softly against the floor, and he growls again, deeper this time.
My eyes snap open in the dark.
The cottage is quiet—too quiet. No hum from the fridge, no tick of the hallway clock. Power’s out. Storm, maybe. The air feels heavy. My heart starts pounding, adrenaline hitting before conscious thought catches up.
“Samson?” My voice is a harsh whisper. “What’s wrong?”
Jericho bolts off the bed and disappears under it, fur puffed up, low hiss slipping out. Samson stands, body taut, ears perked, staring at the closed bedroom door. The growl builds in his chest, rumbling through the floorboards into my bare feet when I swing them over the side.
I strain my ears.
There it is—another sound. A faint scrape at the front of the cottage. Metal on wood. Then the soft, unmistakable rattle of a doorknob being tested.
My stomach drops.
Dominic’s face flashes through my head for half a second, ridiculous and hopeful, but the hair on the back of my neck tells me instantly it’s not him. He wouldn’t fumble the lock. He wouldn’t drag metal over wood like that. He wouldn’t have Samson growling like he’s about to launch himself at a threat.
“Stay,” I whisper to Samson, as if he’s going to listen to me now when smelling a threat.
I stand, heart slamming hard enough that my side twinges, phantom pain where a knife once kissed me. The floor is coldunder my feet. I take two careful steps toward the dresser, reaching blindly for the phone, when the sound changes.
No more rattling. A soft thud, then another. Then the crack of glass shattering somewhere near the kitchen.
Samson explodes into barking, all composure gone. It’s loud and vicious, nothing like the yap he uses when he wants treats. He charges toward the door, toenails skidding. I follow on instinct, grabbing my phone on the way and fumbling with the screen as I yank the bedroom door open.
“Sam, heel,” I hiss, because I don’t want him charging into whoever just came through my window.
He hesitates for half a second at the threshold, torn between training and instinct, then opts for the latter. He streaks down the hallway, barking his head off.
