Page 11 of Dirty Hit
He looks up when I enter the room, his green eyes tracking my movements carefully, but he doesn’t look like he’s about to bolt. The terror is all but gone.
I lean against the doorway and study him openly. “You didn’t run.”
“No,” he replies.
“Why not?”
He hesitates just long enough to make it interesting. “Because running would’ve been stupid.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “Smart boy.”
He swallows, but he doesn’t look away. “I don’t intend to be stupid,” he adds quietly.
I push off the doorway and walk back to the table, pulling my chair out and sitting across from him again. I rest my forearms on the wood, watching him closely. “Most people would’ve pissed themselves,” I say.
“I considered it,” he replies. “But I didn’t.”
The sarcasm catches my attention. “You’re not screaming, either,” I point out.
“There’s no one to hear me,” he says. “And I assume that would’ve annoyed you.”
A small huff of laughter escapes me. “You’re assuming a lot.”
“I’m observing,” he corrects softly.
There it is again—that subtle brat. That almost-sass that doesn’t quite cross the line but brushes close enough to feel grating.
I narrow my eyes slightly. “You’re either very brave or very stupid.”
“Neither,” he says. “I just… process things differently.”
I tilt my head, studying him. He’s pale, yeah. His hands are a little too tight around his pen. But he’s functioning. Talking. Teaching.
He flips a page in his notebook and continues explaining something about fiscal impact and long-term projections, like we’re in a damn library instead of my cottage. I already know the material, but I let him talk and watch him instead.
He’s lean and smaller than me by a lot; only five-eight or nine, maybe. Seth was right, he is pretty. I don’t even bother pretending I don’t notice it. Soft brown hair that falls just slightly over his forehead and green eyes that are too bright for this room. He looks like he belongs in a church choir, not sitting across from me with blood still drying under my nails.
And he’s subtly sassing me.
It’s fucking fascinating.
God, what kind of punishment would that church family of his hand down if they knew he was alone in a house with someone like me?
My lips twitch. He’s the perfect kind of target; the kind you don’t just take, but ruin over time.
He slides a paper toward me. “We should start with judicial review. You clearly understand the concept, but your written analysis lacks structure.”
“Did you just critique my analysis structure after watching me choke someone out?” I ask.
“Yes,” he replies.
I laugh genuinely this time. “You’re something else.”
“We’re here for tutoring, not for me to comment on your extracurricular activities,” he says, forcing the conversation back onto safe ground. It’s almost funny, because nothing about this is safe now. Not for him. “Your professor emailed me your last essay feedback, and you lost points because you didn’t cite properly.”
“I know how to cite,” I say in a bored voice.
“You know how to belazy,” he corrects, and the way he says it makes my eyes narrow. Most people don’t speak to me that way. Not unless they’re stupid.
