Page 136 of Dirty Hit
The ride out of town is exactly the kind of therapy my brain usually uses instead of talking. Streets blur past under the cone of the headlight. The wind slaps at my hoodie, cool air filling my lungs. Brendon’s grip tightens and slackens in cycles around mywaist, body pressed flush against my back. Every time I lean into a turn, he instinctively moves with me, thighs clenching around the seat, chest molded to my spine.
By the time I slow and pull off onto a narrow dirt lane, his hands are no longer death-gripping my hoodie; they’re firm, but not panicked.
The lane opens into a small clearing. Trees ring it on all sides, tall pines and oaks, their branches whispering in the slight breeze. The ground is mostly packed earth with patches of grass; there’s enough space to park the bike and move around without being seen from the road. I know because I’ve used this place before, for reasons that would make most people sleep with the lights on.
For once, that’s not why I’m here.
I cut the engine, and the sudden quiet rings in my ears. Brendon’s arms stay around me for a few seconds, like his body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’ve stopped. Then he loosens his grip and eases back, swinging one leg over and dismounting clumsily.
His feet hit the ground, and he wobbles a little. I catch his wrist before he can do something graceful like fall on his ass. He glares at me through the helmet visor, then yanks the helmet off completely, hair now sticking up in twenty different directions.
“Never make me do that again,” he says immediately.
“Hey, you tolerated it,” I say, taking the helmet from him and setting both on the bike.
He looks around, arms crossing over his chest. “Why are we in the middle of a forest?” he asks slowly. “At midnight. On a weeknight. Before your away game. With no one around to hear me scream.”
His tone is flat, but I can hear the thread of genuine unease under the sarcasm. His eyes flick to the trees, the darkness beyond the circle of cleared ground, then back to me.
“You brought me to a murder site, didn’t you?” he says. “This is where you dump bodies. Oh my God.”
I snort. “Relax. I don’t shit where I eat.”
“That is the worst metaphor you could’ve picked,” he says, face screwing up.
“Also, inaccurate,” I correct. “It’s not a dump site.”
It’s a kill site. Although, I won’t mention that little bit.
He tilts his head. “So it’s… what. A scenic overlook?”
“Something like that,” I say, grinning. “I wanted you somewhere no one can interrupt us. No cellphones. No people in the hallway. No mother.”
His shoulders ease a fraction at that last part, and I see the relief flicker across his face before he schools it.
“Still feels very‘start of a horror movie’out here,” he mutters.
“Didn’t you tell me once that you get off on fear?” I ask casually.
He chokes. “I… no… fuck you, I did not say it like that.”
God, I love that he curses so openly in front of me now—proof that I’ve ruined this good boy for anyone else.
“You did,” I say. “You get keyed up when you’re scared. You like the edge. You like not knowing if I’m going to kiss you or choke you.”
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops, cheeks visibly flushing even in the dim light. “Shut up.”
I laugh quietly, the sound rolling out into the trees. “Come on,” I say, stepping away from the bike and into the middle of the clearing. “We’re going to play a game.”
He stays where he is, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, shoulders hunched. “Ugh, your games,” he says. “They always end with me on my knees, or on my back.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I say.
“I have class in the morning,” he says stubbornly.
“You can grade essays when I’m on the bus tomorrow,” I say. “Tonight, you’re mine.”
He swallows, and his eyes dart around the clearing again. “What kind of game?” he asks, and this time I hear the curiosity tangled up with the fear.
