Page 173 of Dirty Hit
I let him lead me back down the hall. The bed is still warm, sheets rumpled. He climbs in first this time, giving me a look over his shoulder that calls me in without words.
I slide in beside him, pull him against me, and let his weight anchor me back into the present.
I used to think softness was a liability. A crack in the armor that somebody would always eventually force a knife through. Maybe it still is. Maybe loving Brendon will always mean bleeding more than I know how to stop.
Right now, with him half-asleep against me and the taste of hot chocolate on my tongue, I don’t give a fuck.
If this is soft, I’ll take it.
Epilogue
Brendon
Thecottageistooquiet without him.
People always talk about silence as if it were peaceful, soft, a gentle thing that lets your mind settle. The silence here is no longer like that. It’s heavy and waiting for my brain to fill it with the sound of his laugh, his footsteps, his stupid, filthy commentary echoing down the hall. When the sound doesn’t come, it bites instead.
Jericho does his best to fill it with drama. He stalks from room to room like a little shadow with an attitude problem, muttering at dust particles and attacking the same patch of couch he has been “killing” for months. The new addition to the family is less subtle about it.
“Samson,” I say, as the Doberman puppy trots across the living room with one of Dom’s socks hanging out of his mouth, oversized paws thumping on the wood floor. “If you even think about chewing that, he will fly back from Los Angeles just to yell at both of us.”
Samson pauses, head tilting, sock dangling. His eyes shine dark and bright, too intelligent for something that still sometimes trips over his own feet. His tail twitches once, then he drops the sock, trots over to me, and shoves his nose under my hand in apology.
Jericho watches from the back of the couch, tail flicking, ears flat. He hated Samson on sight. I honestly thought he might try to murder him the first week, but after enough supervision and hissing and strategic bribery with treats, they have reached some kind of détente. He has decided the dog is beneath him, which means he tolerates his existence as long as Samson remembers the hierarchy: cat, then me, then demon boyfriend, then everyone else, then dog.
The cat has learned that if he stays just out of reach and hisses in a dignified way, the dog will give him a wide berth. Samson has learned that if he wants attention from me, all he has to do is sit on my feet while I’m grading and stare at me until I cave.
We’ve all learned the sound of Dominic’s voice through the TV speakers when the LA Kingsmen play, and the commentators can’t shut up about his completion percentage.
“He’s going to be home this weekend,” I tell Samson, because talking to my animals is apparently my main personality trait now. “You can show him how big your paws are and how you haven’t eaten Jericho yet. He’ll be impressed.”
Samson licks my wrist and huffs, then wanders back to flop dramatically at the foot of the couch, all limbs and earnestness. Jericho jumps down and curls up on my thighs instead, digging his claws in just enough to remind me who owns me.
He left six months ago, almost to the day. Draft day blurred into flights and media days and a whirlwind that swept him out of our town and dropped him onto a bigger stage. We talked about it, we planned, and we knew it was coming. It still felt like someone took a crowbar to my ribs when I watched him walkthrough security at the airport with just a duffel and that calm killer look he uses to hide when he is scared.
“Come with me,”he said, more than once, before it happened.“Fuck law school, we’ll figure it out.”
“I can’t,”I tell him every time.“I need to finish this. I need something that’s mine. You go and be the star. I’ll keep the light on here.”
He hated it, but he respected it. Which might be the most annoying thing he does, honestly.
So I moved fully into the cottage instead of just living half the time between here and my apartment. We cleaned out the ghosts together before he left. Seth—whom I finally met— helped with the practical parts that no one can ever know about. Kyra came by with boxes, sarcasm, and a new doormat that says“Bless This Home And All Who Enter (Unless You’re A Dick).”
The week before he left, Dom handed me a wriggling black and tan puppy who immediately licked my face and peed on my shirt.
“Samson,” Dom said, dead serious, while I spluttered. “Biblical guard dog to watch your back when I can’t be here. He’s going to be big enough to eat anyone who looks at you wrong.”
“Jericho is going to smother you in your sleep for this,” I said, but my heart clenched around the warm bundle in my arms.
The first couple of weeks after he left, the cottage felt wrong. His hoodie still hung on the chair. His mug still sat by the sink. The knife he loved still rested in its slot in the block, as familiar as his voice. I kept expecting him to walk in sweaty from practice, drop his bag, kiss me, and complain about Keller. Instead, I got nightly phone calls and bad, blurry selfies of hotel rooms and practice fields.
This is my life now. I’ll be twenty-four in two months, in my final year of undergrad, living in a murder cottage in the woods with a cat who hates everyone and a Doberman named Samson. My tuition is paid, the fridge is always full, the utilities magicallytake care of themselves, and my biggest financial decision this week was whether to splurge on the expensive coffee or stick with the cheap stuff.
I am, for all intents and purposes, a sugar baby to a serial killer who plays professional football in Los Angeles.
If my parents could see me now, they’d probably burst into flames on the spot.
The thought makes my chest ache and my lips twitch at the same time. That’s been happening a lot the last few months. Everything is layered now. Loss under comfort, fear under safety, old shame under new want.
