Page 80 of Dirty Hit
“I’m a great student,” he says. “I just have an unconventional reward system.”
I’m about to tell him to shut up when there’s another knock on the door.
“What, did you order food?” he asks.
“No,” I say, standing up. “I didn’t.”
“Maybe campus security finally tracked the signal of the serial killer,” he says, smirking. “If I make a run for it, you distract them and hide the knives. Deal?”
“Not funny,” I mutter, and he shrugs, going back to underlining, trusting me to deal with it.
My stomach does a weird flip as I walk to the door, nerves I can’t place flaring in my chest. That knock was… familiar. Rhythmic. Two short, one long. I’ve heard that pattern my whole life.
No way.
I wipe my palms on my sweats, open the door—
And then I die.
Metaphorically. Spiritually. Emotionally.
Because standing there—smiling like this is a surprise visit and not the equivalent of a nuclear bomb dropped on my sanity—are my parents.
“Hi, sweetheart!” my mother says, as she stands on the threshold with a casserole dish in her hands.
My brain refuses to process the input. It’s like someone copy-pasted her from my parents’ kitchen into my apartment hallway: same floral blouse, same neatly curled hair, same warm, anxious smile.
My dad is behind her, hand on her shoulder, suit jacket still on from whatever function they were at, tie loosened. He grins when he sees me, that familiar half-proud, half-assessing look that always makes me stand a little straighter.
“Mom?”
“Hi, son,” my dad says, warm and familiar and devastating.
I make a sound that isn’t a word; it’s somewhere between a squeak, a choke, or my soul leaving my body. My brain stalls so hard I can practically hear the gears grinding.
“You… you’re here,” I say, because my vocabulary has apparently deserted me.
My mom laughs, casserole dish held out. “We’re in town for your cousin’s wedding, remember? I texted you last week that we might try to stop by if we had time.”
I remember the text. I remember replying with something like, “Sure, if you want,” thinking there was no way they’d actually squeeze it in. Apparently, God has a sense of humor.
“I—uh—yeah,” I stammer. “Sorry. Come in. I just—uh—wasn’t expecting—yeah. Come in.”
I step back on autopilot; Mom nudges past me, and Dad follows. “I brought a chicken and rice bake. I know how you college boys eat. Probably nothing but pizza and ramen. I thought you could use—oh!”
She stops dead at the edge of the living room.
There is no time to do anything: no time to shove Dominic into a closet or scream at him to dive behind the couch. He’s right where I left him, laptop open, halfway through standing up.
My dad’s eyes follow her gaze and, for a heartbeat, there’s a weird silence. Then my mom’s expression changes.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathes. “You’re—”
“Dominic Volkov,” Dad finishes, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Lakehaven Quarterback.”
Am I in Hell right now?
Dominic, of course, recovers faster than any of us. He stands fully, shoulders rolling back and expression shifting into that easy, media-friendly charm I’ve seen on TV a hundred times; the “golden boy” face.
