The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  “Are you sure?” Persy screwed up her little nose.

  “Yes.” I pushed her through the door. “Go!”

  I spent the next three hours tidying the apartment up as best as I could, unpacking, putting things away in my room, and using the spare room to arrange my archery equipment, as per my agreement with Hunter. We hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers, but a deal was a deal.

  As night rolled in, I collapsed onto the opulent, satin-upholstered sofa and groaned, my hair matted on my forehead. Two, perfect circles of sweat graced my shirt under the armpits, hardly an aphrodisiac.

  I’d begun to drift off, despite my best efforts, when the doors to the private elevator of our penthouse floor slid open and Hunter walked in, carrying a few shopping bags.

  “Yo, roomie, what’s shaking?” He jerked his chin in my direction, swaggering into the depths of the living room. He took the two steps down from the landing to the living area, discarded his bags on the coffee table, and sat on its edge, planting his elbows on his knees. His scent drifted into my nose: fabric softener and rich-boy musk that made my mouth water, no matter how much I hated him.

  I peeked under my lashes, preparing myself for his gut-punching beauty. If I thought a week away from him would subdue his impact on me, I was sorely mistaken. His gray-blue eyes looked like winter stones, glimmering playfully, his cheeks ruddy from the evening wind, his lips swollen and full, and his tawny blond curls a perfect mess. Everything about him was male, sharp, and muscular.

  “Got you a present.” He threw something into my hands.

  A small envelope. When I opened it, I saw a Target gift card. Yes, the actual store. I rolled my eyes and smiled tiredly. “Thanks.”

  “I like what you did with the place.” He looked around, picking up one of my feet from the coffee table and removing my holey sneaker. I watched in horror as he let the dirty shoe drop to the floor, took my socked foot, and began to dig his thumbs into it. At first, I tried to yank my foot away, but after hours of working—and years of training in general—my muscles were tense and rigid. The massage felt too deliciously good not to accept.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I scowled, watching him put my foot atop his muscular thigh and massage it thoroughly. His thigh was so hard, I wondered what the rest of his body felt like.

  STD. It feels like catching an STD, you moron.

  There was no denying he was good with his hands, and I wondered how many girls had fallen for this trap.

  “None,” he said, reading my thoughts as he smirked at me knowingly.

  “W-what?” I stammered, hating myself for becoming an inarticulate mess.

  His father shouldn’t have put all his trust in me. If he could see me with Hunter right now, he’d know how helpless I was—not that I was going to go lax on his son, but I was definitely not bulletproof to his charm.

  “You’re wondering how many times I’ve done this as foreplay. The answer is never. I’m doing it because you look like crap and need a break, and because you cleaned our apartment even though the housekeepers arrive tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling stupid but too exhausted to get riled up about it. “You really know how to compliment a girl.” I was tired of hearing how unattractive I was to this guy. Besides, everything he did—even the glorious massage—was braided in mockery, like he didn’t take anything seriously, ever.

  “Would you like to be complimented?” He popped an eyebrow, digging his fingers deeper into my heel.

  My eyes rolled in their sockets, and I let out a groan as the delicious pain unknotted my muscles. “I really don’t care.” I dropped my head to the back of the sofa, closing my eyes. “Where were you, anyway?” Now was a good time to start investigating him and show authority.

  “Shopping.”

  “With who?”

  “My sister, Aisling.”

  Funnily enough, I remembered his sister. His brother, too. I must’ve deleted Hunter permanently from my mind because he was a boy my age, gorgeous, and about as unattainable as planet Mars. Those things somehow made him an automatic enemy in my eyes.

  “You’re going to love her. She’s appalled by everything male and fun, just like you.”

  “I resent that statement.”

  “You resent everything.”

  Biting my tongue to keep from lashing out at him—solely because I knew I’d already gotten my vengeance for the day—I changed the subject.

  “How do I know you weren’t out and about with some other girl?” I opened my eyes. He blew air through his cheeks, hiking his long, strong fingers from my foot to my ankle, kneading it in circles.

  “For one thing, you’d know if I’d had sex, because I’d be rocking the after-orgasm glow.”

  “I can’t believe I’m humoring this, but what does your after-orgasm glow look like?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t fake it.” He winked, removing my leg from his thigh and returning it to the table gently. My heart missed one lonely beat at the loss of his touch before Hunter took my other foot and gave it the same treatment, removing my banged-up sneaker and massaging it heel to toes. “You’ll have to give me an orgasm to find out.”

  “Hard pass,” I said.

  He regarded me with amusement, trekking his fingers up my ankle. Silence engulfed us. Finally, he said, “Who’s gonna take care of Hunter Jr., then?”

  “Your hand?” I suggested. “Or an apple pie, if you’re into cultural clichés.”

  I wasn’t so hot on talking sex with Hunter—or with anyone at all, for that matter—but I didn’t want him to see how flustered I was, and he was obviously testing me. Belle and Persy would die if they heard I’d talked sex with the sex king himself. The minute I told them about my agreement with Hunter, they’d bombarded me with every piece of newsworthy gossip I’d somehow missed about my new roommate. Belle also mentioned something about wanting to ride him like a stolen bike.

  “How about we strike a deal—if I play the doting saint all week and stay out of your way, I can sneak in a few fucks with a rando? I’ll have to bring her home because Da has people following me—I’ve already seen them around—but you can always help a bro out and tell the building staff they’re your friends.”

  My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, the blood in my veins heating with anger. “What?”

  “Oh. ’Kay.” He lifted his palms. “Not a few fucks. Just the one. Twenty minutes. But this is my final offer.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Fine. Ten minutes. And I’ll make sure she keeps her voice down. Now that’s my final offer.”

  He was going to be a terrible businessman.

  “That’s not how final offers work, and the answer is still no.”

  “What?” His smile dropped. “Why not?”

  “I told you, I’m taking this agreement with your dad seriously.” I stood up.

  It wasn’t a good idea to let him touch me while we were negotiating. It bothered me that, just like with all the other girls, his touch disarmed me of my logic. I gathered said logic back into my arms like shattered, miniscule pieces of what used to be a solid statue, trying to rearrange my thoughts.

  Hunter got up, too, towering over me. My head reached his lower pecs. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze.

  “Word?” He changed his tune from pleasant to deadly serious. “You’re going to cockblock me for real?”

  At least now I knew what had inspired the massage and the Target gift card.

  “It’s not like I’m going to tell Da you’re sneaking chicks up for me. It’ll be our dirty little secret.”

  “I don’t want any secrets with you.” I threw my hands in the air, exploding. “I don’t want anything with you, period. Your dad is right to follow you. You’re willing to toss your future away for sex.”

  “I’m not supposed to choose.” He tousled his hair, the color of forged bronze. “Why do you have to be a narc? And while we’re on the subject, why are you weird? Why archery and not, say, Zumba?
What the hell is wrong with you? You’re making everything harder.”

  “By being honest?” I laughed hysterically, advancing toward my room.

  He chased after me, again, his steps long and feral, making my heart leap to my throat, thumping its way farther up. I couldn’t remember the last time my pulse had pounded so quickly. Hunter jumped ahead of me and blocked my way to the hallway, resting his elbows on either side of the arched passage.

  “Insecurity doesn’t look good on you, kid.” He smirked, taunting.

  I felt the blush creeping up from my neck to the top of my head and knew my eyes were shimmering with humiliation and rage.

  “You ugly, ugly kid. Are you a boy or a girl? Oh, never mind. I’ll take what’s yours, anyway”—the words that chased me to the end of world.

  He reminded me of her.

  He was the male version of her.

  Of the girl who wanted to break me, so I’d vowed to break her first.

  I wanted to throttle Hunter. He’d been so sure I was going to let him do whatever he wanted when he cornered me in the parking lot. He knew if he slept with another girl outside the apartment, his father would catch him. I was his only chance, and I wasn’t cooperating.

  “Fuck you.” I bared my teeth.

  “A few more weeks like this, and I’ll actually consider it, Carrot Top.” He thrust his face in mine menacingly. “What is it that you want? Money? Power? I can hook you up with one of my high-profile friends. Just say it, Sailor. Spit it out and you’ll have the paparazzi monitoring your every move. You’ll be the new Serena Williams. Everyone has a price.”

  I shook my head. “Not me.”

  “That’s fake news. You’re here, meaning you were already bought by my father. Now, what can I do to up my bid and switch your loyalties from him to me?”

  Drop dead, I wanted to scream. Only that wasn’t true. If he dropped dead right here and now, I wouldn’t switch loyalties. I would, however, dance atop his corpse while thanking God for saving me from six months of torture.

  Knowing our first encounters together were going to dictate the rest of our relationship, I yanked him by the collar of his shirt, bringing him closer to my face so we were nose to nose. I could breathe in his mouth. Cinnamon gum, mint, and a dirty, carnal kiss I would never let happen.

  If he was shocked by my antics, his face didn’t show it.

  “Listen to me carefully, Hunter Fitzpatrick. I may seem like an insecure, average-looking geek to you. And you know what? That’s who I am. I own it. But make no mistake, this insecure geek comes from a long line of people you do not want to screw with, and their savagery rubbed off on me as well. I will not hesitate to pierce your pretty, spoiled-prince heart with one of my pointy arrows. But you’re right. I do have a price. My success is my price. Beating Lana Alder at this game is my price. You have nothing to offer me in that department. You will be celibate, sober, and congenial. We will attend our family functions, play house, and be whatever our parents want us to be. And then we’ll part ways and never speak to each other again. Am I clear?”

  Rather than answering me, he shook off my touch, turned around, and stalked down the hall to his room. He threw his door open and slammed it behind his back. I waited in the hallway with my arms crossed, knowing the real explosion was seconds away.

  Hunter was right. He did cave to his impulses and react thoughtlessly.

  “Three,” I whispered, holding three fingers in the air. “Two, one.” I curled them one by one, my eyes trained on his closed door. Every fiber in my body shook with adrenaline, fear, and amusement.

  “Showtime.” I snapped my fingers.

  Hunter burst from his room, his cheeks flushed, his eyes darkened. Two full moons.

  “The fuuuuuuuuuck!”

  He drew the letter U to oblivion and back. His hands were filled with junk: the open tin cans still leaking suspicious sauces, his dirty clothes, a pair of designer shoes, and a joystick. “You dumped all the garbage in my room. Are you crazy?”

  “Nice This is Sparta moment. All of this belongs to you.” I sloped my chin up, my voice stern. “Thought you’d appreciate getting it back, since it was thrown all over our mutual space.”

  He stared at me in shock, like I was a wild, battered animal he had to tame, a rodent vandalizing this expensive penthouse. “You’re insane.”

  I smiled sweetly. “Been called worse.”

  “Now I get it.” He dropped the garbage to the floor, pointing at me. “You’re my punishment for what I did. He chose the craziest bitch in Boston to set me straight, the old bastard.”

  Maybe Hunter was right. Maybe his father had heard just how much of an unbearable, career-centered party pooper I was. Although technically, I couldn’t be called a party pooper, since I never attended any.

  “Make sure you keep the place tidy, Hunter. With or without housekeepers, I don’t want to live in filth, not even for one hour. Have a good night, roomie,” I finished, walking into my room and slamming the door in his face.

  1-0, away team.

  The important thing to remember was, my balls weren’t going to fall off.

  I’d Googled it a few times (twenty-three times, if we’re being specific here) to be on the safe side. It was confirmed: I could live for six months without having sexual intercourse and still survive. Physically. My mind was another matter. If I was going to lose it in the process, I was going to tear Sailor Brennan limb from limb, then sew her back together into a sex doll.

  The spitfire, copper-haired banshee said we weren’t going to talk to each other after our six months were up, but she was wrong for assuming she could get rid of me that easily. I was already fantasizing about killing her in various positions, landscapes, and with different weapons once this was over. Cue to:

  Me strangling Sailor against a Sicilian sunset.

  Me slitting Sailor’s throat while we wore matching swimsuits in the Bahamas.

  Me pushing Sailor off an aerial tramway on a picturesque Aspen vacation.

  Sometimes in the fantasies she was asleep, but more often than not she was wide awake and fully conscious, witnessing her demise.

  I’d spent the night on the couch because I didn’t want to sleep in my garbage-filled room, and there was no way I was cleaning up the mess she’d left there.

  Look, maybe I wasn’t completely innocent. In the time before Sailor inhabited this place, I might have thrown myself a pity party and dirtied up my new apartment to make shit uncomfortable for her, too. But she didn’t have to make a big deal about it.

  I slept in nothing but my boxer briefs. When I woke up with a hard-on like a supersized German sausage—the kind that makes you wrestle with your own dick during your morning pee—I hoped she’d caught a glimpse of it before she scurried along to her boring day of shooting objects and skipping off into the sunset, holding hands with her hymen.

  That’s right, Sailor. You aren’t the only asshole under this roof with a deadly weapon.

  Which brought me to my next point—who the fuck does that? Just took shots at nothing? She didn’t hunt or do anything productive with her talent, just aimed at useless targets. Why was this an Olympic sport? Archery was checkers for anal people.

  “Sir, we’re here,” my driver murmured from the front seat.

  My first day working for Da and Cillian. And I needed to somehow pass my college exams this year. I was going to split community college in the evenings and work during the day fifty-fifty. I wasn’t a math genius, but even I knew that left zero time for having a life. Da had really ridden my ass this time around, bided his time while I was having fun in California before he shoved a ten-inch dildo up my rectum. I was feeling sore and tender even before he got the goddamn tip in.

  We were on day two of one hundred and eighty-two, but who the fuck was counting?

  (Answer: me. I was counting.)

  I stumbled out of the executive car and shouldered through the human traffic of downtown Boston, dragging my feet into Royal Pipelin
e’s crazy-tall, chrome skyscraper that ninety-five percent of Bostonians actively hated so much, there had been frequent demonstrations outside when they started building. The monster had ruined the city’s skyline, but it was who was inside it that had personally ruined my life.

  The best thing about the day, other than not spending it with Sailor Goddamn Brennan, was that I got to wear a Brioni suit. Wearing suits was my favorite. I didn’t even pretend to need an occasion. I went to parties, the movies, and restaurants looking like Jay Gatsby.

  I spent half an hour with security getting my name tag, electronic card, and a ton of other bullshit, then proceeded up to the eighth floor, where my father’s office was.

  I skulked over to main reception and approached a pretty receptionist with eyes so vacant she could pass as a life-sized Barbie.

  Bet she can bend her knees, though.

  “’Sup. Hunter Fitzpatrick’s in the house.” I parked an elbow on her counter. “Where’s my office?”

  Two severe-looking men behind me snorted to each other, shook their heads, and walked away. The blonde stared at me with a mix of horror and reluctance. Maybe I was giving her aggressive vibes because I hadn’t had my dick sucked in almost two weeks.

  “E-e-electronic card?” she stuttered, almost flinching. I was persona non grata inside these glass walls, which led me to believe I wasn’t seeing the entire picture. Why was she scared?

  I flashed her the card I’d received when I entered the building, letting it snap back into my front blazer’s pocket after she scanned it.

  “F-f-follow me.”

  With the ginger steps of a lab mouse, she led me past the main area of the office space, which had gold-and-black marble flooring, floor-to-ceiling windows, and long desks occupied by MacBooks, hot-ass secretaries, personal assistants, and mail boys running busily from corner to corner.

  Enveloping the room were fishbowl-like offices. The biggest one belonged to Da, followed by Cillian’s (second biggest), and Syllie’s (third biggest). Blondie led me to an ancient-looking oak desk that appeared to have been dragged from Dr. Frankenstein’s basement, complete with a phone and a computer monitor from the eighties. You know, the brick-like thing that resembles a medieval weapon. The makeshift station was glued to my father’s glass wall.