Page 6 of Dirty Hit
They told me two days ago that I’d be assigned to tutor Dominic Volkov. I remember standing in the department office with my hands folded neatly in front of me.
Professor Hargrove explained—in that calm, reassuring voice he uses when he’s already decided something for you—that it would look good on my record. Said it was an opportunity, and the athletics department specifically requested someone reliable.
He used that word twice.Reliable.I knew what he meant—they all know what it means. It means I show up, I don’t argue, and I don’t say no.
I wanted to say no.
The word pressed up against my teeth, but I swallowed it down the way I always do. Because I’m a good student, a good person,and I come from a good Christian family who raised me to serve, to help, to put others before myself. Because my father would smile proudly if he knew I was tutoring the star quarterback, instead of running from it. Because I can’t stand disappointing anyone.
It makes me sick every time I agree to something I don’t want, and how relieved they look when I nod. I’m so tired of being the dependable one. The safe one.The good boy.
Buildings disappear in my rearview mirror as I drive farther out, trees closing in on either side of the road. Dominic doesn’t live in the student apartments near downtown; he rents some private cottage off campus.
My hands flex against the wheel, and I exhale slowly, trying to calm the restless feeling crawling under my skin. I’ve been bottling things up for years—every sharp thought, every ugly impulse, and every moment I wanted to snap at someone, or slam a door, or say something cruel instead of kind.
If I don’t let it out soon, I’m going to explode.
I pull into the gravel driveway and kill the engine, the sudden silence pressing in around me. The cottage sits low and unassuming: single-story, white siding, dark roof, and a small porch with two steps leading up to the door.
There’s a black Charger parked off to the side, polished and old-school. The car suits him in a way that makes too much sense.
This is ridiculous. He’s just a student—a football player with slipping grades. He’s not some villain in a cautionary tale. Still, my stomach flips because Dominic Volkov scares the hell out of me, and I don’t fully understand why.
On paper, he’s exactly the kind of person I should admire: hardworking, disciplined, volunteers at the local children's home every second Saturday, smiles for photos, and speaksrespectfully in interviews. That’s not the image of someone dangerous.
But I’ve also seen clips of him on the field. He moves with a kind of contained brutality, as if he’s holding back, even when he’s slamming into another player. Off the field, he’s polite, calm, and soft-spoken. That contrast unsettles me more than if he were openly arrogant.
When they call him the biggest ego at Lakehaven, it isn’t about his attitude. It’s about the way the entire campus bends around him.
I reach up and adjust the cross resting against my chest, the chain cool against the skin beneath my button-down.
“Get a grip. He’s just a student,” I mutter to myself, pushing the door open and stepping out onto the gravel.
The air smells clean here, shaded by the trees, and my footsteps sound too loud on the gravel as I walk up to the front door.
I notice that it’s already ajar, and there’s metal music turned up loud enough that you can’t hear it unless you’re right by the door. I hesitate, but lift my hand before I can stop it and knock softly.
“Dominic?” I call out, my voice thin in the open air. “It’s Brendon. Your TA?”
No answer.
I push the door open a little wider and step inside. The air smells faintly metallic, and the music is louder in here.
“Dominic?” I call again, louder this time.
There’s a sound coming from my left; a strained noise that doesn’t seem to belong. I take another step forward before my brain can stop me, drawn to it. I round the corner into the living room, and everything in me locks up.
Dominic Volkov has someone pinned beneath him, his knees planted on either side of a body. His hands are locked aroundtheir throat so tightly that the muscles in his forearms stand out as he squeezes. The person beneath him is struggling weakly, heels scraping uselessly against the floor—face beaten to a pulp and eyes wide.
There’s blood smeared across the floor, splattered on his shirt, and streaked along his arms and hands.
A small sound escapes me before I can stop it, something between a gasp and a whimper, and Dominic looks up.
His eyes meet mine, and his mouth curves into a grin that’s so predatory I’m surprised I haven’t pissed myself. He huffs out an annoyed sigh.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Alexa, stop the music,” he says, and quiet immediately falls over the cottage. Dominic looks down at the person beneath him, then back at me. “Is our session today?”
I can’t breathe properly. My brain tries to categorize what I’m seeing as a misunderstanding. A prank; some kind of twisted joke. It doesn’t work. There’s too much blood, and now that the music is off, the sound of choking is too real.
