Page 148 of Dirty Hit
When I’m stressed, I get murderous. It’s not poetic; it’s just how my wiring got soldered. Anxiety hits other people in their throat or their stomach; it hits me in my hands. I start wanting to cut throats instead of use words.
I swallow hard, throat dry, and force myself to stare out the window as the bus eats up miles of interstate. The world slides by in streaks of dark and highway lights. My teammates shout, sing, and replay clips on their phones. Keller gives me a once-over from the front, seems satisfied I’m not about to have a meltdown, and goes back to muttering into his headset to whoever he’s debriefing with.
It’s nearly midnight when we roll back onto campus, and my jaw hurts from clenching. We pull into the lot behind the stadium; the second the brakes hiss, I’m on my feet. Keller starts his little post-game speech, but I’m not listening. The momenthe says “dismissed,” I’m gone, boots pounding asphalt, sprinting for my Ducati.
“Dom,” Colton calls. “You coming to O’Malley’s later?”
“Got shit to do,” I throw over my shoulder, already halfway across the lot.
The road between campus and Brendon’s place is muscle memory by now. I take it faster than I should, wind clawing at my hoodie, eyes locked on the dark ahead. Every streetlight I pass feels like it takes a year.
My mind keeps looping through possibilities. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he dropped it in the bathroom. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe ‘they know’was just about a pop quiz or some shit, and I’m overreacting.
My stomach doesn’t buy any of that.
Brendon’s apartment is dark when I pull up. I rev the engine once, hoping he’ll look out the window like he usually does when he hears me. Nothing.
Unease ratchets tighter.
I take the stairs two at a time, heart in my throat, every worst-case scenario playing on loop. Door unlocked, lights on, strangers inside, blood, cops, my mother smiling in the corner. Without thinking, I wrench the handle and shove the door open—what the fuck?Why is it unlocked?
“Brendon,” I call, already crossing the threshold.
He’s not on the couch. Not in the tiny kitchen. I shoulder the bedroom door open, chest tight, and find rumpled sheets, no Brendon. Bathroom’s empty. The whole place smells like him, but he’s gone.
“Brendon!” I call again, stepping inside the room. “You better not be fucking with me right now.”
Jericho launches itself at my shins with a furious little chirp—tail puffed, ears flat, eyes wide and pissed off. He swipes at my laces and lets out a sharp, almost scolding meow.
“Hey, menace,” I say, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Where’s your idiot human?”
He flicks his tail hard and trots a few steps toward the hallway, then stops, looks back at me, and does that annoying cat thing where he stares as if I should already know.
Everything looks normal, which is the worst part, because normal is what you see right before you find out something isn’t.
I call again as I stand in the kitchen. Still nothing. I text one last time, fingers moving too hard on the screen. Jericho hops up onto the counter and rubs against my arm, then butts his head into my shoulder. He’s agitated. He’s not doing his usual aloof “I tolerate you” act. He keeps moving toward the door, looking back, then moving again.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Okay, I hear you.”
He blinks up at me, pupils huge, ears tilted slightly back. It’s as close to worried as a cat can look.
If he’s not here, and he’s not answering his phone, there’s only one other place he’d go that makes sense—even if it’s the last place on earth I want him to be right now.
My cottage.
It’s the only other “home” we have together. We’ve been avoiding it because of my mother, because I can feel her shadow everywhere in that house, even when she’s not physically there. Brendon knows it’s risky, but it’s the only thing I can think of right now.
Fuck. I should have put that tracker on his phone.
I shove my phone in my pocket and leave, locking the door behind me without thinking. I’m back on the Ducati, and I go straight to my cottage. The ride out is worse than the ride from campus. Every tree I pass looks like it’s hiding someone. Every shadow looks like it’s about to solidify into my mother’s shape. When I turn onto the lane that leads to the cottage, my stomach flips.
Brendon’s car is here.
Relief hits so hard it almost makes me dizzy; my chest loosens just enough that I can breathe. He’s here. He came here. He’s not gone. He’s not…
I kill the engine and sprint inside, not even bothering to take my helmet off until I hit the doorway. “Brendon!” I call, voice echoing too loud in the quiet house.
My boots thud on the floor as I cross into the living room. The lights are off, curtains drawn. The place smells like coffee and fabric softener—and the faint ghost of my cologne Brendon drags around like it’s a comfort blanket.
