Flawed (Hunt Brothers Saga)

by Timothy S. Allen

  I prayed that we got the attentive Mrs. Claire Hunt and the cheerful Mr. Edwin Hunt today. I didn’t need even more people disliking me after the disaster that was the Sarah Hill incident just now.

  We chased each other as if Mrs. Hunt had promised us fresh ribeye steaks at the house. Whenever one of us seemed to get the upper hand, the other would lunge, slow the other down, and sprint ahead. It became a nonstop race in which no clear winner would emerge.

  “Morgan and Chance Hunt!”

  As it turned out, there was an easy answer to that question. No one would win, because Mrs. Hunt would see what we had done to ourselves.

  “My goodness! The two of you—heavens, are you OK?”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Morgan said, cheerful but with a hint of annoyance. “We were just playing.”

  “I know you were just playing, you two are always just playing, I just wished that ‘just playing’ didn’t make you bleed so much. Oh, my, look at these clothes, we’re going to have to clean up so much. I might have to get you new clothes, oh...”

  I didn’t bother to tell her that from where I came from, if shoes got muddy or dirty, they became features of the shoes, not grounds to get rid of them. I didn’t bother to tell her that the idea of getting new shoes on a whim would never make sense to me, even if I happened to someday make as much money as Mr. Hunt. I didn’t bother to tell her that the more she spoke like this, the more removed from the family I felt.

  “Now, dearest Claire, let Morgan have his time.”

  Notably, but not surprisingly, Mr. Hunt’s voice from the other room did not include me. But, on the other hand, his voice didn’t carry any anger or disappointment in it. Perhaps I would get to settle for passive indifference today—I could work with that. It would give me the space to get over how fucked up everything felt with Sarah and my “family” situation.

  “He’s got to enjoy himself if he’s going to grow into the type of man I want him to be,” Mr. Hunt continued. “Isn’t that right, son?”

  The way he annunciated son... the way he paused just before saying the word... the way he seemed to relish using that particular title with me present, I knew it wasn’t an accident. Mr. Hunt didn’t hate me, no, but he sure wouldn’t care if I just up and left. In fact, it might make his life easier. Only because of Morgan, the alternative, and to a small extent, Mrs. Hunt, did I stick around.

  “Boys, boys, boys, what were you doing out there?” Mrs. Hunt asked.

  “Just playing,” Morgan said.

  Please don’t mention Sarah. Please don’t mention Sarah. Please don’t mention Sarah.

  I trusted Morgan enough not to run his mouth, though more because a boy from a family like the Hunts knew better than to blurt out ugly truths like that. It would seem “uncouth” or whatever fancy adjective Mr. Hunt liked to use to differentiate himself from the rest of the world.

  “You and your ‘just playing’,” Mrs. Hunt said as she continued to clean us up. “Very well, Chance, your turn. Morgan, go see your father.”

  Morgan left without a word, hurrying over to his father. It must have felt nice to have a father that he could run to without hesitation. It must have felt good. Real good.

  Something I’d never get to feel.

  “Chance, how are you, honey?” Mrs. Hunt said. “You don’t look so good. You look like you had a bumblebee poke your nose.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  It was not lost on me that I had adapted Mrs. Hunt’s tendency to either be the life of the party or completely withdrawn in certain settings. Maybe it was a bit arrogant, but, frankly, in that moment, fuck it.

  “You can tell me the truth, dear,” Mrs. Hunt said. “If there’s one thing a mother can sense, it’s when her children are suffering, even if those children do not want to admit it.”

  A mother. Her children.

  As much as the distance would never close, I appreciated Mrs. Hunt speaking like that, even though Mr. Hunt never would. I contemplated telling her the truth... if anyone could hear it, it was her... but to tell her risked word getting around to Mr. Hunt... and while it wasn’t like him to belittle me—I was twelve, for God’s sakes—he certainly would use it as another excuse to see me as emotionally weak, a boy whose only future connection to the family would be as a butler or chauffeur or some other equally supportive but low-status role.

  But the moment had gotten to me. I could not help it. That, and I didn’t feel like screaming into my pillow.

  “This girl left me,” I said.

  “Oh, Chance, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hunt said, continuing to clean me. I felt a little disappointed that she had seemed to take the answer a little too in stride, as if I had told her that I had tripped in the forest and gotten a small amount of poison ivy. “Are you feeling OK?”

  Well, gee, maybe I wouldn’t be looking like this if I were feeling OK, would I?

  Chance... relax.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about her,” Mrs. Hunt said. “You will meet plenty of women as you move forward. You will have plenty of chances to find love. I would not worry in the slightest.”

  And while Mrs. Hunt made a great point, she did not understand the consequences of what had just transpired. I had confessed to Sarah I was adopted in the hopes that it would make me seem more real. Instead, it had caused me to lose her.

  And Sarah would not stay quiet about this. She didn’t stay quiet about much. I was looking at a future of mocking and derision from the boys in school, cold shoulders at worst and polite rejection at best from the girls, and judgmental gazes from my teachers whenever I failed to answer a question properly. I had not just lost Sarah; I had lost a chance to continue having fun in school.

  Suddenly, the notion that I had to get the hell out of town seemed more pressing than ever. Wherever I went to school, it would not be in the state of Connecticut—with apologies to Yale, Mr. Hunt’s alma mater and the school Morgan had seemed destined to go to since the beginning days. I would go somewhere far away, where my identity did not tie into the Hunts, where my last name meant nothing more than who I had spent the first 18 years—or majority thereof—with.

  I would, in short, make a name for myself.

  Except... I knew in my heart the name would follow me wherever I went. Forever the black sheep of the Hunt family, it would affect me for as long as I ran in these circles.

  It felt like I had no happy middle ground. I was either cursed to poverty, to go back to the foster home, forced to work menial jobs and live in a crappy apartment, a nightmarish existence following the bliss and benefits of my current situation... or I was chained to the shackles of the Hunts, given everything I could ever want except for contentment, satisfaction, and peace. I would be in this world, but I would not be of this world.

  “I wish I could,” I finally said after several seconds had passed. “But I liked her a lot.”

  That was true. I could have just as easily, though, been speaking about the world I had crafted at school, where people thought of me as Morgan’s barely younger brother. I liked it a lot.

  Now...

  “In time, things will get better,” she said.

  Then, as if on cue, Mrs. Hunt froze. Her arm practically paused where it was, as if she could not move a single finger from where she cleaned me off. I looked up at her finally and saw her gazing to the backyard, as if she suddenly wanted to sprint into the woods. Why? I could never know. Maybe she had thought of something related to a real family member that troubled her.

  Or, maybe, she realized that even if she meant what she said, it was still a lie. I would still be an outsider, no matter what. Things would not get better. Things would get worse. Or, in the absolute best scenario, I would have to adjust my definition of better and worse, so that I started from such a low place that even taking a couple of steps down from my current spot still felt better than where I could let her go.

  “Mrs. Hunt?” I said.

  I don’t know why I
said her name, as if asking if she were OK, when I knew she wouldn’t say much, if anything at all. Perhaps it was a fear of letting down the only adult Hunt who cared for me, I don’t know.

  All I know is that at that moment, in the distance, I could hear Mr. Hunt’s voice fill the air.

  “... this is how we do things, Morgan. You have no mercy on the opposition. When you take over Hunt Industries, I expect you to rule with an iron fist. Smile to their face, keep the first behind your back, and crush it into their skulls when they turn around.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  Morgan’s voice did not sound particularly comfortable, though I had heard Mr. Hunt speak in such drastically harsh terms many times before. He liked to see himself as a lone soldier in a field of enemy combatants, tasked with destroying the enemy—other businesses—as viciously and with as much finality as he could. It seemed... even at twelve years old, it seemed evil and wrong, but who the hell was I to say? It got Mr. Hunt his house and everything else. It got me a place to stay.

  “Go see Dad.”

  I was shocked to hear Mrs. Hunt’s words. I gazed up at her again, but she had not turned her attention to me at all. She simply stood, turned, and went in the other direction, as if what she had suggested had been her final words for the days. I swear I heard her sniffle, but it might as well have been allergies. It always seemed like Mrs. Hunt was on the verge of tears, but it also always seemed like she never lost her composure.

  The skills of a billionaire’s wife, I suppose.

  Left alone, I decided not annoying either parent made the most sense and headed for Mr. Hunt. Sitting in what literally looked like a golden throne, Mr. Hunt spoke to Morgan, who sat on a plush red couch. Morgan saw me, nodded his head to me, and I took a seat next to him.

  “Do you understand, Morgan? I really want to make sure you understand,” Mr. Hunt continued, barely acknowledging my presence. “Our family’s name is pristine and among the most well-known in the country. To have this name is a privilege and an honor. You must carry it with you with pride wherever you go and make sure not to sully it.”

  Now I began to think he was acknowledging my presence, albeit in the usual indirect, scathing Mr. Hunt way. In many ways, he kind of looked like the classic fat cat villain—he was quite plump, bald, always clean shaven, with a stern look in his eyes that suggested he was looking for an excuse to fire you for anything, regardless of what you had actually done.

  Fuck, half the time, I expected him to fire me.

  “I understand, Dad.”

  “Good,” Mr. Hunt said. “Be careful who you associate with and your actions. Had someone seen you out back, it might have led to questions as to why my boy was engaging in such wild activities. You may leave.”

  I knew well enough by now that Mr. Hunt was not referring just to Morgan but to me, so on Morgan’s cue, I stood up from the couch and followed him upstairs to his private bedroom, easily bigger than most of the foster homes I stayed at.

  “Guess he didn’t want us playing around, huh?”

  “You know how Dad is,” Morgan said, dismissively. “He’s just concerned. He’s a bit crazy.”

  He was, but not in the way Morgan thought. The Hunt name needed to be protected. Morgan could do almost nothing short of commit a crime—as unlikely as Sarah running back to come to me... as much as that hurt to admit—to sully the name.

  But I was not a true Hunt. I was not in on the family dynamics. I could sully the name. Hell, I already had to Sarah. What would it look like to the other kids when they heard the Hunts had adopted a child? Much less one who acted brashly and dared to not tell others his status for quite some time?

  Mr. Hunt might have seemed crazy to Morgan, but only in the way that fathers seemed. I had experienced too much, even at this young of an age, to know Mr. Hunt wasn’t that crazy.

  “Are you feeling OK?”

  I appreciated that Morgan distracted me from my thought process, in no small part because it meant I didn’t have to think some more about how Morgan, for all his goodness, was also a naive spoiled kid who just happened to be my brother.

  “OK enough, I guess,” I said. “I suppose I’ll get over it.”

  I really had no other choice. I just prayed that the following days would be merciful.

  Chapter Four

  I dreaded waking up on Mondays.

  But on this particular Monday, I dreaded it even more.

  I struggled going into an environment in which I knew I didn’t belong, and school did just that. The funny thing was, once I actually got to school and got situated in, I felt right at ease. I was tough for the teachers, but my students loved me, and even those teachers that openly complained about me had to admit I had the brains to pass for a Hunt.

  I just didn’t act like I cared. But I did care.

  Still, today, the facade had crumbled. It would be the first day in which I would have to own up for not being a true Hunt. It would be the first day that Sarah Hill would get to spread her tale of what had happened. It would be the beginning of the end for me, the moment in which I would have to decide between another half-decade of judgmental glares or a return to the foster home and a roll of the dice.

  We had a valet drive us to school, as usual, and I remained unusually quiet in the back. Morgan usually liked to do homework in this time, and I had eventually grown to respect that, not bugging him as much as I might have earlier in our brotherhood, but even then, I would occasionally pipe in with the smartass remark.

  Today, though, I just clammed up. Morgan never noticed, or if he did, he didn’t say anything. It was just as well, really. The last thing I needed was to again explain the unexplainable to someone who could never understand the real explanation.

  When we arrived at school, I pushed open the door, nervously walked forward, and looked for the first sign of Sarah Hill. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I didn’t even know if I was going to say anything to her. It’s not like I had some special secret to give to her or some confession to make. I didn’t have to apologize for anything, nor did she—if anyone, Mr. Hill was the one who owed me an apology.

  Now that I thought about it, I’m pretty sure Sarah would have wanted to stay with me, but she sure as hell wasn’t willing to sacrifice anything for it. Was that really the same as being with me, then?

  I looked down the row of lockers. Hers was remarkably close to mine, but she hadn’t shown up yet. Looking for a spot on the wall to try and do some homework, I slumped down, put my nice, silver headphones on—OK, living with the Hunts had its perks—and tried to work.

  I tried, but I kept looking up every dozen seconds for signs of Sarah. I was like the guy who couldn’t take his eyes off of his smart phone—except the smart phone was Sarah Hill, and at least the hypothetical guy looked at his phone with purpose. I still didn’t know what I would say to Sarah.

  A few of my friends came over and engaged me in conversation. I tried to ignore them at first, leaving the headphones on, but I didn’t succeed. I ended up just chatting with them, given that it did a better job of keeping me from looking for Sarah than my actual homework did.

  Then, finally, I saw her.

  She was speaking with friends, but she was moving forward. She didn’t look any different than she had Friday. She was still laughing with them and still smiling... as if what had happened on Saturday didn’t matter.

  That was a fucking stupid thought, and I knew it. No one got over an ended relationship that quickly, especially girls. But still...

  Why couldn’t she have looked like me, dour and depressed? Why couldn’t she have shown some grief on her end?

  Or maybe, maybe she did, and was just the better actor between us. Maybe she knew how to hide her pain better than I could. It certainly wasn’t implausible. All I had to do was look at myself in the mirror and look at her to know the difference.

  I stood up... but not really sure what I would do. Talk to her? Confront her? She had her friends around her, and for
as sure of myself as I was generally, I knew better than to approach her surrounded by friends, and this did no favors.

  Instead, I just sat back down meekly, undoubtedly looking like a fool but really not that aware if someone laughed. I might have looked like a puppet rising, or I might have just looked like a confused soul. Both seemed like apt metaphors right now.

  I waited for her to look my way... just briefly make eye contact... but no, it never came.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “What?” a friend of mine, Karl, said in the other direction.

  “Nothing,” I said, even though that was the furthest thing from the truth.

  Here’s what was the truth—I would have to get used to being ignored and seen as less than great because of my status. Mrs. Hunt and Morgan could make all the claims they wanted to about how things would get better and yada yada yada, but no matter what, Mr. Hunt, of all the damn people, acted the most honestly with me.

  It sadly wasn’t hard to see how this would play out in the years ahead. I might meet someone through Morgan or the family name, only to have them fall apart because I wasn’t a true Hunt. Maybe someone would see me as nothing more than a means to meet Mr. Edwin Hunt, the great businessman of the 21st century. Maybe someone would just see me as a mere pawn in their game, to be controlled like a butler with a snap of the fingers.

  Then, to my surprise, she came over to me.

  “Can I talk to you in private, Chance?”

  Karl did his usual “oooooh” sound whenever a girl came to talk to me. Usually, I playfully smacked him and called him an asshole. Today, though, I actually hit him, hard enough that he bent over and groaned in pain. He looked at me in surprise, but my stern glare got the point across. I was not fucking around, not when I had... something, I didn’t know what, but something with Sarah. I was not going to let even the slightest word or the slightest change of the wind screw me over.