Page 154 of Dirty Hit
The nurse comes back with a clipboard. “We need some basic info for your friend,” she says. “Full name, date of birth, and address if you know it. Emergency contact.”
“His name’s Brendon Lane,” I say, voice flat. “His birthday’s in June… uh, the 25th… and he lives at the Cedar Heights apartments off campus, third floor, end of the hall.” I rattle it off by heart; I’ve walked those stairs enough times to know.
She types quickly, then frowns at the screen. “Looks like we already have him in the system,” she says. “We treated him a while back for a uh… sprained wrist. Emergency contact is on file.” She scrolls, then stops. Her brows flick up. “Huh.”
“What?” I ask, not ready for more bad news.
“He changed his primary contact a few days ago,” she says, turning the screen slightly toward me. “From his parents to… you.”
DOMINIC VOLKOV stares back at me on the monitor in crisp black font with my cell number next to it.
I forget how to breathe.
He did that without telling me. He went into his medical profile and put my name where his parents used to sit. Somewhere in the last week, he made a decision about who he trusts to answer the phone if he’s bleeding out, and he picked me.
“You’re also listed as secondary next of kin,” the nurse adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Secondary to who?” I ask because I need to know exactly how much of him they still own.
She glances down again. “It looks like parents are still noted under ‘family’ but not as the first call,” she says. “We still have to notify them, though, since it’s a serious incident. Usually, we’d do both. We can call them if you’re not up to it.”
I almost say yes; I almost let some detached stranger make that call, and wrap the whole thing in neutral professional language. But then I remember Brendon’s text, and the fact that my mother sent them a video of us doing fuck knows what.
“I’ll do it,” I say quietly. “Give me the numbers, and I’ll call them; they know who I am.”
She hesitates, then nods, disappearing briefly before returning with a sticky note. “Take your time,” she says. “I’ll let the team know you’re the point of contact.”
I nod without really seeing her, then as soon as she’s gone, I pull Brendon’s phone from my pocket and input the code I know by heart. His background is Jericho, of course. Notifications pepper the top—missed calls mostly from me, emails, and some group chats.
I scroll through his recent calls, find the numbers labeled Mom and Dad, and my jaw tightens at the fact that they’re near the top with a bunch of unanswered calls from yesterday.
The phone rings twice before his father picks up.
“Brendon, we told you—”
“It’s not Brendon,” I cut in. “It’s Dominic Volkov.”
There is a pause. “Dominic?” he repeats. “What are you doing with my son’s phone?”
His mother’s voice floats faintly in the background, a worried murmur. “Is that him? Is he calling to apologize?” she asks.
Apologize?
“Where is Brendon?” his father demands, ignoring her.
“In surgery,” I say flatly. “At Lakehaven General. He was stabbed tonight and nearly died.”
There is a sharp intake of breath on the other end. For a moment, everything goes quiet. Then his father clears his throat, the sound brittle.
“How did that happen?” he asks, voice strained but not in the way I want. He sounds inconvenienced, not broken.
“In an alley,” I lie smoothly. “Wrong place, wrong time. Some asshole with a knife thought he looked like an easy target. I happened to drive past just as it happened, chased the guy off, and got him here.”
His mother gasps. “Oh my goodness, is he… is he going to be alright?”
“We’re waiting on updates,” I say, jaw tight. “They’re working on him right now, but he lost a lot of blood. That’s why I’m calling. Because out of respect for the fact that you are his parents, I think you should know that your son almost didn’t make it tonight.”
There is another pause, longer this time. When his father speaks again, the words make my free hand curl into a fist.
