The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  “Then why aren’t you backing me up on this?” I seethed.

  Did Kill’s hatred for me trump his love for Royal Pipelines? I tried to remain calm. Cillian loathed emotions. I wondered how, exactly, he was going to give Da the precious heirs he was obviously waiting for when my older brother was appalled by any type of emotion, lust included.

  “You started this, put things in motion. Now it’s your job to finish it,” Cillian explained, aiding his horse and quickening its pace, his back straight as an arrow. We kept chasing each other, changing paces. I remembered his words: “Everything is a pissing contest.”

  I launched forward, catching up with him.

  Song of the day: “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones.

  “I don’t like tests,” I hissed.

  “I don’t like taxes,” he deadpanned. “But guess what I’m doing every April fifteenth? Let me give you a hint, not five Californian cheerleaders on my friend’s fourteen-thousand-dollar carpet.”

  I almost laughed. For all his shittiness, my brother was cooler than a Trader Joe’s cashier.

  “That sucks,” I groaned, referring to Syllie. I still couldn’t remember the orgy.

  “Welcome to adulthood. Leave your joy and creativity at the door.”

  “What if I can’t nail him?” I dug my nails into his horse’s coat. I’d noticed Kill was warming up his black Arabian, aiding him frequently, like he wanted to jump him. I found it typical that he hadn’t even given his two favorite horses names. He was impersonal, even to the things he was fond of.

  “Shame for Royal Pipelines, but we had a good run,” he said dispassionately, staring ahead.

  The horses lunged like a dream and took to the saddles well. They were young but calm and good-natured. We rode into the thick of the woods, surrounded by trees and moss. There was a clear path leading hell-knows-where, the sun seeping through the needled pines, the fresh scent of earth surrounding us.

  Cillian was just as suspicious of Syllie as I was. That’s why Syllie loathed him. And it was why Kill hadn’t ridiculed me when I presented my theory.

  “You want to see if I fuck it up.” I snapped my fingers, finally getting it.

  My brother removed an invisible piece of lint from his riding coat. “You need a good challenge. Just make sure to hang the rebel in the town square instead of humping his leg when you’re done.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Language is a powerful tool, ceann beag. You better stop abusing it.”

  “Meaning?” I gave him the stink eye.

  I loathed his self-control. It freaked me out. I imagined he was one of those sociopaths who could fuck someone for hours without coming just to punish them. He was that disciplined.

  “Priceless and worthless are the same sum, presented in different manners. Words make you or break you. By cursing, you reduce yourself to someone who cannot convey their feelings sufficiently.”

  “Okay, Geoffrey Chaucer Jr., back to Sylvester. What do you think he’s planning?”

  “Considering he asked for more shares and a substantial raise a few months back and got turned down for both, I imagine he knows he’s on his way out and wants to stick his hand in the honey pot before it’s too late. He could skim millions from the company. Billions, if he’s ambitious and feeling extra vindictive.”

  He said billions in the same tone I said pennies. That sum was utterly disposable to him.

  Kill took a sharp turn. I followed. We were riding around what looked like an archery range—not Sailor’s, which was in the heart of the city. This one looked like some sort of a camp. I wondered if she’d ever been here, before remembering I didn’t give two shits if she had.

  Cillian asked me about college, and then about Sailor (“the feisty redhead,” to be exact), then proceeded to say the most shocking thing that had ever come out of his mouth.

  “The Fitzpatricks take care of their own, Hunter. Even so, I don’t need to tell you we have a strict eat-your-young policy. But Da doesn’t hate you.”

  “Which one?” I inquired when we began to make our way from the woods back to the stables. “Yours, or the Eastern European fucker who porked our mom?”

  “The one that matters,” he quipped. “The one that’s putting you through hell so you can walk away with the skills it takes to run one of the largest corporations in the world alongside me.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe, anyway. We all have scars,” Cillian said icily. “Some of us choose to wear them like fine jewels; others hide them. You simply try to ignore them. Face your problems, ceann beag. Because guess what? They’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m glad you managed living away from your parents—from your family—from age six unscathed. But I’m not you. And let me tell you something else that might rock your world: I don’t want to be you, either. I wanted a father. A mother. A goddamn brother and a baby sister. The whole package. I didn’t want the private schools and the horses and the wealth. I just wanted a family.”

  “A family was never in the cards for either of us,” Kill hissed, ramming his feet into the stirrups like a beginner. His horse bucked, unused to its owner raising his voice.

  I slowed my pace, eyeing him.

  “Mother has been on antidepressants since Aisling was born and was unfit to take care of a hamster, let alone three kids. Da was rarely home. He slept in the office more than half the week. The nannies were not allowed to live on Avebury Court grounds, because Mom feared Da would have sex with them, a fear that was not unwarranted. In the time you were away, she went to rehab twice. Aisling has been tossed around between nannies like a tennis ball. Calling them a mess would be the understatement of the century. They sent us away because they knew our best chance at surviving this family was having minimal contact with it. The truth is, I was born to inherit the Fitzpatrick mess and shoulder all the family issues, you were born to avenge Athair’s infidelity, and poor Aisling was born to try to patch up the chaos they’d created.”

  I didn’t know my mother suffered from depression and dependency, but I was too poisoned by loneliness and neglect to find compassion for her.

  “Yeah, well, worked for you.” I gathered phlegm, spitting it to the ground. I didn’t know that about Aisling, but it didn’t surprise me. My baby sister was a cactus: adaptable, easy to keep alive, and thrived on next to nothing. Kill and I were different creatures—athletic and spirited, wild and unrestrained.

  “Quite,” he said, robot-like.

  “You didn’t care that they tossed you aside because you think you’re above love, don’t you?” I didn’t think he was capable of feeling it. I didn’t think I could, either, but that’s because I was below love, undeserving of it.

  “Love is a great marketing strategy. Sells a lot of books, movies, and diamonds. Aside from that, I do not consider myself a big fan of it.”

  “No marriage for you, then?” I asked. Kill was thirty, and about as likely to settle down as a wild fucking boar.

  “I will, to someone who is fit to sire my heirs and feels comfortable raising them away from the city—from me.”

  “Are you going to time-travel to a century where an idea like this wouldn’t earn you a slap in the face?” I wondered aloud. He laughed, actually laughed and shook his head, muttering, “Little Naïve, so naïve. Money’s a great incentive to be anything, even a glorified slave.”

  “Chauvinist much?”

  “Hardly. I didn’t limit this statement to women. I could tame any man for the right price, too.”

  We poured back onto the track, entangled in our own thoughts. I wanted to get away from here, but also stay longer. I hadn’t spent quality time with Cillian in years. Maybe ever. And I didn’t want to go back to a Sailor-less apartment. It always felt cold and hollow without another person there.

  We got to the stables and dismounted. I thanked my brother politely.

  “Their names are Washington and Hamilton,” my brother huffed out of nowhere,
stroking his horse’s nose. The horse nudged his shoulder, asking for more, but Kill had already turned and looked at me. He had the rare talent of giving you just enough for you to want more, but never to bring you to satisfaction.

  “Where are Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Jay?” A sarcastic smirk curved on my face.

  “In the stables, resting,” he replied, dead-ass serious. He stood straight and looked grim, and I realized maybe Cillian Fitzpatrick didn’t always want to be Cillian Fitzpatrick, after all. It was probably daunting to be above everyone twenty-four-fucking-seven.

  Fuck, I’d die without cursing alone.

  I shook my head, throwing my arm over his shoulder. He didn’t swat it away like I’d expected him to, just stared at me with a mixture of confusion and disdain.

  “Let me buy you a burger,” I offered, internally sweating my balls. A rejection would crush me.

  “I don’t eat garbage,” he drawled. “But I’ll treat you to the best meat you’ll ever have.”

  I very much doubted he could offer me any meat better than what I was pounding into these days, but agreed anyway. When we walked back to his car, Cillian said, “The Brennan girl is going to have you by the balls if you touch her. Do not touch her.”

  “I could handle her if I wanted her.” My mood turned sour as I threw the passenger door open.

  We both buckled at the same time.

  “No, you can’t,” he countered.

  “So who can?” I hissed, turning to face him as he revved up the engine. “You, I suppose?”

  He backed out of the graveled parking lot, taking his hands off the steering wheel to attend to the task of PUTTING HIS FUCKING GLOVES ON. I couldn’t believe I was going to get killed in the name of my brother’s supreme fashion sense.

  “If I thought she was worth the effort, yes.”

  “Who is worthy of the efforts of the great Cillian Fitzpatrick?” I leaned into my seat, grinning venomously. “Heir to a Western oil empire, with a master’s from Harvard Business School, the face of a deity, the body of Adonis, and the wit of a thousand white-shoe lawyers?” I quoted what had been written about him in a tabloid a couple years ago, verbatim.

  “No one,” he said easily. “None that I’ve encountered, at any rate.”

  “You did date that princess from Monaco,” I noted.

  His longest relationship had lasted six months. I suspected it was because she wasn’t close enough for him to find flaws in her in a timely manner. He finally put his hands on the goddamn wheel, two seconds before taking a sharp turn. “Your point?”

  “You date, you fuck, you live—just like I do. You just hide it better.”

  “We’re only as bad as the crimes we get caught perpetrating. Learn from the best, and make sure to stay away from Brennan and her friends while you’re at it—especially the two sisters with garbage for manners. Aisling has been parading them at Avebury Court like wild bobcats she caught in the hills.”

  I thought it was odd that he mentioned Emmabelle and Persy specifically, but I was too riled up about the Sailor comment to care.

  “Sure thing, asshole.”

  “And stop cursing.”

  “Fucking fine.”

  “Oopsie-daisy. Another penny goes in the piggy bank,” I whispered in Junsu’s ear, tapping his shoulder.

  My trainer jumped backward, bumping his head against the wall with a surprised yap. Junsu was never scared. This caught me off guard, and I stumbled in the opposite direction. Wincing, he rubbed the back of his head as he killed his telephone call without even saying goodbye to whoever was on the other line. He tucked his cell into his front pocket.

  He’d been acting strange lately—showing up late to our sessions, disappearing down the hall to take personal calls, losing focus. At some point, I’d brought in a piggy bank I found at the dollar store next to his office and told him he’d have to put a penny in it every time he disappeared or acted strange. It was a pleasant way to make him refocus. I had to admit—the piggy bank was filling up, fast.

  Last time he’d picked it up to roll another penny in the slit, I could tell it was heavy. The penny dropped with a soft thud, hitting more coppered coins. The pig’s belly was full.

  “You not do that ever again!” Junsu flashed his pointy teeth at me, shaking his fist.

  He must’ve seen the horror on my face, because he relaxed immediately, squeezing my healthy shoulder. “Sorry. This just stress.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” I eyed him.

  Junsu kept his personal life under wraps. I knew he was happily married with three children, had moved here thirty years ago, and enjoyed doing tai chi in the park with his wife every weekend. He led a blissfully uneventful life, but I was beginning to suspect something had disrupted his status quo. Maybe someone was sick? Or one of his kids got into trouble?

  But no. I knew they were all healthy and doing well. The only remotely notable crisis Junsu had ever had was a year ago, when he and his wife thought they couldn’t afford putting their oldest son, Kwan, through Columbia. He got accepted, but had zero scholarships. Finally, they’d managed to pull through and come up with the funds. I never asked how. It wasn’t my business.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Let’s start the training.”

  We fell into step, heading for the range, the silence between us buzzing like a fly in my ear.

  “Lana’s going to be here in two weeks.” I began to chew the skin around my thumbnail. It was raw and pink and spoke the story of my anxiety these days.

  The past few weeks had been brutal. Both Lana and I fought for the media’s affection, doing interviews and photoshoots and junkets. I was exhausted. I loathed being in front of the cameras. This side of the business wore me out.

  I loved the sport, but hated the career.

  Junsu hitched one shoulder up, hands clasped behind his back. His lack of response drove me up the wall.

  I wet my lips. “Should I be worried?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But so should she. You are both very good. One of you ought to be slightly better. We will find out who soon.”

  I should’ve known better than to expect a full, glowing endorsement, wrapped in a reassuring bow that I was going to kick her ass when we met for the finals in Boston to determine which of us was heading to the Olympics. It wasn’t Junsu’s style. Still, his answer stung.

  After our training session, I drove back to my apartment, knowing Knight and Luna, Hunter’s friends, were already there. The eagles have landed, Hunter had texted me earlier. I bailed out of work early just to catch them bumping talons on our stairway. Totes gross. x

  They were staying tonight and tomorrow, and I was afraid they’d hate me, or worse, find me unremarkable and invisible, like the rest of the world. I was frightened that the bubble Hunter and I had wrapped ourselves in would burst in our faces once my roommate got the memo I was just the awkward, feisty girl who’d been assigned to babysit him but ended up crawling into his bed just like the others.

  When the elevator to our private penthouse dinged open, my heart slammed so hard in my chest I was nauseous. Laughter and hollers rolled from the kitchen. My eyes immediately darted to Hunter and another guy our age. They were leaning against the counter, drinking root beer from fancy-looking bottles. The guy was tall—taller than Hunter—and boringly beautiful to a point of revulsion. Tucked under his massive arm was a tan girl with cornrows braided up into a ponytail. She looked like an Egyptian princess—wildly striking, with slanted, light eyes and pillowy lips. Her eyes ping-ponged back and forth between them, a slight, amused smile on her lips. Hunter wore a Brunello Cucinelli wool and cashmere suit, and Knight was in a white Palm Angels hoodie and Giuseppe Zanotti leather mid-top sneakers. They wore fifteen-thousand dollars between themselves.

  Crazy rich playboys.

  “So this girl, Alice, is bent over the billiard table, telling this asshole about her Christian summer camp adventures, and our boy Hunt is fucking her in front of an entir
e room.” Hunter’s friend, Knight, jerked his thumb toward him, cackling. “Now get this, Moonshine. All this time, Hunter is having, like, a legit, in-depth conversation with Vaughn about something—I don’t even remember what—without breaking pace or a sweat as he’s plunging into her. What was it you talked about?” Knight elbowed Hunter.

  None of them had noticed me yet, even after I stepped out of the elevator, watching them, mesmerized.

  Alice. Alice from Instagram. Alice he was flirting with. Alice of his own, private Wonderland. My heart bled tar. I felt heavy and sluggish, my mind cloudy. I was jealous, I realized.

  “Which senior celebrity you’d rather do, Michelle Pfeiffer or Madonna,” Hunter supplied, taking another sip of his drink, his hand tucked into the front pocket of his light gray cigar pants.

  He looked so much sharper and mature than Knight, with his blond hair sleeked back elegantly, like the rest of the Fitzpatrick clan.

  “Michelle Pfeiffer all the way,” I interrupted, discarding my duffel bag by the entrance, strolling in. All eyes darted to me in surprise. I smiled with too much teeth, trying to appear calm, as I went on to explain, “Batman Returns, anyone?”

  “I’m giving you half the points.” Knight pointed at me with the neck of his bottle. “Because you had the celebrity right, but the movie wrong. Dangerous Minds, by the way. I’m Knight.” He disentangled from his gorgeous fiancée to approach me.

  I reached out to him, expecting a handshake. Knight grabbed my hand, jerking me into a crushing hug full of soul. This guy, I knew by his hug alone, came from a family of professional huggers and knew love intimately and madly. Luna was a lucky girl.

  “Thank you for taking care of our boy. We know he’s a cunt.”

  “Knight!” Luna giggled, butting into our hug and squeezing me, too. She smelled like a warm fabric softener sheet, and had zero mean-girl vibe about her despite her beauty. “I’m Luna.”