Page 122 of Dirty Hit
Out of sight, out of mind was always a lie.
Turns out, loving a monster doesn’t stop just because I walk away.
Dominic
Myhandsaresteadyon the steering wheel, knuckles pale. There’s a smear of dried red on the back of my left thumb I missed, so I rub at it with my right hand, grinding it into the skin more than wiping it away.
I just killed two people, and felt nothing.
My body was there, sure, but my mind was back on the Lakehaven quad, back in the middle of the fucking day with sunlight and students and normal life—and Brendon standing there in his neat clothes, with his broken heart written all over his face.
He looked at me for maybe three seconds, long enough for me to see his expression go from blank to hurt and then to nothing, before he looked away and walked off.
I did that on purpose. I made sure our official sessions stopped and I quit texting—letting the space widen. I told myself it was strategic, that distance was safer, that if my mother ever sniffed around me again, she’d see nothing weak to exploit.
“You see? Already your movements are smoother. Last time I watched, you were too distracted, too hesitant. Now the engine is warm.”
She stood behind me as I killed, her accent heavier tonight, suggesting she’s pleased. Then she touched my face, and everything in me screamed to push her away.
If anyone else had touched me after a kill, I would have broken their wrist. With her, I gritted my teeth and let it happen. This was the game tonight—the part I indulged in to keep her gaze pointed away from the one person she can never know about.
I casually tilted my head and let her fingers slide along the line of my jaw, pretending it didn’t make my skin crawl.
“The game next weekend will go better now. When you are violent regularly, the rest of your life flows. This is good for you.”
My mother thinks this is balance; to her, this is me recalibrating. Kill a couple of strangers, score a couple of touchdowns—rinse and repeat. She thinks the only things that throw me off in life are missed tackles and coaches who yell too loudly.
She has no fucking idea that the thing rattling around in my chest like shrapnel is a law student who hooked his pinky with mine and believed my promises. Who walked away from me today with his face shut down so hard it felt like a door slamming in my own skull.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and shut my eyes, refusing to cry. Tears were useless in my house growing up. They bought me nothing. They got my twin brother killed, my father and siblings buried, and they made her smile.
I grind my teeth and breathe until the urge passes—until all that’s left is a dull throb behind my eyes and the familiar acidic crawl of self-disgust.
“Don’t waste too much time in your head, Domenyk. You are what you are. No point crying about the knife, when you were born to hold it.”
“You wanted this,” I mutter to myself, starting the engine; the Charger rumbles to life, comforting and steady. “You wanted him gone, you got it. Congratulations. You’re free.”
The lie tastes sour.
The cottage is dark when I pull up, just a hunched shape at the end of the gravel lane. No lights, no movement, no reason for my brain to conjure the image it does: Brendon on my couch, mug in hand and bare legs tucked up under him, papers spread out, cat on his lap.
That was last week; that’s over. This place is back to being mine alone.
I turn off the ignition and sit there with my hands on the wheel again.
She wants two more bodies cold before she leaves on Friday. That’s my away game, so I need to keep her happy before she leaves. Before she realizes I have a weakness here. Before she realizes that she’s not the one I bow to anymore.
“In and out,” I tell myself quietly. “Shower, bed, sleep, practice, film, two more bodies, game. You can do this. You’ve done worse.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, inhale through my nose, and exhale slowly. Then I do it again. The urge to slam my fist into the dashboard and keep going until bones crack is almost overwhelming. I don’t. The Charger doesn’t deserve my bullshit.
I finally pry my fingers off the wheel, grab my duffel from the passenger seat, and climb out. The air smells like damp earth and distant smoke from someone’s fireplace a couple of properties over. I unlock the front door and head towards the living room, switching lights on as I go. Then, my brain short-circuits.
Brendon is kneeling in the middle of my living room floor.
He’s exactly where I usually put him—center of the rug, not too close to the table, not too close to the couch—the space I deliberately cleared so there’s nothing for him to bump into if I drag him around by the hair.
He’s wearing jeans and one of those soft sweaters he likes, sleeves pushed up, hands resting on his thighs. His back is straight, head bowed, and his hair is falling forward just enough to shadow his face. The cuff I put on him months ago is still there, and my chest punches tight so hard it feels like another rib cracked.
