Page 44 of Dirty Hit
Brendon arguing with me before he leaves my place, pupils blown wide. That cuff on his wrist, snug against his skin, where it belongs. Brendon spying on me at the children's home this past weekend and pretending he wasn’t there just to watch me.
He’s been nothing but obedient these last two weeks. Shows up when I tell him to. Answers my texts. Picks up when I call. Stays late if I say I need more time. His mouth still runs when I poke the right spot, but he always does what I tell him to in the end.
And I haven’t laid a hand on him since that morning in his bed. Not the way I want to, anyway.
I can still taste his shame if I let myself think about it. The way it mixed with want on his tongue, sour and sweet. The way his breath stuttered when I tightened my fingers on his neck. It’s been driving me a little insane not to push further.
But restraint has its uses.
“Anyway,” Keller is saying, dragging me back. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. Scouts pay attention to this shit, even if you think they don’t. No one wants to invest millions in a guy who can’t keep his head out of his ass long enough to pass Ethics.”
“Got it,” I say. “I’ll keep letting him nag me about structure.”
Keller smirks. “He’s not nagging you. He’s saving your ass.”
“Same thing, far as I’m concerned,” I say, standing. “Anything else?”
“Don’t get cocky,” he says. “One good report doesn’t mean you coast the rest of the semester.”
“Me?” I put a hand to my chest. “Never.”
He snorts and waves me away. “Get out of my office, Volkov.”
I step back into the hallway feeling oddly loose. Coach isn’t wrong; the numbers on those reports matter. They’re another piece of the puzzle, another line in the narrative that looks better when it’s backed up by grades.
And yeah, Brendon’s part of that.
I could send him a text. I answer to him on paper, he answers to me in reality. It makes a balanced equation in my head. But this feels like something I should say to his face, if only to watch what it does to him.
I cut across campus after showering, hoodie on, headphones hanging around my neck. The afternoon crowd is thick with people spilling out of buildings, talking, laughing, stressing about exams.
I thread through them easily, eyes scanning out of habit. There are always potential targets everywhere, if you know how to look: the guy shoving his girlfriend too hard when he thinks no one’s watching, the asshole shouldering past smaller students without apology, the drunk who won’t take no for an answer outside the bar…
There are always options, and I’ve been resisting the itch for two weeks.
I haven’t killed or fucked anyone since I tasted Brendon. It’s the longest dry spell I’ve had since I started doing either on a regular rotation.
I tell myself it’s discipline and containment, making sure nothing messy bleeds into the season. The truth is uglier: that nothing has sounded interesting next to the memory of him.
Every time I’ve considered going out, finding someone easy or eager—some nameless body to burn the edge off—all I can think about is how quickly they’d bore me compared to my Little Sin.
I push that thought aside for now and keep walking. I know the way to his door without thinking about it. I also know his office hours are technically over by now, but he usually stays late if some desperate undergrad begs hard enough.
As I get closer, I hear voices.
The door is slightly ajar, just enough that the sound leaks into the hall. I slow my steps automatically, letting my body fall into that quiet, watchful mode that’s served me well in worse places than this.
“…Bren, please,” a woman’s voice is saying in an urgent tone. “Just hear me out.”
“I am hearing you,” Brendon answers, and I can hear the strain in his voice even through the wood. “I just don’t have anything different to say.”
The woman sounds older than most undergrads: early twenties, maybe. There’s a familiarity in the way she says his name that pricks at me.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” she’s saying. “I’m asking you to let me try again. Just… coffee. An hour. That’s all.”
I stop just out of sight, shoulder resting against the wall. Eavesdropping isn’t polite, but I’ve never claimed to be polite.
Brendon sighs, and I can hear the exhaustion in it. “Hannah, we’ve talked about this—”
