Page 83 of Dirty Hit
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor with my back against the door, knees up, hands over my face. My heart is still pounding. I’m replaying every second at high speed, pausing on every potential disaster. Mom inviting him to church. Dad calling him “son.” The casual way I lied about my spiritual life.
Dominic crosses the room and crouches in front of me. “Hey. Look at me.”
I peel my hands off my face. He’s closer like this, blue eyes level with mine, expression uncharacteristically soft. “That was a lot, but you did good.”
I huff out a hysterical laugh. “I did not. I lied to my parents.Again.”
“You’ve been lying to them for weeks,” he points out. “This didn’t start tonight.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” I snap.
“No, but it means this isn’t new ground; you’re already walking it. Tonight just smooshed your worlds together, and you weren’t ready. That’s all.”
I let my head drop back against the door. “They liked you. Of course, they fucking liked you. If they knew about the shit you say to me when you’ve got your hand around my throat, my dad’s brain would explode.”
He laughs at that. “You want me to start quoting scripture while I’m choking you out? Really lean into the preacher kink?”
“Dominic,” I groan, shoving at his chest half-heartedly. “Stop.”
He catches my wrists, pulls them away from his hoodie, and laces our fingers together instead. The gesture honestly makes my heart leap into my throat.
“Listen to me. You did fucking great,” he says. “You didn’t stutter yourself into a panic attack, you didn’t break down, you didn’t out us, and you didn’t throw me under the bus. You werepolite, present, and you didn’t shrink. I watched you; you think I wasn’t clocking every flinch?”
My throat tightens. “I felt like I was going to throw up,” I admit. “I haven’t prayed in months. I haven’t been to church. I lie to them every Sunday. My mom handed you an invitation to the sanctuary, and all I could think about was the plug I bought and how recently I douched in case you felt like—” I cut myself off, horrified. “Oh my God.”
Dominic’s eyebrows go up slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You douched?”
I want to evaporate.
“Forget I said that,” I say quickly. “Please. Just erase it.”
“Have you been doing that a lot?” he asks, completely ignoring me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Dominic, please.”
He hums, clearly delighted. “You’ve been prepping for me, Little Sin? Stretching, cleaning, getting your sweet little ass ready just in case I decide to take it?”
“Stop talking,” I mutter. “I hate you.”
“No you fucking don’t,” he says. “If you did, you wouldn’t be that ready for me on a Tuesday.”
I make a helpless noise and hide my face again. He laughs under his breath and slides his hand up my thigh, squeezing it.
“Hey,” he says, his voice softening. “Breathe.”
I realize I’m doing that shallow, fast breathing thing again, so I force a breath in—but it stutters halfway. He’s not smirking as much now; there’s a seriousness in his eyes that cuts through the embarrassment.
“You’re not going to Hell because you’re happy,” he says, bluntly. “You’re not damned because you haven’t prayed the way you used to. Maybe you and God need to renegotiate some things, sure. But you being turned on, you liking what we do,you lying to your parents because you’re not ready to have that conversation yet, is not an unforgivable sin.”
“You make it sound simple,” I grumble.
“It’s not. It’s messy, and it’s going to hurt, and you’re going to have to figure it out piece by piece. But I know what real guilt looks like on you, Brendon. I’ve seen you crushed under it. That’s not what I saw tonight. You were scared—trying to protect them and me at the same time. You did fine.”
“I know. And I know they mean well. I just… I wasn’t ready to see them. Not like this. Not when I…” I trail off, unable to complete the sentence.
“Not when you’ve been living a double life?” he supplies.
“Yes, exactly that. I don’t like lying to them,” I say quietly.
