Page 9 of Dirty Hit
My breath catches, and he smiles wider, seemingly satisfied.
“So let’s study, Brendon. And let’s keep this our little secret.”
My hands tremble as I open my notebook. I don’t look up. I don’t argue. I do what I’ve always done.
I obey.
Dominic
BrendonLanesitsacrossfrom me at the dining table, like I didn’t just finish choking the life out of a man ten feet away.
He’s got a notebook open and a pen in his hand, tapping it against the paper in little nervous beats. His voice is quiet but steady, words flat and practiced as he reads from his notes and explains a concept I already know.
He’s been talking for maybe four minutes now, trying to hold some kind of structure, pretending this is normal. That this is just a regular tutoring session with a football player, when said football player had his hands around a man’s throat ten minutes ago. He doesn’t even look at the wrapped-up body on the floor.
That’s interesting.
I lean back in my chair slightly, elbow resting on the arm, fingers curled loosely under my chin as I watch him with real interest this time. Not like before. Before I didn’t care.
Brendon Lane was a name on a form. He was supposed to be a TA with a soft, forgettable face and a quiet voice. One of those spineless academic types who flinch when you speak too loudly.
Now I see him. I see the way his eyes dart toward me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. I see the way he clutches the pen too tightly, and the effort it takes for him not to tremble.
But more than that, I see the calm.
Most people don’t have that—they cry, beg, scream, or panic. What Brendon is exuding is restraint and straightforward control.
What are you hiding under all that good-boy Christian guilt, Brendon?
Seth’s text comes through while I’m in the kitchen after finally deciding to wash the blood from my hands. He always types the same way, clipped and bored, like he’s ordering coffee instead of showing up to drag someone out of my living room.
Unknown:ETA two minutes. Door unlocked?
I glance toward the dining table where Brendon sits with his notebook open and his spine straight, posture too good for a guy who just watched a man die on my floor. His eyes are on the page, but he looks terrified if you know what to look for. Terror doesn’t always come with shaking hands and tears; sometimes, it comes with control so tight it turns a person into a statue.
I type back with one hand.
Me:Back door. Come around.
I toss the phone onto the counter and rinse the towel under the tap, even though it’s pointless. I’m in a bad mood. The guy I killed wasn’t a thrill. He was an inconvenience, a dumbass who thought my cottage was an easy target because it’s tucked awayfrom campus and there aren’t neighbors close enough to care about a scream.
He didn’t know he walked into the wrong place, and by the time he realized it, he was already in my grip. I should’ve enjoyed it more. I should’ve felt that old spark, that relief that used to come with it.
Instead, I felt annoyed. That’s what pisses me off most. Not the mess, the timing, or even the interruption, but the fact that I’m starting to feel nothing where I used to feel too much.
I hear the soft crunch of gravel outside, and know Seth is here, so I walk out to meet him. He’s stripping off his black leather jacket as I walk toward him, long blond hair tied up in a bun, face calm. Seth is tall, lean, covered in tattoos, and looks the part of the tattoo artist he portrays in public.
“You look irritated, mate,” he says with a grin, his lip piercings making the grin look more menacing than it is.
“I am,” I reply flatly. “The fucker broke in.”
Seth’s brows lift faintly. “That’s rude of him.”
“He tried the back window first. Not sure how he didn’t realize I was home, since the Charger and bike are here.” I shove my hands into my pockets, feeling the dried blood beneath my nails that I haven’t had time to scrub completely out. “Stupid fucker ruined my evening.”
Seth tilts his head slightly, studying me the way he studies everything. “Unplanned kills are messy,” he says calmly. “You prefer your rituals neat.”
“I prefer control,” I correct him. “He took that from me for about ten seconds.”
