Page 69 of Dirty Hit
Brendon Lane somehow managed to get inside my sleep cycle. He’s not a hookup or some nameless body I can slot into a rotation; he’s a specific problem with a name, a cross, a cat, and a brattiness that keeps dragging me right up to the edge of things I promised myself I’d never care about.
In no universe is this a good sign. Addictions are never good; I know that. I’ve had enough of them to recognize the pattern. My mother’s addiction to pain made me, and my father’s inability to say no put ten million in my account and left me with a car he loved more than his life. I know exactly how quickly this can go sideways.
Brendon Laneisan addiction.
There’s no way this ends neatly. There’s no version where I walk away with my life intact and he walks away untouched. I should be putting distance between us. I should be keeping him in the safe little box I carved out:TA, tutor, amusing toy.
Instead, I’m standing here with soap rinsing off my shoulders and a stupid smile stuck on my face, all because he came to watch me run drills and nearly got me flattened in front of Keller.
My smile gets worse when I remember it, which isn’t helping my argument that this is a bad thing.
“Fucking great,” I mutter in Russian. “That’s exactly what I need: a walking habit in a cross necklace.”
“Talkin’ to yourself again, Volkov?” one of the linemen calls from a couple of stalls down. “Need us to get you a therapist before draft day?”
“Blow me, Reyes,” I shout back.
“You couldn’t handle it,” he shoots back.
“Man, what the fuck are you grinning at?” Connor’s voice echoes from the next stall, muffled by tile and steam. “You look like you just got laid.”
I huff a laugh and tilt my head back under the spray. “What, I can’t be in a good mood?” I call back.
“Not your kind of good mood,” he says. “Your kind of good mood usually ends with someone crying or limping.”
“Fuck off,” I say, but there’s no real heat in it. It’s easy; I can do this banter in my sleep.
I twist the faucet off, grab my towel, and step out. The air feels colder than it is when it hits my wet skin, but the grin still hasn’t left my mouth. I towel off, trying not to think about green eyes in the stands and failing.
In the mirror, my reflection scowls back at me. My hair’s a dark, damp mess, yanked back with my fingers, my jaw rough with stubble, my shoulders still tense from practice. But I look… happy.The fuck.
“Fuck. You’ve got me so whipped over you,” I mutter as I head to my locker.
After getting dressed, I shove my gear into my duffel, sling it over my shoulder, and nod at a couple of guys as I head out.
“Good work today,” Keller grunts as I pass his office.
“Always,” I say, flashing him the easy grin I’ve perfected. “Try not to miss me too much before film.”
He snorts and waves me off.
I finally pull my phone from my pocket as I walk out. Though I’m not expecting anything, an annoying little dip still hits my chest when I see no new messages from him. He didn’t text after practice, or even send a snarky comment about me eating turf.
He came, he watched, and he left; that’s what normal people do. Nobody’s obligated to wait for the star player to finish showering.
Still, some part of me was apparently expectingsomething. A text, a stupid emoji, him hovering near the exit, pretending to be there for someone else. The fact that he’s not makes me feel fucking stupid.
The Charger sits where I left her, sleek and black and humming with the history under the hood. I slide into the driver’s seat, the leather familiar and worn in all the right places, and start her up, the engine rumbling through my bones.
Normally, the sound calms me—a reminder that there are pieces of my life I control completely—but today, the only thing I can think about is the empty space Brendon’s not occupying.
Rationally, I know that’s good. Rationally, I know keeping distance in public is smart. Rationally, I’m the one who told him no one can know, that I can’t risk the whispers. Still, I catch myself scanning the edges of the lot when I pull out, looking for his car.
I grind my teeth, irritated at the stupid tug of disappointment in my chest, and take it out on the gas pedal instead, letting the Charger eat the road. The route to the cottage is muscle memory now, turns taken automatically, trees blurring past.
I tell myself he has other things to do, that he’s probably grading papers, or leading some study group where everyone hangs on his every organized word. That he has a life outside of being my toy. I tell myself that’s good, that it means he hasanchors I didn’t build; which will make it easier to let him go when I have to.
I don’t believe a word of it.
