Page 38 of Dirty Hit
Dominic:Office hours, Brendon. When.
My fingers hover over the keys. This time, there’s no excuse to hide behind. No lecture, no crowd, no convenient distraction.
Me:Two to four.
He answers so fast he must have been waiting.
Dominic:Good.
Dominic:I’ll see you after.
I stare at the last message for a long time.After. Not maybe. Not if you’re free. A given. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I lock the phone instead and set it face-down on the desk before leaning back in my chair and covering my face with my hands.
“A man kissed me,” I say quietly into my palms, getting the words out where no one else can hear them. “A man kissed me, and I kissed him back, and I…likedit.”
The confession hangs in the air, and I drop my hands to stare at the ceiling tiles. The head of campus ministry would have a field day with this. My father would probably go quiet in that disappointed way that somehow always hurts more than shouting.
I don’t even know what God does about things like this anymore. I spent so long trying to convince myself I was on the safe side of the line. But now that I’ve crossed it, there’s this weird sense of relief mixing with the terror.
At least I know where I stand.
I rub at my chest absently, trying to smooth out the tight ache there, and my fingers bump the cross on its chain.
Metal and leather. Faith and possession.
Jericho will be waiting for me when I get home, jumping onto the bed and sniffing at the cuff, then stomping on my stomach when I keep lying there replaying the same kiss. I’ll probably yell at him for it. I’ll probably deserve it.
For now, I’m alone in this tiny office with my thoughts—a man who kills people sitting at the edges of all of them, wearing a grin, a dark shirt, and the bare skin of his wrist where the cuff used to be.
The door handle rattles once, making me jump. A student pokes their head in, eyes bright, binder in hand.
“Hey, Brendon,” she says. “You have a minute to look over my outline?”
I pull my sleeve down over the cuff, sit up straight, and paste my usual smile on.
“Yeah,” I say, voice smooth, steady. “Come in.”
Brendon
ItellmyselfI’monlyhere because I’m nosy.
That is the lie I settle on. It sounds better than I’ve been thinking about Dominic Volkov for three straight days, and I need to see him with my own eyes or I’m going to start crawling out of my skin. It sounds academic, almost. Observational. Rational. Like I’m conducting a character study instead of driving across town to watch a murderer teach children how to hold a football.
I know Lakehaven’s golden boy volunteers with underprivileged kids every second Saturday. It fits too well with the image everyone else sees—sweet, kind, and generous. The star athlete who stops to sign autographs for children and old ladies, making everyone around him feel special.
But I know better.
I’ve seen blood on his hands. I’ve seen the look in his eyes when he’s forgotten to wear the mask, the coldness underneath all that easy charm. I’ve heard the way he talks when he’s got hishand around my throat and I’m trying not to shatter in front of him.
That’s the true him—I know it is—so why does everyone else only get the polished version? Why does he save that other face for me? Maybe the more uncomfortable question is the one my brain keeps circling.
Why do I keep going back anyway?
Like right now, I’m sitting in my car outside a run-down community field on a Saturday afternoon, squinting through the windshield like a stalker.
“I’m here because I need to understand why no one else sees it. That’s a normal reason. A healthy reason. Very investigative journalism of me.”
The field isn’t much to look at. Patchy grass. Rusted bleachers on one side. A chain-link fence that’s been repaired so many times it looks more zip tie than metal in places. The children’s home sits a little way back from it. It’s a squat building, painted a tired cream, with bright murals of cartoon animals along the sides like someone tried to give it joy on a budget.
