Page 18 of Dirty Hit
I picture it in flashes, as easy and vivid as game tape. His mouth saying my name the way he said it a second ago, but without the shaky protest. That pretty, righteous mouth opening for things that have nothing to do with Scripture.
I’m gone in less than a year, if everything goes to plan, but I have time between now and then to see how far I can pull this boy away from everything his father taught him to be. To watch him break his own rules for me, over and over, until there is nothing left of that perfect image except what I leave behind.
I bring my face closer to his, close enough that his breath hits my lips when he exhales. “You know what really fucks me up about you?”
He swallows hard, eyes flicking down to my mouth and then back up.
“Nothing about me should f-fuck you up,” he says, trying for disdain, but it comes out softer than he wants when he stutters over the curse. “You think you know me after an hour we spent together, but you don’t.”
“I know enough to see that some part of you liked yesterday,” I say, and his whole body goes rigid. “Maybe not the blood or the body. But the fact that you suddenly had a secret no one else had? The fact that you were sitting across from the monster everyone worships without having to pretend you saw a hero? You like having the truth when everyone else has the PR.”
He stares at me, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. “You’re just a guy who thinks he’s untouchable,” he says.
The defiance makes my mouth twitch. “I killed a man in front of you. That puts me in a different category than ‘just a guy.’”
“You decided his life meant less than your mood,” he fires back. “That’s not special, that’s pathetic.”
My fingers flex involuntarily at that, a brief squeeze against his neck that makes his breath hitch again. His eyes flutter for a second, and then he drags them back open like he refuses to give me the satisfaction of watching him let go.
That effort, that stubborn refusal, is a better hit than any desperate begging could ever be.
“You keep talking to me like that and I’m going to think you like it when I’m close,” I say, my tone dry.
He lets out a harsh little laugh. “You’re not that irresistible.”
“You’re the one whining under my hand, Little Sin.” I tilt my head, studying him. “You sure you’re scared of me, or are you scared of yourself?”
Color floods his cheeks. “Stop calling me that,” he says again, but he doesn’t move his hands off my wrist. He’s not trying to pry me away; he’s holding me there. That’s the part that really fucks me up. “You’re a killer with your hand on my neck. I feel like the fear’s pretty justified.”
I loosen my grip deliberately, leaving the weight of my hand as a reminder instead of a threat. “You know why it bothers you so much?”
“Because it’s disgusting,” he mutters.
“Because it’s true,” I correct. “You are a little sin. Neat shirt, pressed pants, a cross around your neck, parents who probably talk about you in glowing terms to their Bible study friends. And underneath all that, there’s a part of you that likes this way more than you’re ready to admit.”
“I don’t,” he snaps.
“If you hated it, you’d have clawed my eyes out by now,” I say. “You’d have screamed, or cried, or begged me to stop. Instead, you’re standing here letting me handle your throat and arguing about semantics.”
He bristles. “I’m notlettingyou do anything. You barged in here, and you’re playing your stupid mind games because no one’s told you no before.”
“That’s the thing,” I say thoughtfully. “People have told me no. They just weren’t prepared for what comes after. You? You keep skirting around it. You tell me I’m disgusting and pathetic, you tell me to stop calling you names, but you still haven’t told me to get off you.”
His mouth opens, then snaps shut. The realization hits him right in the middle of his pretty face.
“Say it,” I murmur. “Tell me to get off you. Tell me to leave. If you mean it, I will.”
His eyes search mine, looking for the lie, and I give him none. I can feel the line here as clearly as I feel the line when I’m holding someone’s life in my hands.
I push, yeah, but I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not interested in dead meat. I’m interested in what people do when you put them against an edge and give them a choice.
His fingers flex on my wrist, but he still doesn’t push me away.
“Thought so,” I say, finally letting the smugness creep back into my voice, because he needs the friction as much as he needs the choice.
“You’re twisting everything,” he says, but it comes out thin, without the conviction from earlier. “You’re good at that.”
“Of course I am. Twisting is fun. It’s even more fun when the thing I’m twisting was never straight to begin with. You keep pretending you don’t want to know what it feels like to stop saying yes to other people.”
