The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  “There isn’t a spider.” I scowled at him.

  Our eyes met in the mirror. He looked down to turn the tap on, a small smile on his face. He took his time, washing his hands from the probably imaginary spider, toweling them off, then turning around to face me. When he did, he crowded me with his body, making me take a step back toward the shower. The glass door was open, and my injured shoulder bumped into it. I winced.

  Hunter picked up a wisp of my freshly cut hair, rubbing it. We both watched the magnificent softness of it, so delicate I feared it’d melt like butter between his fingertips.

  “Chopping your hair off won’t stop me from grabbing it when we have sex,” he said tonelessly.

  I looked away, feeling my face heat. “Is there, or isn’t there a spider in my bedroom?” I asked, my breath dancing behind my ribcage.

  Hunter still frowned at my hair, taking another step forward. I took another step backward, careful not to hit the tiles.

  “Sly little banshee you are, letting us all believe you were dull-looking.”

  “I am dull-looking,” I countered, still worried about the spider.

  He shook his head, his gaze sliding from my hair to my eyes.

  “What am I going to do with you, aingeal dian?” He wrapped his hands around my neck and face, tilting my head upward.

  Watching him watch me felt like being buried alive. Before his eyes landed on me, I’d felt like I was wearing the wrong skin, the wrong face. Because of his gaze, I felt beautiful, and that was seriously addictive.

  I took another step back involuntarily. This time my back did hit the tiles with a soft thud.

  “We need to stop,” I croaked.

  “Stop what?” He feigned innocence, his intense expression turning blank.

  “This thing between us. You’re a master at flings. I’m not. I just came here to know if there’s a spider in my room.”

  “There isn’t,” he said easily, one of his hands reaching behind me. “And let’s not insult your intelligence by pretending this was about the fucking spider.”

  “You’re the one who came up with this scheme,” I reminded him.

  I wondered about numbers as his body inched closer to mine, tantalizingly hot and inviting and irresistible.

  Number of hearts that perished in the Hunter-storm wake.

  Number of times he’d heard the word no and effortlessly turned it into a yes.

  Number of tears shed because of this gorgeous creature, who couldn’t help being who he was.

  “Aye,” he hissed, pressing me against the tiles now, my chest against his upper belly, our thighs aligned, our mouths almost brushing. “But I’m never above insulting my own intelligence.”

  “Hunter Fitzpatrick, what are your intentions with my virtue?” I looked up, asking for the first time in a real, straightforward fashion.

  He smirked down at me.

  “Funny you should ask, Miss Brennan. I’m afraid I’m going for complete destruction.”

  With one swift movement, he turned on the shower spray, soaking us both. I let out a cry, holding on to his body as the cold water pelted my flesh punishingly. I heard his gravelly laugh as he scooped me up and wrapped me around him like I was an octopus, dipping his mouth to mine before I could protest.

  Somewhere in the back of my head, I remembered I had friends waiting in the living room, and that one of them was blood-related to the person devouring me in his shower, while we were both fully clothed—me with a red dress and matching heels still on.

  It also didn’t escape me that I was making the very same mistake I’d vowed not to make in the living room minutes ago, when Aisling reminded me who her brother was. But I was completely helpless. Captivated under his spell.

  “You’re a lobster,” I mumbled into our kiss as his tongue explored the inside of my mouth. My hand found his shaft through his sweatpants and rubbed of its own accord, feeling it swell and jerk. He was my self-medication. My alcohol. My cocaine. My un-prescribed ADHD pill, designed to enhance my emotional performance.

  “Is this a Friends reference? Because I’m Gen-Z and not completely immersed in popular nineties culture.” He pushed my panties to the side under my dress, fingering me. I groaned as his fingers met my insides again. My flesh was still sore from him entering me with his fingers and tongue yesterday. But every sore inch of me wrapped against him, squeezing and welcoming him like a vise.

  Welcome home.

  “Lobsters are nature’s whore. They just have this awesome reputation as monogamous creatures. Which is…stupid. So stupid. They are literally the cockroaches of the ocean,” I blabbed, letting him kiss me while the water pounded on us. He hmmed into my neck, his mouth moving down to my breasts.

  “I hate lobsters.” I sighed as his fingers curled in that way that made my insides clench. I was desperate to stay outside the moment, to absorb from afar. “And I hate Friends.”

  He stopped devouring me, taking a step back. Water dripped from the tip of his straight, narrow nose. His square, dimpled chin and pouty lips glistened with water. It clung to his eyelashes—he had great lashes, like Zayn Malik—enhancing his ruthless beauty even more.

  “Are we okay?” He sloped his chin down. It was we again.

  I shook my head. “I know we made a deal, Hunter, but I don’t know if I can do this again.”

  “Do what?”

  “Kiss you. Suck you off. Have your mouth on me. As you said, this is temporary, and I don’t know how you’re going to walk out of this, but if I’m being honest with myself, I think I might get hurt if I let it go further. I’m that type of girl.”

  “What type is that?”

  “The one who gets attached.”

  “You’re stronger than getting attached to the likes of me.”

  “I am strong, yes. But being strong doesn’t mean never getting hurt. It means having a high pain tolerance. I’m not dumb enough to amp it up.”

  He sobered, scrubbing his cheekbone with his knuckles. Hunter turned off the water, which somehow made me feel even colder. I couldn’t read his face. He had many facial expressions, added proof he was far from stupid.

  He regarded me with cold courtesy.

  “Is that why you changed your hair? Got a new wardrobe? Because you don’t want us to continue doing this?” he asked evenly. He was too proud and self-assured to be hurt by this.

  I let my shoulders rise and fall. “Maybe I wanted to impress you. But you shouldn’t let me.”

  “Too late,” he said, reaching for his towel and throwing it into my hands. “But if that’s what you want, I respect that.”

  “Do you really?”

  He bobbed his head in a silent yes. It felt like the end of something big. Something life-altering. Something Mom and Dad had been praying for.

  I wiped myself off as much as I could and returned to the living room with my tail between my legs. None of my friends asked me about my damp hair or sullen expression. I watched them eat, hugged them goodbye, and observed them from the floor-to-ceiling windows as they huddled toward the train station, figures hunched, probably talking about the curious case of the spider.

  I dragged myself to bed.

  Sleep never came.

  Song of the day: “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” by The Rolling Stones.

  The day after Sailor cockblocked me, everybody seemed deliciously murder-able.

  Da was a cunt, Cillian’s horns were extra pointy, and Syllie was holed up in his goddamn office, not doing anything suspicious or noteworthy. Knox was on payroll recording his ass pretty much twenty-four-seven and living in a van to make sure he caught every conversation the fucker had, and still, nothing.

  I got hit on by two secretaries who forgot the memo that I was the office airhead or were sent by Da as a test. I turned them down in a less-than-polite fashion (“My cock is on dickation”).

  I thought about texting Sailor—came close to doing it three times—but realized it would be selfish.

  Anyway, she
wasn’t completely wrong.

  Our bitch of an arrangement had three months to run its course, and then she was going to beat it (and I would finally stop beating one out).

  Obviously, I would be sad to see her go, but keeping her had never been an option. If I had to guess, the loss of Sailor would feel like the loss of a really good pizza some asshole sneezed on. It’d suck balls, but at least I’d have had a taste, and there were more restaurants to choose from.

  Anyway.

  Sailor wasn’t there when I came home that evening from another grueling night class. This time I did text her, just to make sure she was okay. She was. She texted back that she was returning to the archery club after spending time with Ash and the Sweet’N Low version of the Olsen twins. Sailor was spending a lot of time with Ash, which made me believe maybe I’d see her even after our arrangement was donezo.

  Only for that to work, I’d have to pick up my mom’s calls and actually spend time with my family. That wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, though I’d promised Da to attend family social functions.

  The following night, I crashed before Sailor made it home. Today, I’d left her a note with a coffee before I went to work, wishing her a good day, because apparently I was turning into someone’s sweet grandma.

  The first thing I noticed at work was that Sylvester wasn’t there.

  “Seen Syllie?” I stuck my head into Cillian’s office. He was sitting behind his desk, drowning in refinery blueprints. He was wearing a tailor-made Oxxford and had his hair slicked back neatly. He was punchable to a goddamn fault.

  He looked up, his lips puckering in annoyance at my existence. I knew I cramped his style with my general loser-ness. It was like running the White House with David Hasselhoff as vice president.

  “His wife is going through a minor medical procedure. He won’t be here today.”

  “No shit. She okay?” I couldn’t hide my mirth, which sucked. But his absence meant I could snoop around his office. I hoped it wasn’t anything serious—just like, removing a mole or getting a boob job (if those were even a thing anymore. Everybody knew the world was all about ass-plants now).

  “And what, pray tell, made you mistake me for someone who cares?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but he shooed me away with a flick of his wrist, his eyes still on the blueprints. “Never mind. Life’s too short to hear your answer.”

  “Asshole,” I muttered, glowering at him.

  “That, I am. And as one, I tend to shit over those who piss me off. Better step back, ceann beag.”

  After those parting words, I bolted to Syllie’s office, drew the blinds to his glass walls, and started sifting through his drawers to find anything that could clue me in on his plans.

  I was about to leave his office empty-handed when I noticed something on his desk, in plain sight—somewhere I hadn’t even thought to look. A piece of paper. I reversed, frowning at it. It was a list of names. Most of them I didn’t recognize, but one stood out, because it was the same chick who did PR for Sailor. Why would Syllie need PR? What scandal was he planning on extinguishing? He wasn’t running for political office, that was for damn sure. He was the kind of fuckface who only cared about making money. The public sector wouldn’t appeal to him. I took a picture of the names with my phone, making a mental note to Google them, and dashed out.

  The minute I was out of his office, I collided with a dainty body.

  “Hunter,” a delicate shriek whined.

  “Mom?”

  Ech.

  She clutched her little Balenciaga purse to her chest, wearing a dress with a matching pattern. Jane Fitzpatrick had brought the looks into the union between her and Da, and I took after her in that department. She looked beautiful, and equally as pissy. Eyebrows pinched together, mouth flat.

  “You’ve been avoiding my calls,” she said. No Hi. No How are you doing? Straight to stating the fucking obvious.

  You’ve been avoiding me, I wanted to counter. For thirteen years, to be exact. When Da wanted to send me away, you should’ve said no. When I got kicked out of Eton, you should’ve brought me back. You never fought for me, Mom. Why would I fight for you?

  “Been busy.” I popped a cinnamon gum into my mouth, starting for my station outside Da’s office. Back to my doggy spot. “Need anything?”

  Parenting classes?

  Moral compass?

  A fucking heart?

  “Yes. Some time with my son.”

  Ahhh, not that. She continued, undeterred, as she quickened her pace to catch up with me.

  “Your father said we’d be seeing more of you, that it was a part of your deal. But every time I contact Sailor regarding making arrangements for dinner, she says you’re too busy, and you never answer your phone.”

  Sailor had been cutting me some major slack in recent weeks. Truth was, I straight up dodged them. So far I’d managed to do pretty well. Between college, work, Sailor’s injury, and that pub brawl, my life had been a goodie bag of calamities.

  “Shame, Mom. Well, anyway, we’ve seen each other today, which has been good. Great. That should tide us over until next month.”

  “Actually, you’re coming this week.” Her high heels stubbed the marble floor angrily. I felt like an asshole for making her chase me, but not enough to stop.

  “Explain.” I rounded the corner. She followed.

  “I talked to Sailor. She said she’ll make you come, no matter what.”

  That certainly wasn’t what she told me when I actually tried to come with her in my arms, I thought testily. Still, it annoyed me that my grip on Sailor was loosening. She really was taking a step back from that thing between us, hence the plans with my mom.

  “She’s my PA now. Sweet.” I stopped at my desk and flipped through files without purpose just to look busy. “Well, it’s settled, then. Anything else?”

  “Yes. It’s on Friday. I’m cooking. And I have another question.”

  “Of course you do.”

  I was turning into Cillian, and I hated it. Being a cunt did not come easily to me.

  “What did I ever do to make you hate me?” She looked up at me, and I could see in my periphery that her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Fuck. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have—in the office or at all. I didn’t look up from the file I was browsing through.

  “Nothing. I think it’s safe to say you did absolutely nothing for me,” I said, amending, “I mean, to me.”

  I closed the file with a thud, sparing her the look she’d been begging for.

  The idea of having Sailor watch firsthand how little my family thought of me was infuriating, but inevitable. She already kind of had, at the charity bullshit, but she hadn’t been sitting with us, so it wasn’t like she’d experienced it from the front row. I shouldn’t care, anyway. As established, we were nothing to each other.

  “I wish you knew the whole story.” She sniffed, looking down.

  “I wish I cared.”

  HHH: Thanks for the ambush dinner.

  Sailor: Anytime.

  HHH: ← Not going.

  Sailor: ↑Not optional I’m afraid. My parents are going to be there. Sam, too.

  HHH: Sounds like an intervention.

  Sailor: Nope. You’ve got your sh*t together.

  HHH: I can’t believe I went down on a chick who doesn’t spell the word shit.

  Sailor: Hunter!

  HHH: What? It’s like one step away from a nun. I feel like this is bucket-list-worthy. Can I strike off nun?

  Sailor: I’m agnostic.

  HHH: I’ll show you the light.

  Sailor: You’ve already shown me plenty of things. None of them godly.

  HHH: Not according to your moans.

  No answer. Of course I had to take it one step too far. This was when I usually gave up on a chick, chalking it up as too much work. But with Sailor, her defiance turned me on.

  HHH: Am I going to see you today?

  Sailor: I’m watching tapes after
practice until late. Then I have a photoshoot for a sports mag.

  HHH: *Crosses off fingering a celebrity, too.*

  HHH: I’ll wait. What 2 DoorDash?

  Sailor: Do they deliver manners?

  HHH: Sushi with a side of my superior sense of humor it is.

  Sailor: Try to make sure the delivery person keeps their clothes on this time.

  HHH: No promises.

  That night, Sailor and I had sushi while listening to Syllie’s tapes and trying to decode some of his conversations. It felt like buddy studying for a test together or some shit. I kept punctuating my speech with my chopsticks and asking her: “And what about that?” “Did you hear what he just said?” “Does that sound suspicious?”

  We came to some conclusions, though not exactly groundbreaking shit. Syllie definitely hated Cillian with Shakespearean fucking passion. He hated Da, too, but tried to remain professional when talking shit about him. He didn’t talk about me at all, something neither I nor Sailor pointed out for the sake of my ego, which currently was unsalvageably destroyed.

  RIP, pride. Can you miss something you’ve never had?

  “I think,” Sailor said as she packed up the empty containers, getting ready to throw them into the recycling bin, “he is definitely hiding something. And if you want something bad enough—more than the person you’re up against—you always get it. So, yeah, you can nail him.”

  I’d rather nail you. “Are you speaking from experience?” I asked. I wanted to know why she always looked one step away from dismembering Lana Alder. Not that Sailor needed much to get riled up, but her hatred toward the hot archer seemed personal, intimate. I knew my roommate, and she didn’t blacklist people unless they were major-league cunts.

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Guess I’ll find out soon.”

  “I’ve seen her in action.” I slam-dunked an empty can of LaCroix straight into the recycling. We both knew who I was talking about. “She’s not a natural-born archer. She ain’t you.”

  “Talent is just one ingredient. It doesn’t make for a perfectly executed dish. There are other factors to consider.” She kept herself busy tidying the coffee table.