Page 113 of Dirty Hit
My skin crawls, and every muscle in my body locks up. For a second, I’m sixteen again, pressed against the wall of our hallway. I jerk back as if she burned me.
“Don’t touch me,” I say.
Her hand drops, and she rolls her eyes. “Still sensitive?” she asks. “You were always so squeamish about intimacy. I tried to fix that.”
Rage spikes so fast I see white.
If we weren’t in a public parking lot, I’d put my hands around her throat and squeeze until that calm exterior cracks; until she shows something other than smug satisfaction at the ruin she left behind. As it is, I curl my fingers into fists at my sides, and make myself breathe.
“We’re done,” I say. “Leave, or I’ll have security escort you out. We both know you don’t want that kind of attention.”
She tuts. “I’ll see you soon. We have unfinished business, you and I.”
“No, we really don’t.” I step around her, unlock the Charger, and yank the driver’s door open. “Get my sister home, and stay away from me.”
I don’t slam the door, because this car doesn’t deserve my temper. I shut it just hard enough to make the point, start the engine, and pull out without looking back.
My phone stays face down in the cup holder, but I can still hear it vibrating. I don’t check it; I don’t need to see his name after that little family reunion. I know if I look, I’ll want the wrong kind of comfort.
The smart move would be to go straight to the cottage: lock every door, check my messages, maybe call Brendon.
But I’m not feeling smart.
I turn the music up loud enough to drown out the noise, and go do something about the anger in me the only way I ever learned how.
Brendon
Mycousin,Eli,isstill riding the high of their win, loud and bright in that Blackthorne way, retelling a story about the same route three times, with bigger hand gestures every round. His captain and quarterback, Luca, keeps throwing an arm around whoever’s closest, pulling them into another toast, then crying that he misses his boyfriend. The whole front half of the bar feels like it’s vibrating with victory and cheap whiskey.
I laughed with them and clinked glasses. I hugged my cousin and told him I was proud of him, because I am. I did it all, like a good relative and a good sport.
The whole time, my phone sat on the table in front of me—texts unread and unanswered.
When I finally slide off the barstool, Eli complains. “Already?” he demands, half-empty glass in his hand, cheeks flushed. “It’s barely midnight, cuz. You turning into a pumpkin?”
“I’ve got papers to grade tomorrow,” I lie, grabbing my hoodie from the back of the chair. “And a headache. I’m happy for you,I promise, but if I stay longer I’m going to pass out on your shoulder and drool on your nice jersey.”
He snorts. “This thing has seen worse,” he says, flicking the number on my chest. His expression softens. “Real talk, though. It meant a lot that you came and wore the colors, even though you’re still a traitor at your traitor school.”
Luca leans around Eli, his grin lazy. “You coming to the afters at the hotel, Lane? We’ve got a whole floor. Depravity, debauchery… all the good D-words.”
“I’m pretty sure you just described your entire life,” I say. “No, thanks. I’m going to be responsible and go home.”
“Booooo,” Eli’s best friend, Julian, groans. “Eli, your cousin’s boring.”
“Yeah, but he’s the smart one,” Eli says, squeezing my shoulder. “Text me when you get back so your mother doesn’t call and yell at me about letting you walk around late at night.”
“I will,” I promise, hugging him quickly. “You really played great, Eli. I mean that.”
He beams. “I know,” he says, because he’s humble like that. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, then duck away quickly before Luca can try to involve me in another round.
The walk to my car is brisk, cold air cutting through the leftover warmth from the bar. My head clears a little with each breath. My cross is tucked underneath the Blackthorne shirt with Eli’s name, metal warm against my skin, while the cuff is a snug band under my sleeve. It feels weirdly symbolic, all the different layers of loyalty piled on top of each other, none of them feeling quite comfortable tonight.
I slide into the driver’s seat and just sit there, letting the silence rush in while the noise from O’Malley’s becomes a muffled hum behind me.
I look at my phone again, and the last few messages I sent stare back at me, still unread.
