The Hunter’s Game: Blood for Blood: 01

by Fox, Logan

  …the fuck?

  My gaze spears into Hill, but he doesn’t notice, doesn’t care.

  Probably doesn’t even see me where I’m sitting.

  The cause? Yeah, Hill, it’s called addiction. A substance that you become addicted to. Fuck, he’s the one that’s got like Ph.D. and shit in chemistry, and he doesn’t know it’s all chemical? Christ.

  I grab my clutch and stand. Michael grabs my wrist, and tries to tug me down, but I rip free my arm.

  What the fuck was I thinking, coming here? Seventy miles for a pat on the head, and a chip that would become the center of my own self-loathing the moment I relapsed a week, a month, a year from now?

  Fuck you, serenity prayer.

  Fuck you, Dr. doesn’t-know-shit-about-addiction Hill.

  Maybe, next time, you should use all that fucking cash to buy yourself a new degree. One that teaches you about—

  “Do you disagree, Ms. Vos?”

  White light floods me as I turn to the sound of the voice stating my name so calmly.

  Hill’s wearing a faintly bemused smile. From my peripheries, I see everyone staring at me in hushed expectation.

  “Excuse me?” I bleat.

  “Do you disagree with my findings?”

  The urge to call him out on his blatant lie is strong, but with so many eyes on me I’m not sure I can even move, never mind hold a heated debate. “I—I was going to the bathroom.”

  The spotlight returns to Hill. His smile changes as if he sees right through my pathetic excuse. He carries on speaking as if I didn’t just fuck up his entire speech. “Over the course of my studies, there has always been a recurring theme—an addict’s past. What I concurred from the data I compiled from the thousands of addicts in my program, was that…”

  The rest of his flowery speech fades—to cement my lie, I make my way to the bathroom. I’m not in the habit of blushing, but I’m too warm, too exposed, too fucking everything as I maneuver through the tightly clustered chairs and tables. A few heads turn to watch me, but most of Hill’s audience is too captivated by his data, his findings, and his smug fucking smile to notice me.

  The bathroom is empty. I go into a stall and pee, taking that white flower from my hair and considering it as I run a hand through my waves.

  How the fuck does he know my name?

  Then again, he wanted me to meet him in the den—reasons unknown—so surely he knows something about me, right?

  But what? And why?

  I flush the toilet, shove the flower back into my hair, and go wash my hands. I catch sight of my reflection and hardly recognize myself. There’s a touch of color in my cheeks that I haven’t seen in a long time. Gone are the shadows normally smudged under hollow eyes. My eyes shine, my hair is lustrous.

  When was the last time I looked so fucking healthy? I haven’t worn make up in six months, and I was in such a rush to leave Gail’s place that I almost took out an eye putting on mascara.

  It could have been the Jack Daniels I downed, but Hill also threw me off guard.

  I guess I have the Hill Institute to thank for all this—and Hill himself, if he’s the one that really came up with the program.

  Smug prick.

  I straighten my shoulders, adjust my bustier, and haul in a deep breath before touching up my lipstick. Gail loves red, and this one almost matches my hair. Looking in the mirror, I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but at least I feel better than when I came in here.

  When I march out of the bathroom, there’s some kind of commotion happening. Shit, have they moved onto the award ceremony already?

  True enough, when I arrive in the dining room, there’s an ex-junkie on stage and another on their way up. I collapse into my chair beside Michael.

  “Did they call me?”

  “Not yet,” he replied. He’s got a new drink, and I see he ordered for me. Another Jack, surprisingly. Then again, if anyone knows the history of my six months of rehab, it’s Michael. He’s got to realize my addiction stops at heroin.

  Immediately, my counselor’s droning voice cuts through my head.

  Don’t substitute one addiction for another.

  There was no smoking at the Institute because too many addicts transposed their addiction for hard drugs onto something just as bad for them if legal: cigarettes.

  My phone vibrates.

  Sneaking it out, I scan through the notifications. Of the five people I texted, only two replied. Neither of them have a place for me to crash tonight.

  Shit.

  I force myself to sip my drink although the urge to down it is intense. It would soothe my nerves, but it would make Michael second guess himself and I might need him tonight.

  “So…I don’t think you heard me earlier?”

  Michael turns, glass against his lips and a frown on his brow. “Sorry?”

  “You seeing someone?”

  He shrugs.

  Shrugs! What the fuck am I supposed to do with a shrug?

  “Handsome guy like you?” I ask, curling a chunk of hair around my finger. I’m assuming he’s single, or it’s complicated, but I’m desperate over here. Sleeping under bridges was never my thing. “Come on.”

  “There’s…” He trails off, glancing at me from the corner of his eye before he carries on. “It’s complicated.”

  Nailed it.

  “God, I’m sorry,” I say, oozing fake sympathy. “Relationships can be so tough.”

  Which is why I’m not looking for one; take the hint, retard.

  He smiles at me. “What about you? You going back to that guy?”

  That guy…? Oh, right. Spencer. The one that paid for my rehab. Pfft. Fine, he was a sweetheart and whatnot, but way too bald for me. Then again, I think he realized we weren’t a match after I OD’d on his five-thousand dollar sofa and left permanent sick up stains on the fabric. He threw me in this institute so fast I was still high as fuck when I woke up here. They told me I’d died for a while.

  Spencer had everything: tons of money, his own company, and a job that required ninety percent of his available time. All I had to endure was the odd dinner, seven hours of intense snoring, and a quickie every three days—if he wasn’t out of town on business.

  In return, I was rewarded with the unholy trinity of addiction—boredom, drugs, and money.

  I’m surprised it lasted as long as it did, really.

  “No…” I drop my head, hiding behind my hair because I’m not sure I can pull off the expression he’s expecting to see. “He didn’t sign up for dating an addict.”

  Michael opens his mouth, but says nothing.

  And just like that, his hand slides over my thigh again. He gives me a squeeze, pairing it with a sympathetic smile as he says, “Guess we could both use a dating break.”

  Sure, Mike—you can call it whatever the fuck you want. For example, I call it surviving.

  I smile back at him, but before I can say something coy and-or witty in reply, a sexy baritone calls out my name.

  “Clover Vos.”

  * * *

  There’s a roar of applause as I rush to my feet. I almost trip over my beige skirt as I maneuver around my chair. Michael grabs my wrist as I pass him and gives me a reassuring squeeze, but I’m too busy trying not to fall on my face to acknowledge his help.

  Why did Hill’s voice send a ripple through me? Maybe it was just the shock of hearing my name called out in front of all these people.

  I keep my eyes down, making sure I take each step with precision while sucking in my stomach and keeping my boobs out and trying not to look like an idiot.

  Multitasking like a boss.

  The stage feels hollow under my sandals as I cross the space to the podium. Hill steps to the side, an envelope in his hand. The other extends for a handshake. My arm feels lame when I lift it. I get it there eventually, keeping my eyes down because I know—I just fucking know—that if I look at him I’m gonna trip over my own feet.

  His hand is cool, dry. He
squeezes me so hard that I look up at him as if it was a command.

  Brown eyes. Dark brows. A gaze so intense, it feels as if he’s penetrating my mind.

  “Congratulations,” he murmurs, handing me the envelope.

  He doesn’t release my hand, or relinquish his grip. Our skins pulsed together as if he’s constricting my blood flow. I manage what might have been a nod and take the envelope.

  “Why didn’t you come to the den?”

  Fuck. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I—”

  “After dinner then.” His mouth lifts in a smile. “I insist.”

  He releases my hand and steps aside with a wave of his hand.

  Get off the stage, Clover.

  I duck my head, realize he might have taken that as acceptance, and force my legs to take me off the stage.

  My hand is still pulsing. I clench it into a fist to get rid of the sensation. There’s something inside the envelope—it’s sliding around as I walk.

  A thirty-day chip

  Was it worth it, Clover? Huh? Six months in this prison, and now you landed on the goddamn founder’s radar?

  Thirty days clean, and all I want in this moment is the sweet oblivion that comes the instant you tug off that hose, belt, fucking pantyhose—whatever it was you wrapped around your arm to find a vein. Thirty days, and Hill unraveled me with a simple handshake.

  So was it worth it?

  Course it fucking wasn’t.

  Chapter Six

  Hunter

  There’s no logical explanation for it, but Clover Vos unnerves me. I can tell she’s nervous the moment she bolts to her feet when the spotlight lands on her. Yet, she pushes away that anxiety and strides to the stage with the determination of a professional athlete taking their place at the line.

  Her hand is softer than I expected. Warm. Not in the least damp or sweaty.

  There’s a Morning Glory flower in her hair.

  Its color against her red hair is like a flag of surrender.

  Why did she choose that flower?

  It was the only one in the garden blooming at night.

  In all her time here, did she ever consider the potential of this plant’s seeds to her own recovery? Something I am still to prove, but what are the chances she decided—

  I’m still holding her hand, and there’s no reason for this. She already has the envelope.

  Why didn’t she come?

  What reason did she have to refuse my command?

  “Why didn’t you come to the den?”

  Idiot! Why am I speaking with her? All I have to do is give her the envelope, shake her hand, and accept whatever profuse gratitude she sends my way.

  There is none of that.

  Understandable—I haven’t cured her yet. The gratitude is still to come.

  But honestly, there’s not a smidgeon of gratitude in this woman’s eyes.

  Just pure challenge.

  “Yeah, I—”

  I cut her off, not wanting to hear some pathetic excuse—I’m sure she has a veritable treasure trove of them stored in her mind.

  “After dinner then.” I force a smile. “I insist.”

  Her eyes widen, and then she’s walking past me, tearing her hand from mine.

  I watch her from the corner of my eye as she descends the steps leading off the stage.

  Yeah, nothing Clover.

  There’s no turning back. Not now.

  I’ve made my decision.

  It will be you.

  Chapter Seven

  Clover

  “Congratulations, graduates. Let’s give them another hand.” Hill claps loudly, but he steps away from the microphone like a pro before he does.

  I watch him from behind my glass, taking tiny sips that can’t wash the taste of shame from my mouth.

  Something happened up there, and I don’t have a fucking clue what it was. It’s like we had this whole conversation, but didn’t say a word.

  He knows me. He knows everything there is to know about me. But how?

  I’m not a recluse, but I’m secretive. I go to parties, I mingle, I sleep around. But I’m not on social media. Mainly ‘cos I’d need a cellphone that cost more than a few bucks to engage on that shit. But also because I’ve never liked people knowing about me. The only thing I want to share with the world is what I consider a good time.

  But he knows me. He found out stuff, and for some reason that makes him interested in me.

  But why? I’m a fucking nobody.

  “…later tonight?”

  I jerk back to the present and give Michael an apologetic smile. “What?”

  “Where you headed after this?”

  Ah, fuck. A bridge, Mike, don’t you know? If I’m lucky, I might even have a piece of cardboard handy to ward off the cold.

  “Wherever you’re going,” I say, my lips perking into a smile.

  He looks down, and a shy little smile plays on his mouth. “Yeah?”

  “If you want. I don’t know about you, but I got some celebrating to do.” I hoist the glass of Jack to my lips and drain it.

  A flicker of doubt flashes across his eyes, but then I give his thigh muscle a squeeze and it disappears like it never was.

  Good boy.

  “Lamb or pork, ma’am?”

  I start, spinning to face a dead-faced server standing behind my chair. “Uh…lamb’s fine, thanks.”

  Je-sus! I thought Hill would let me starve.

  The server gives a dry little nod and moves on to Michael. He orders the pork, but I won’t judge him for that. As long as he has a bed for me to crash in, I’m gonna be pretty lax in the whole judgment department tonight.

  The server notices my drink’s empty and then realizes it had alcohol in it. This makes him seize up like he’s having a stroke, and I chuckle before I can get my hand up to stop the sound.

  Even Michael suppresses a smile and gives the waiter a little wink. “Another round, please. Put it on my tab.”

  The server gives an awkward little bow and leaves while Michael and I are still chuckling at him.

  “You gonna get into trouble for this?” I ask, tapping my nail against the edge of the glass. In his haste to leave, the server left it behind.

  Michael shakes his head. “Nah. Long as Dr. Hill doesn’t find out.”

  I realize I’m twining my bracelet around my finger, cutting the metal chain into my wrist. What, does he expect the waiters to report back to Hill on what I’m drinking? Who the fuck cares?

  He cares, Clover.

  Fuck, little voice. Just piss off already, would you? I thought I left you back in stage four of rehab, asshole.

  Nope, still here.

  “I’ll be back now,” I say, rushing to my feet.

  Michael looks up in surprise and grabs my wrist. “You feeling all right?”

  “Jesus, yes.”

  “Okay.” He releases me, but his eyes are on me as I make my way back to the bathroom.

  Ah, the bathroom.

  We have a special bond, bathrooms and I. Toilet stalls, to be exact. I lock myself in one and put the seat down, sinking down with a relieved sigh. Roundabout this point of the evening, I’m trying to snort up my second line of heroin. In seedier places, I’d have my full kit out, ready to mainline straight to heaven. Return trip, of course, and the stopover in Hell is abysmal.

  But that was the old me. I’m Clover V.—aspiring fashion designer. I could be living in New York, but I chose something rural because it inspires my fashion line like nobody’s fucking business.

  I stare at the back of the toilet stall’s door, willing myself to calm the fuck down.

  Then I stall the inevitable by digging the envelope out of my purse. Oh look, now there’s two of them.

  I ignore the first and pull out the one that’s still sealed.

  When I tip it over, a chip falls out. Red, too shiny, too bright.

  30

  My entire body tingles. It’s like I’ve just spiked some of the best skag Daddy G’s foun
d me in a long time.

  A craving. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Rule twenty-two—accept cravings for what they are; memories.

  But this is nothing like I’ve ever lived through. Here in this posh fucking bathroom? All healthy and shit? This isn’t even anything close to my first taste of H, and everyone knows that’s the mythological fucking lizard everyone keeps chasing.

  Hill is so fucking full of shit. I don’t care what he thinks he knows if he hasn’t lived through addiction then he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. It’s not like a fucking monkey on your back—addiction isn’t something separate to you, something you can pry off you with the jaws of life.

  It’s a part of you, like an arm or a leg. Sure, you can cut it off, but then it feels like you’ve lost a part of you. Who’d do that willingly, huh? Give up a part of themselves because society is all like ‘no one has three legs, you gotta cut one of them off?’

  And what if, mentally or psychologically—whatever the fuck—I was born with only one leg, huh? What then, Dr. Ph. Fucking D? Can you still demand I cut my second leg off?

  Christ, that escalated quickly.

  I guess my tolerance for alcohol is way the fuck down after six months in drug juvi.

  You know what I need? I need food. Pronto.

  I throw open the bathroom stall and go to wash my hands, giving myself a good glare in the mirror as I fix a few wayward strands of hair before heading back to the dining hall.

  I would have made it, too, if Dr. H. Hill hadn’t materialized in front of me.

  Chapter Eight

  Hunter

  “Ms. Vos.”

  As if my voice does something to her nervous system, she comes to an abrupt halt.

  “You,” she says.

  “Yes. Me.” My hands are behind my back, and I take a slow step forward so she won’t bolt; she looks nervous enough for that to be a concern.

  “May I have a few moments of your time?”

  Eyes the color of a fading Bluestar bloom glare at me. “I’m hungry. I was gonna get—”