Page 150 of Dirty Hit
I turn my head slowly, keeping one hand on Brendon’s chest, like I can anchor him to life through touch alone. My mother stands in the doorway of my living room—hair perfect, coat draped over her shoulders as if she’s stepping out of a gala, instead of into a house where someone is bleeding out on the couch.
Her mouth curves. “You were so careless,” she continues, walking closer on silent steps. “You really thought you could hide a weakness from me.”
My fingers curl into the couch cushion. “What did you do?” I say, and my voice comes out low and lethal. “What the fuck did you do?”
She tilts her head, almost fond. “You were so distracted. Too busy playing monster in private and golden boy in public to even notice the trackers I put on your toys. Did you ever consider that I might want to know where my son goes when he’s not playing football and murdering strangers to calm his nerves?”
My stomach twists. The forest, the bar, the campus, Brendon’s apartment, my cottage—she’s been watching. She’s been following.
I feel sick.
She steps closer and looks at Brendon like he’s a stain. “He’s pretty. I understand the appeal. Soft things are tempting. They make you feel human. That’s always the danger.”
My hand tightens on Brendon’s chest, and his breath hitches weakly under my palm. “Don’t talk about him,” I snarl.
She gives an amused laugh. “Really, Dominic,” she says. “You’re brilliant on the field and in the alley, but you never were very good at looking behind you. I wondered why you were suddenly so fond of that specific TA’s office, so I followed. Imagine my surprise when I found you in that forest with him the other night. A preacher’s son worshipping a false god. I simplyhadto let people know.”
My stomach lurches. “What the fuck did you do?” I ask again.
“I showed his parents his true deviance,” she says. “They were very eager to talk, by the way. Such a righteous man, your little TA’s father. So concerned about his son’s soul and his reputation. It was almost too easy to nudge him in the right direction.”
I picture Brendon in his office, his parents storming in, that horrified look on his face when he realizes they’ve seen him on top of me.
They know.
My hands curl into fists. “You ruined his life,” I say.
“I preserved yours,” she corrects. “Or tried to. You didn’t make it easy, but now… now you finally understand what’s at stake, don’t you?”
Ice slides down my spine. “So you did this,” I say, gesturing back toward the couch without shifting my stance. “You stabbed him.”
“He was inconvenient,” she says coolly. “You’re lucky the only one out there filming was me.”
“If you wanted me back in line, you could’ve just called,” I say, voice calm in a way that would scare me if I were watching myself. “You didn’t have to touch him.”
She arches a brow. “You didn’t pick up your phone, so I improvised. Besides, why should I waste time talking when I can show you exactly what happens when you ignore my lessons?”
My heart is beating so hard it hurts. I force my voice to stay level. “I’m going to get him to a hospital,” I say. “And then we’re done.”
She laughs again, the sound brittle. “You’re not taking him anywhere. You have a choice to make.”
“I’m not playing this game, Mother,” I say.
“Oh, but you are,” she says, and reaches into her coat pocket.
Every muscle in my body tenses, ready for a gun, another knife, anything. Instead, she pulls out her phone.
“I have more than one video now. It’s amazing what a good angle can do,” she says. “Scouts, coaches, donors… They’re so impressionable. I imagine the NFL will have very strong opinions about their shining first-round pick being caught likethis. Especially when there are other… videos to accompany it. Ones that show more than just your interesting sex life.”
I shake my head. “You release that, and you blow up my life too.”
“That’s the point,” she says. “You’ve forgotten who you are. You’ve forgotten why you were made. If I have to strip you down to nothing to remind you, I will.”
Brendon makes a faint, wet sound behind me, but I refuse to break eye contact.
“Here are your options,” she says. “You kill him right now in front of me. Cut the weakness out and prove to me that you still understand the hierarchy—that I come first. If you do that, I will keep the videos. I bury the evidence of your little indiscretions. The scouts never see them. You go to your draft, you sign your contracts, you play your little game on Sundays, and you keep being my son.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask, voice quiet.
