The Hunter’s Game: Blood for Blood: 01

by Fox, Logan

  “Just a few moments, Ms. Vos.”

  Her glare intensifies. “It’s Clover.”

  “Hunter.” I extend a hand, and her gaze flashes to it like she suspects I’m concealing a weapon.

  How did I put her on guard like this?

  She ignores my hand, much like she ignored my very civil request for a meeting, and crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine. What do you want?”

  I’m aware that she has no manners, but her brusque tone still sets my teeth on edge. If she wasn’t so important, I would have dismissed her for this blatant show of disrespect, but time is running out.

  I hide my irritation behind a smile, and gesture toward the hallway. “If you please.”

  She glances over her shoulder and then back at me, her hair bouncing around her like a red dahlia whipped in the wind.

  “What’s wrong with right here?”

  I look around. “The middle of a passage way is hardly the right place for—”

  “Fine.” The words snaps out faster than lightning, and then she’s striding down the hallway. “Where?”

  “Up the stairs. Second door on your left,” I call out.

  Her skirts whisk around her slender legs as she hauls herself up the stairs. When I arrive on the landing, she’s trying the door handle.

  Which is locked, of course. I allow no one to enter my study without my express permission. I stand beside her to swipe my keycard, and she steps away as if she can’t stand being close to me.

  From what I’ve gathered, Ms. Vos is both defensive, proud, and stubborn. I must play on her insecurities to get this done.

  Luckily, it’s not new territory for me.

  “Have a seat.” I gesture to the chair in front of my desk, but instead she stands.

  I make as if I take no notice and sink into my chair.

  I wonder—how often has she walked down this hall without knowing I was behind this door watching her and every other patient inside the Institute? Studying them as they fought, begged, and eventually resigned themselves to the fact that there was no escape from this program until they were clean?

  “So?”

  I steeple my fingers and consider Clover over my fingertips.

  Cute name. It drew my attention when I first received this season’s patient files. A simple ‘C’ became Clover, and since then I couldn’t get her out of my mind.

  “The flower,” I say, pointing to my head in approximation of where she’s placed a Moonflower bloom in her red wavy hair.

  She touches it as if she’s forgotten it was there but remains quiet. If I was any other man, I’m sure she would have made a comment along the lines of ‘ya like it?’

  But I’m treated to stoic silence.

  “Ipomoea alba,” I say, if only to break the uncomfortable silence. “Or a moonflower, as it’s colloquially known.”

  “So that’s why it’s still open,” she says as she gingerly perches on the edge of the visitor chair. And then adds a reluctant, “You mind?”

  “A plant can survive the loss of a single flower.”

  “You sure?” she asks through a laugh.

  I don’t take the bait. She might not take my profession seriously, but many people do. I won’t explain myself, especially to the likes of her.

  “It’s not poisonous, is it?” Clover touches a hand to the bloom in her hair. “The flower? It won’t give me hives or anything?”

  I almost laugh, but manage to school myself. “Not at all. However, the seeds contain lysergic acid.”

  She lets out a burst of laughter that’s both genuine and scoffing. “Brilliant idea—let’s just plant some acid at rehab. All about the repeat customers, amiright?”

  “My patients are closely monitored.” I put my hands flat on my desk. “And I don’t treat people who believe they are addicted to psychedelics.”

  “What if they are?” A simple question, but there is a glint of challenge in her eyes.

  “No one becomes addicted to mushrooms or peyote or LSD.”

  She bites back with a glib, “Yeah, maybe not physically, but I’ve met some guys that wouldn’t look at the world any other way.”

  “Temptation, hardship—it builds character.”

  Another laugh from Ms. Vos. “Then I must be the most interesting person you’ve ever fucking met.”

  There is no response to that. If I was a different man, I would’ve found myself flabbergasted by her casual summation of the psychological effects of addiction. Then again, a junkie knows other junkies. I’m sure she’s met more potential patients than I could ever canvas a derelict neighborhood for.

  How much knowledge is stored in Clover’s mind after years of addiction? Unfortunately, the data would most likely be skewed by her personal experiences, but it would still be an interesting case study. Nothing I would dare submit to the Journal of Medical Sciences, but—

  “So I’m here.” Clover spreads her hands as if urging me to take in her buxom appearance and overtly sensual lips. “What do you want?”

  This is what I get for deciding on a test subject that hasn’t even attended college.

  “Do you feel your time at the Hill Institute was well spent?”

  She studies me as if she’s translating my question into whatever passes as understandable in her mind.

  “Am I clean?” She shrugs. “I guess. For now.”

  “For now,” I repeat quietly. “You’re certain you’ll relapse?”

  “That crap you said on stage?” She blurts out the words like she’s been keeping them bottled inside. “You know that’s bullshit, right?”

  “Which part, exact—?”

  “I can stay clean if the world doesn’t fuck me over like it always does. Do you drink? Do you go and have that extra candy bar even though you know you shouldn’t? That’s fucking addiction, right there.” She sits back in her chair as if she’s only just realized she was leaning forward to give weight to her vehement words.

  I steeple my fingers again and tap my fingertips together as I study her.

  “Have dinner with me.”

  Those Bluestar eyes widen briefly before she catches herself and narrows them instead. “What?”

  “The food they serve here is mediocre at best.” I wave a hand to indicate the dining hall.

  “I have a prior engagement,” she snaps. She shifts in her seat.

  She’s mocking me—her voice drops an octave or two, and she’s wearing an imperious expression.

  “Michael has a wife.”

  Shock flashes across her face, but if there’s one thing Ms. Vos has taught herself, it’s control. The expression is gone an instant later, and I can see her taking deep breaths against the lacy bodice of her dress.

  “Why?”

  “…Do I want you over for dinner?” I shrug. “You fascinate me.”

  Anyone of the opposite sex should have graciously accepted the compliment. Instead, her eyes narrow to slits. “Rehab’s over. You should have grilled me when I was still a patient, Doctor Hill.”

  She stands and leaves, her pale dress snapping around her legs in true testament to her annoyance.

  I stare after her, perplexed and just as annoyed.

  But if she thinks this conversation is over, she’s sorely mistaken.

  I still have many things to discuss with Clover Vos…whether or not she wants to.

  Chapter Nine

  Clover

  What the fucking fuck? Asshole.

  I storm back into the dining room, pissed as all fuck. I don’t care how fucking handsome Dr Ph fucking D is, I’m not his little test subject anymore.

  I served my time.

  I’m free.

  And hungry.

  Fuck you, Michael, for giving me a goddamn appetite again.

  Thankfully, there’s a plate at my seat growing cold. Michael’s made a dent in his pork—sorry, piggy—and he seems surprised that I made it back.

  Yeah, Michael, I decided not to bolt. Who knows, you might still get lucky toni
ght.

  Does your wife like to watch?

  My mouth’s bitter with resentment and even downing half my drink doesn’t wash that taste away.

  “This isn’t what I ordered.” I point at my plate.

  Raw broccoli. A green salad. Raw carrots.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael murmurs, hastily swallowing what must be a delicious mouthful of animal meat. “I tried to send it back—”

  “This is bullshit.” Not only the rabbit food, but the fact that my mouth floods with saliva at the sight of those bright colors. I grab a carrot and bite into it with a loud crunch. “You can be glad I’m so fucking hungry,” I say with my mouth full.

  “It’s not my—” Michael begins.

  “Not you. Hill.” I point at my plate with what’s left of the carrot. “I know this is him.”

  Michael throws a deeply concerned frown my way. Oh, right, he doesn’t know about my little meeting with Hill. No one does.

  I crunch my way through everything on my plate as my deluded mind serves me snapshot after fucking snapshot of handsome-as-fuck Dr. Hill while he chastises my life choices and ladles judgment over me like gravy over a fucking roast.

  God, I’m starving.

  Chew, Clover. Rabbit food is notorious for sticking in your throat if you don’t chew.

  I think I’m taking my confusion and frustration out on my dinner.

  Join me for dinner.

  Jesus Christ, surely the man has a black book as thick as the local telephone directory for booty calls? What the fuck makes him think I’m a cheap ride?

  Is this my punishment for not accepting the date? I have to sit through three courses of healthy, crunchy shit while everyone around me gluttons out on everything warm and delicious?

  I snort, inhale a piece of broccoli, and cough as discretely as possible into my napkin.

  Michael frowns at me over his slice of pork. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fucking peaches,” I mutter, downing the rest of my drink to clear not only my throat but my mind.

  Ironic, right?

  When my food hits my stomach, it’s like the fucking rapture. I sit back, burp as quietly as possible, and take a slow scan of the room. Luckily, no one seems to remember that I’m the ‘girl that almost ruined Dr. Hill’s speech’, so no one’s looking in my direction.

  I find him a few seconds later. He’s seated at one of the larger tables, surrounded by ten intellectuals in suits. Three of them are women, the others resolutely male. Spectacles and officious chuckles abound.

  Gah. I hard-swallow my last mouthful of broccoli and push away the plate before I can puke.

  “Another round?” I ask, peeking out at Michael through my hair as I tap a nail against my nearly empty tumbler.

  He gives a big nod, his mouth still full of pork, and looks around for a passing waiter.

  I happen to glance in Dr. Hill’s direction as I bring the glass to my lips.

  He’s staring at me. He’s sitting straight up in his chair and smelling whatever the fuck people that drink wine think they can smell. Oak, cranberries, cotton-candy - fuck knows.

  I raise my glass, give him a grim smile, and toss back everything except the ice cubes. They bump against my lips, hard and cold, before I set down the glass. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, making sure the gesture is something he can’t miss over the intervening space.

  He takes a tiny sip of his wine and breaks eye contact as someone leans across the table to talk to him.

  Clover: 1.

  Hunter: 0.

  * * *

  “How was your meal?”

  I jerk, turning to Michael with what must have been a guilty look on my face. I’d been staring so hard at Hill, I hadn’t noticed the waiter setting a new drink in front of me, or clearing away our empty plates.

  Even my garnish hadn’t survived the onslaught.

  “Uh…Good. Good.” But my heart isn’t in it. For one, Hill trumps Michael at looks any day.

  And Clover Vos has never stood down from a challenge. Well, except if it involved heroin or coke, of course. Everyone has their vices. Mine just happen to be illegal, dangerous, and as addictive as fuck.

  Hill has vices, I know it. If you have warm red blood flowing in your veins, then you have a vice.

  What’s his?

  My phone vibrates, but I already know it’s only notifying me of more disappointment.

  Face it, Clover—you have no friends. You’ve got no place to stay. Tomorrow, this time, you’re gonna be nothing more than a starving rat unless you can find someone to take you in like a stray.

  ‘Cos that’s all you are—a stray. You chose heroin over college. You chose heroin over a job. And you chose heroin over every single fucking pseudo relationship you’ve ever had.

  If only you’d been a more caring lover, you might have made out okay.

  Instead, you’re fucked. If this was a marriage, you’d be the divorcee with no custody who still has to pay alimony.

  I hear myself say, “I’ll be right back,” without any intention of keeping my word.

  News flash: Clover tells fibs.

  Chapter Ten

  Hunter

  “It’s staggering, really.”

  I look up at Luke’s statement, abandoning my sole. No loss—it’s bland, overdone, and not as fresh as it should have been.

  “What’s that?” I enquire, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Your ability to forge ahead, irregardless.”

  My teeth grind, but there’s no food in my mouth. I disguise the gesture with a dry swallow and raise my glass.

  Unsurprisingly, my cabernet is as mediocre as my meal.

  Should I get a better vintage for our table? But as my gaze flits from face to face, I see rosy cheeks are in full bloom. Molecularly, cheap wine is identical to age-old vintages—except in price.

  But it’s all about appearances to these people. My studies, my years of research - they mean nothing if I haven’t been cited or published in a medical journal.

  Results don’t exist until you’ve published them, correct?

  I drink half my glass before I realize what I’m doing, and it takes effort to put it down.

  Shifting in my seat, I will the stiff enclosure of my suit not to deter me.

  I’ve never been one for playing fancy dress. A botanist cannot study Ayahuasca in a three-piece Brioni, yet it’s expected that I dress in these fabric monstrosities at every formal occasion.

  I understand the need to be civil, but some days are easier than others.

  There was no reason for her to decline my dinner invitation.

  I have money. I am attractive. According to her file, I’m exactly the prey a social predator such as Ms. Vos stalks.

  Instead, she attempts to dissuade Michael from any attempts at saving his rocky marriage.

  Why, Clover? Why am I not good enough for your erotic machinations?

  “I mean, suppose one of your addicts relapse?”

  I’m drawn back to the present by my colleague’s reedy voice. Daniel Mathers has a Master in Sociology, which makes him far from an expert in addiction, but if I consider the people congregated at my table as a pack, he would be the leader.

  It has nothing to do with his field of research, and everything to do with the vast wealth his family accumulated through persecution in the second world war, of course.

  Irregardless—ha!—I brought him here for a purpose. In a month, once I’ve compiled the data from my latest research trial, I’ll send him another invitation. This to an intimate affair where I will reveal my findings on the use on psychoactive substances to cure addiction.

  To be brash: I will rock their worlds.

  “Relapse is unpreventable,” I say.

  A hush settles over the table. A woman on the far end leans in, eyes glazed with alcohol and lips drawn in what I can only assume is a feministic grimace. I’m sure she sees me as a masochistic pig, even if I’ve never spoken more than two words to her. Or perhaps be
cause I’ve only ever said two words.

  “So you charge these people thousands of dollars and expect them to relapse? That’s fraud.”

  Fraud? I suppress a chuckle and empty my wine glass, holding the glass aside so the server waiting on my table will refill it.

  “Not all, but a large percentage, yes.”

  She scoffs as she drains her glass and looks to her lackeys for support; a troublemaker, just like Clover.

  “You see, Susanna, rehabilitation cannot succeed if the traumas which create an addict’s triggers aren’t fully explored.”

  She looks surprised that I know her name. Why wouldn’t I? She’s a member of the medical research community, just like me. Would an Olympic athlete not study his competition to determine their weaknesses and strengths?

  “So why don’t you counsel them?” Susanna asks.

  “Psychological counseling is an integral part of the program.” The glass in my hand grows heavy as a server tops me up. I almost ask him for a better vintage, but I doubt anyone at the table truly appreciate it.

  I abhor waste.

  “So they shouldn’t relapse then, should they?” Her voice holds a tone of triumph.

  “Some patients don’t respond to counseling.” I test the wine and find it wanting. But I drink it anyway because this woman is getting on my nerves. “Especially those that have repressed past trauma.”

  Mathers leans forward, his eyes aglitter with intrigue. “And those are the ones that relapse?”

  “Undoubtedly,” I answer, taking another sip of wine. “You see, although my detoxification program overcomes their physical addiction, the subject remains susceptible to their psychological addiction. A single trigger will…”

  A flare of red catches my eye. I set down my wine glass as Clover approaches our table.

  She looks determined, furious, and intoxicated.

  Where on earth did she get hold of alcohol?

  The colleagues around my table turn to see what I’m staring at. Susanna’s face turns back, a twist on her mouth. Mathers gives me a quick, knowing smile before turning back to his meal.

  Clover stops across the table from me, at the only empty seat. Professor White of Mallhaven University should have been in attendance tonight, but one of his children contracted measles or some other contagious disease, and he retracted his RSVP earlier today.