Page 81 of Dirty Hit
“Yes, Ma’am,” he says with that charming smile, stepping around the dining room table. “Guilty as charged.”
Mom practically glows. “You watch him on TV,” she says to Dad, like I’m not currently dying. “Brendon, you didn’t tell us you knew him.”
“I—” My throat is dry. “I’m his TA. It’s just— He… needed help with… school.”
“In other words, your son is single-handedly responsible for me not failing Civ. Pro.,” Dominic says, stepping forward with his hand extended. “I owe him a lot. It’s really nice to meet you both. Brendon talks about you all the time.”
I never do, unless it’s about how much they’ll freak out knowing what I’ve been up to.
Dad shakes his hand, grip firm. “We watched your game against St. Augustine last month. That fourth quarter drive, son—” he whistles. “Some God-given talent you got there.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I’ve got a good team.”
Of course he says that. Of course he sounds humble, grounded, and completely non-murderous.
“You’re very tall,” my mother comments suddenly.
Dominic laughs, easy and self-deprecating. “I get that a lot,” he says. “It’s the Volkov genes. They grow us Russians big and hard to shop for.”
They both laugh, instantly charmed—the way everyone is when he decides to flip that switch.
I stand there in the doorway like a cardboard cutout, unsure whether to pray for the floor to swallow me or for Jericho to suddenly gain the power of speech and create a diversion.
“Can we get you something?” he asks my parents, like he lives here. “Water? Coffee? I’d offer you wine, but I’m pretty sure Brendon only keeps holy water in his fridge.”
My mother giggles.GIGGLES.
“Oh, we can’t stay,” my dad says, then he turns to me. “We’ve got to get back to the hotel. Your cousin’ll scream if your mom’s late for hair and makeup in the morning.”
“I just wanted to drop this off,” Mom says, lifting the casserole. “There’s enough for a few meals. Thought you could use some, Bren, since you always forget to eat. You boys can share.”
“Mrs. Lane, you’re my new favorite person,” Dominic says, taking it from her when she wobbles a bit. “Smells amazing, Ma’am.”
“Oh. Thank you, dear,” she says, flustered and pleased. “Just call me Angela.”
I’m going to throw myself into traffic.
He disappears into the kitchen. I hear Jericho meow in offense at being displaced, and Dominic’s low chuckle as he mutters something to the cat. My parents glance around my tiny apartment, likely checking for signs of squalor or debauchery.
Dominic comes back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Hope it’s okay I let your cat sniff the casserole. He’s got opinions.”
Mom laughs. “He always does. What’s his name again? Jonah?”
“Jericho,” I say automatically.
“Right, right,” she says. “Walls and trumpets. I remember.”
Dad looks between Dominic and me, eyes narrowed in that assessing way that used to make me confess things I hadn’t even done yet.
“So, you’re studying?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” Dominic says. “Midterms are coming up. Keller told me if I blow this one, he’ll bench me—and I really don’t want to explain that to ESPN.”
Dad chuckles. “Accountability’s good,” he says. “You go to chapel on campus, son?”
My spine goes rigid, but Dominic doesn’t miss a beat.
“Sometimes,” he says, shrugging. “Schedule’s rough during the season, but I grew up in church. My mom made sure of that. I stream sermons when I can’t get there in person.”
