Page 50 of Dirty Hit
“So you think showing up here is safer?” he asks. “You think walking into the wolf’s fucking den, because you felt some weird good-boy guilt, is a sane decision?”
“I didn’t say it was sane!” I shoot back. “But I couldn’t sit in my apartment and pretend I didn’t care if you went out to add another number to your body count.”
He looks at me for another long heartbeat, then reaches out, grabs a fistful of my sleeve, and yanks me inside.
The door slams behind me with a solid thud. I stumble once, catching myself on the wall, and then Dominic is in front of me again, crowding into my space.
He pushes me back until my shoulders hit the wall beside the entryway. His forearm lands across my chest, not crushing but firm; a bar that saysstay. The scent of him hits me, that goddamn cologne that always has me folding. His eyes are blazing now, anger up close and personal.
“You want to know how my night’s going,” he says slowly, voice lethal, “since you’re so fucking worried?”
I swallow. “No, I—”
“I haven’t fucked anyone in two weeks,” he says, steamrolling over my protest. “Do you know how long that is for me?”
“Most people manage their whole lives without—”
“I haven’tkilledanyone in two weeks,” he continues, as if I didn’t speak. “Not one person. Not a single piece of shit who deserved it.Nothing.My entire fucking system is misfiring, and it’s your fault.”
I stare at him incredulously. “W-what? My fault?”
“Yes, your fault!” he snaps. “I’ve been sitting on my hands for two weeks. No kills. No hookups.Nothing. I thought about fixing that tonight. I thought I’d take the bike, go find some asshole who needed to disappear, maybe blow off steam with someone who doesn’t come apart every time I say their name.”
My chest tightens painfully as unjustified jealousy roars through me. “And?”
“And I couldn’t,” he says, each word clipped. “I got on the bike. I made it all the way to the shitty bar on 14th. I walked in, stood there, and I looked at every motherfucker in that place. But all I could think about was you.”
“Me?” I ask immediately, my brain stuttering at the thought.
“Yes, motherfucker.You,” he snarls. “You did this. You crawled into my head and let me put my cuff on you. You let me kiss you. You shoved your way into the part of my life that was simple. I’ve lived with blood and bodies and empty sex for years without flinching—now I can’t fucking move in either direction without tripping over you.”
His arm presses harder across my chest, then eases just shy of painful.
“You’re blamingmebecause you didn’t kill someone tonight,” I say, the absurdity of it twisting my voice.
“I’m blaming you because I tried and couldn’t. I lined up three different options,” he goes on, voice dropping even lower. “One guy shoving his girl around. One prick bragging about driving drunk and getting away with it. One asshole trying to drag some drunk girl into the bathroom. Normally, I’d flip a coin. Tonight, I fucking froze, and it was not because I suddenly grew a conscience. All I could picture was you walking in on me again and looking at me like that.”
My stomach twists listening to him talking about this so casually. I understand the words he’s not saying: location scouting, risk calculation, the bone-deep familiarity of predation.
“Looking at you like what, exactly?” I whisper.
He leans in closer, eyes burning into mine. “Like you were scared out of your mind and still couldn’t make yourself run.”
My heart is beating so fast, because now I know I’ve made amassivemistake coming here. “Dom—”
“I walked out and didn’t touch anyone. I got on my bike, came home, and I felt… blocked,” he spits the last word. “Twisted. Wrong. It felt like someone jammed a fucking wrench into the gears.”
He slams his free hand into the wall next to my head, making me flinch. The drywall cracks faintly under his knuckles.
“Then I come home, and I’m pacing my own fucking house because I’m too keyed up to sit down, and I keep thinking,‘This is Brendon’s fault. He got into my head. He fucked with my rhythm.’”
My mouth is dry. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”
“That’s the point,” he snaps. “You didn’t ask for any of it. You just walked into my life with your neat little notes, and your quiet little martyr complex, and now I can’t even do what I’ve been doing for years without your face flashing in front of my eyes like some fucked-up conscience.”
The air between us feels electric, and my heart is racing so hard it hurts. Logically, I should be horrified. Iamhorrified. He just admitted he went out hunting and couldn’t pull the trigger because of me. He just told me he hasn’t killed or slept with anyone in two weeks, and that he’s angry about it—that he blames mefor that anger.
And under all that, under the fear and the revulsion and the familiar weight of religious guilt, there’s another feeling I don’t want to put a name to.
