Page 49 of Dirty Hit
My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. I picture the door opening to an empty house, silence staring back at me. I picture it opening to Dominic, blood on his hands, smile in place.
What are you going to say if he opens it, genius?“Hi, I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to check if you killed anyone?”That’ll go well.
I’m not a superhero. I’m a TA with a cross around my neck and a cat who judges my life choices. Dominic lives in a world where problems are solved with fists and silent bodies. I live in a world where problems are solved with conversations and office hours.
I let my hand drop. This is insane.I’minsane.He has a session with me tomorrow. He’s going to be alive then—unless he runs headfirst into a bus which, frankly, I wouldn’t put past him. But still; showing up uninvited at his place at night crosses a line I don’t even know how to define.
I turn to leave, already rehearsing the lie I’ll tell myself later.I just came for a drive. I just wanted to see if he was okay. I didn’t mean to—
The door opens behind me with a sudden creak, and I turn without meaning to.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Dominic says, voice incredulous, and every muscle in my body locks.
The porch light snaps on, flooding the space with harsh yellow, and I blink against it, caught like a bug.
Dominic stands in the doorway staring at me with narrowed eyes, one hand on the frame, wearing a black T-shirt andsweatpants. His hair is pushed back off his forehead, a little messy like he’s been running his fingers through it.
He looks… wrong.
Not in the way that means he’s bloody or hurt. Physically, he looks fine, but there’s a tightness around his mouth I haven’t seen before. Irritation is there, yeah, but there’s also annoyance strung too tight.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out at first. “Hi,” I say, because my brain picks the worst possible option at all times. “I—uh—”
He steps out onto the threshold, filling the space easily, and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks puzzled in a way that seems to piss him off. The muscles in his forearms tense, veins standing out.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Brendon?” he asks again. “And don’t bullshit me. You don’t do social visits.”
The instinct to smooth things over kicks in out of habit. I open my mouth to come up with some plausible academic excuse, a lost assignment, anything that sounds more rational than the truth. The words pile up uselessly on my tongue.
“I—” I start, then stop. My cheeks burn. “I was… driving home and I… was in the area.”
His brows shoot up. “You live fifteen minutes in the other direction. Try again.”
God, he remembers that. Of course he does. I stare at him, cold air stinging my face, the weight of his attention pressing in. The cuff suddenly feels heavy on my wrist. My mouth moves before my caution can catch up.
“I was… I was just…” I start, cheeks still burning, then realize I sound like every idiot freshman caught cheating on an exam. I swallow hard, forcing the words to line up. “I was worried.”
His expression changes then, confusion slicing through the irritation. “What?”
“I was worried,” I repeat, and now that I’ve said it once, it tumbles out faster. “You left my office, and you had a weird look on your face, and then I didn’t see you anywhere, and I just… You’ve been quiet lately, and I didn’t want to just sit at home and wonder if you were going to—”
I choke myself off before I saykill someoneout loud.
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. The anger doesn’t vanish, but it bends around something else now. Shock, maybe. Or at least genuine surprise.
“You were…worriedabout me,” he says slowly.
I shift my weight from foot to foot, wishing I’d stayed in the car. “Yes.”
“Nobody worries about me,” he says, shaking his head slightly.
“Well, I do,” I snap, brattier than I mean to, anxiety spilling over into irritation. “And since you’re the one who kicked down my door last time I didn’t answer your texts, you really don’t get to act surprised that I drove out to make sure you were okay.”
He scoffs at that. “Brendon, I am the last person who needs you worrying about him. You do understand how insane that is, yeah?”
“I don’t know,” I say, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t know what you are half the time. I just know you walked out today looking like you wanted to break something, and I know what your version of breaking something looks like.”
