Hunter

by Eden Summers

  “There was a change of plan.”

  “What change?”

  “A snag with the job. I had to follow a lead.”

  “You’re not a fucking detective. You do your job, get the hell out of there, then call me.”

  I start the ignition and do a U-turn, going in the opposite direction of where I need to be. “You worried about me, pumpkin?”

  “Stressed,” he growls. “I was stressed. Big difference.”

  “That’s cute, Deck. Real cute.” I creep my car to the intersection and glance up at her building. Her window. She’s there, standing to the side of the frame, trying to remain out of view as she peers down at the bar.

  My dick pulses, and I’m not sure I even know what I want from her anymore. I should go back up there and finish what I started. I should end this tonight.

  But I can’t force this. For once, I don’t want to.

  “Fuck you, Hunt.” He snaps my nickname, making it sound like a curse. “So, you’ve quit working for the night? Is this you calling to punch your card?”

  “No. I haven’t started.” I shouldn’t give a shit that she’s up there waiting for a glimpse of me, but I do. I shouldn’t want to draw her attention, but I itch to do that, too. “I only called because I need you to do a background search on someone.”

  “You haven’t started? You checked out hours ago. What the fuck is going on?”

  “Focus.” It’s a warning to us both. I tear my gaze from her silhouette and turn onto her street, driving away from her building. “The name is Stephanie. She lives at apartment nineteen, level three, six-five-nine Belldore Street.” I pause, waiting for confirmation that doesn’t come. “Did you get all that?”

  “All that? You haven’t given me much to go on.”

  “It’s enough. Once you start digging, you’ll find more.” He always does.

  “And what am I digging for, exactly?”

  “Anything and everything.” I want it all. I need it all. “And make sure you get started right away.”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “I mean tonight, Decker. Now. This is your main priority.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  She happened. Long hair, slim legs, sassy blue eyes, and ruby lips I want stretched around my dick. And they are only the physical attributes. I know once I delve into that mind of hers, the fucked-up shit I find will be even more impressive. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Right.” He huffs. “I don’t need to worry at all.”

  “It’s just stress, remember?”

  “You know, it’s no coincidence your nickname rhymes with cunt.”

  I grin. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  6

  Her

  I pound the pavement, jogging the six blocks to the mid-morning boxing class due to start in less than five minutes.

  I should’ve been up early to start my research on the names Dan gave me. Instead, I slept in, which is out of the ordinary. Being kept awake until three a.m. with a rabid case of insomnia is also an anomaly. And only one person carries the blame.

  Hazel eyes haunted me all night. No, they didn’t haunt. They taunted. Teased. I hadn’t been able to get my pounding heartrate to lessen, which made relaxation impossible. I’d tossed and turned, each movement reminding me of the feel of a dominant man against my skin.

  I don’t even know his name.

  It could be Bob or Jim or something equally lustless. Whereas I currently imagine calling out Ryder or Heath or Drew in the height of passion.

  I could scream the fuck out of Heath.

  Jim? Not so much.

  I push through the door to the boxing class and haul the pack off my back to scrounge inside, pulling out my black and white sparring gloves and matching defending pads.

  “You’re late.” Adam, my instructor, raises his voice as I walk across the room and dump my backpack on the floor. “We’ve got even numbers today. So hurry up and pair with the new guy.”

  “New guy?” I scrunch my face accordingly.

  Fuck the new guy. I always work out with Adam. He’s the only one with enough respect and guts to challenge me.

  “You’ll be fine.” He juts his chin to the left and I follow the direction, already glaring in the hopes my intimidating squint will earn me a place back beside my rightful partner.

  “Oh, hell no.” The words whisper from my mouth as my attention fixes on yet another anomaly.

  He’s here. My insomnia-inducing, weapon-wielding fantasy is throwing air jabs like the rest of the class, his remarkably cut muscles on display through his white sports tank and mid-thigh black shorts.

  He meets my glare with soulless, excitement-starved eyes. Yet, every part of me notices every part of him. Not only the taunting lack of familiarity in his expression, but his tauntingly sexy body, too. Every damn inch of my sweaty, heated skin is well aware there isn’t an ounce of unsculpted flesh anywhere to be seen on this man. Not on his thighs. Not on his arms. And I’d bet my life, not on his ass, either.

  There’s definitely no gun hidden on him today, but this time it doesn’t matter. The guy is a weapon in himself. A lethal assassin. At least where my pussy is concerned. This visual inspection is slaying my cooch. It’s brutal and unwarranted and entirely thrilling.

  I stride toward him, masking the need to salivate as if my life depends on it. “You following me again?”

  He keeps jabbing at the air as a subtle grin kicks at one side of his lips. “That’s a little paranoid, seeing as though I was here first, and this place isn’t even in your suburb.”

  That’s the exact reason I’ve been coming here for the last three months. It isn’t somewhere anyone would expect me to be. I bypass two similar classes on the run here. I even jog additional miles, sometimes doubling back on myself, to ensure nobody follows.

  So, yes, I do wave the paranoid flag with pride. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t tailing me.

  “You’re serious?” His lips thin, and he stops jabbing the air to stand at his full domineering height.

  I drop my gloves to the floor and cross my arms over my chest in response. Don’t loom over me, asshole.

  He scoffs, the sound barely audible as he shakes his head. “No, princess, I’m not following you. But after seeing you in those curve hugging clothes, a guy might just change his plans.” His interest stalks my active-wear, flittering over my body like a physical caress. Ankles to chest.

  I want to tell him to stop, to back the fuck off, but there’s something about the lazy way he appraises me that encourages stupid decisions.

  “Thanks, buddy,” I reply with a luscious amount of sarcasm. “It’s actually funny you mention my outfit, because when I got dressed this morning I thought to myself, ‘Hey, if I’m lucky enough to run into that random guy I met in the bar, who just so happened to bring a gun into my apartment, what would be the best outfit I could wear to impress him?’ And these were the clothes I pulled out.”

  “I’m sensing a little hostility.”

  I raise a brow. “Really?”

  He’s different today. Tired. I don’t like that I want to know why. I don’t like much at all about this guy turning up in my life, only his eyes…and his grin…and his confidence, his muscles, the way he kisses…

  Shit. I like too damn much about this man.

  “You brought a lethal weapon into my apartment. Of course there’s hostility.” I take my position beside him and fall into routine.

  Jab, jab, jab.

  Jab, jab, jab.

  He does the same, those sculpted arms assailing my peripheral vision.

  “I can’t believe you’re still hung up on me having a gun,” he mutters under his breath.

  “For starters, it happened less than twenty-four hours ago. And second, no, I’m not hung up on you having a gun. I’m hung up on you bringing it into my apartment. Into my home.”

  “Would it make you feel better if I apologized?”

  I freeze, ent
irely surprised by the question, because, yeah, a sincere apology and explanation would help this situation. But I’m beginning to think a clean-up crew for this mess would be more dangerous than my annoyance.

  I don’t want to like this guy. Nope. He is already too far under my skin. Continuing dialogue would be a mistake.

  “Forget it,” I mutter. I train my gaze straight ahead, determined to focus on getting the workout I need, not the workout he could give me.

  “Time to pair up,” Adam calls. “One throwing punches, one holding pads. I want to see jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook.”

  I reach for the gloves at my feet, not giving him the option of who will punch first. I need to swing the frustration from my body. To jab, cross, hook this shit out of my system.

  “I guess I’ll hold the pads to start off,” he grumbles.

  I glare. At him. At myself. At everything that seems out of place and abnormal. I don’t like this. I’m not comfortable with the human interaction or how much I’m beginning to enjoy it.

  Every time our eyes meet, that zing hits me.

  I loathe it.

  “So…” He pulls the worn class pads onto his hands and holds them at chest height. “You don’t want an apology, but would it help if I told you I took your advice?”

  “My advice?” I throw a hard jab, and he jolts.

  He recovers quickly and gives me a game-on smirk. “Yeah. You told me to ditch the gun. Which I did.”

  I ignore him and throw a cross, packing all my strength into the swing. This time, he doesn’t flinch. He barely moves.

  “And I can assure you, the only thing hard in these pants is my dick.”

  A mental image assails me, and I have no idea why my imagination has overcompensated in the package department. Huge man, huge dick. It seems proportionate, but I don’t want that visual.

  Nope.

  It’s difficult enough concentrating on throwing a powerful hook without my pussy contracting with his every word.

  “Jab, cross,” I hiss as I complete the actions. “Hook.” I throw everything I have into those punches, driving him backward.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  “Whoa,” Adam calls out, coming to my side. “Ease up, Emma. I don’t want you scaring away the new guy.”

  Shit.

  I ignore the narrowing hazel eyes staring back at me from my boxing partner and force myself to calm down.

  Adam gives a disapproving shake of his head and moves on to the next pair.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  “Emma?” The stranger’s steely gaze questions me more than the deeply murmured word.

  “Concentrate.” I cross higher, making him duck to avoid an impact to the face.

  “I thought your name was Steph.” He crouches, bringing our eyes level.

  I hide my apprehension behind a scowl. “Emma Stephens. Some people shorten my surname and use it as a nickname.”

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  The intensity in his expression increases, and I don’t appreciate the scrutiny. I can’t blame him for the disbelief. The explanation was poor, especially for my standards. Usually, I’m quick on my feet, mentally speaking.

  Today? Not so much.

  “Okay, everyone,” Adam yells. “Switch places.”

  I throw my gloves to the floor and pull on a set of pads. Once I’m standing straight and ready, the asshole hits me with a jab worthy of knocking a lesser woman on her ass. I stumble, and he smirks at me.

  “Sorry. I’ll go easier on you.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare.” I hold my hands in place, preparing for the cross. This one is equally hard, but at least I’m ready. The hook, on the other hand, makes me stumble sideways.

  He watches me with each swing, staring into me, holding me captive. The physical exertion and mental games make my heart pound incredibly hard. I start to pant, my breaths short and sharp, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

  He doesn’t question me anymore, not in words, but those eyes seek answers. They’re digging deep, seeing things I don’t want him to see.

  “Stop it,” I growl.

  He chuckles, soft and oh-so low. “Stop what? Do you need me to throw softer punches?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Jab, cross, hook.

  Jab, cross, hook.

  The more he moves, the more sweat beads his skin, making those muscles glisten.

  “Get a drink, guys.”

  I slump at Adam’s instruction, dropping the pads to the floor as I hunch, all my muscles squealing in agony.

  “You did well.” My tormentor pats me on the back, his actions and words equally derisive.

  Fuck him. Fuck him for starving my libido. Fuck him for the insomnia. And fuck him for playing mind games.

  He’s messing with me, and he already knows enough to entice him to snoop. I straighten, my nostrils whistling like a damn bull with my labored breathing as Muscle Man stands at my side.

  “What’s wrong?” His grated whisper brushes my ear. “You look livid…and let me tell you, it’s sexy as fuck.”

  A shudder jolts through me, the vibration culminating in my nipples.

  Something isn’t right. I don’t know what it is. I can’t see through his brain-numbing fog to understand it.

  It’s intuition that tells me to get out of here. I lean over, scoop my gloves and pads off the floor, and walk for my backpack. I rip the bag open, the zipper grinding under the pressure. I shove my stuff inside and haul it over my shoulder before stalking to the door.

  Nobody tries to stop me. I have no friends here. No one knows me.

  I push outside, and cold air hits my cheeks, bringing clarity. As cute as it was to think I had a similar personality to this guy, we are nothing alike. We never will be.

  I’m not normal. Not my past and not my future. I don’t fit in, and I don’t want to. I need to remain under the radar, and it feels like this guy has nailed a neon sign on my ass.

  I start down the sidewalk and hear the door push open behind me.

  “Wait.”

  His demand has no effect on me.

  Liar.

  Of course it does. I want to plant my feet and confront the hell out of him. I want to ask him why he’s hassling me, why he’s paying attention when I’ve skated by unnoticed for so long. I want to know why the hell I’m torn with every action and every word where he’s concerned.

  And I seriously want to know why I can’t stop picturing the size of his dick and how good it would feel down the back of my throat.

  I keep walking, getting as far away from stupidity and craziness as I can. Even now, I’m hoping he follows, and I don’t know why.

  Why? Fuck. Why?

  I don’t understand. Nothing makes sense, and still, the feeling is a nagging force trying to break free from my chest.

  I want him to continue, and I need him to stop.

  “Wait.” This time the request is growled in the deepest command.

  I start to jog, making my way along the street, past the fruit vendor and up to the second-hand store when strong fingers grab my elbow, pulling me to a stop.

  “Why did you run out?” His frown bears down on me. “I thought we were having fun.”

  “You were having fun. This isn’t enjoyable for me.” It’s messy and chaotic.

  “We had chemistry last night.” He releases my arm. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

  “We also had a lot of alcohol.”

  He scowls. “You weren’t drunk, and neither was I.”

  He’s right, and I can’t bring myself to admit it. I’ve gone years without an emotional link to anyone apart from my friendly bartender. I’ve been alone and strong. Now I feel weak with my need for…something. I can’t even pinpoint my attraction to this man. It’s just there, hovering like a gas cloud.

  “Let
me buy you a drink tonight.” There’s still no enthusiasm ebbing from him. Not even the slightest glimpse.

  Why is that entirely endearing?

  I scoff. Maybe because he’s the polar opposite to the last guy I dated. My stomach hollows at the reminder, and I push out a heavy breath to wash it away.

  “I’m not much of a drinker.” I tear my gaze from his and focus on the second-hand televisions playing in the window, my lack of interest raking over sitcom reruns and numerous news feeds. “Last night was a one-off.”

  “Then dinner. We can go to that wok place at the end of your block.”

  I’m about to decline the offer when a news flash crosses one of the television screens.

  Senator’s Son Found Dead.

  I blink through the hallucination, trying to make the words disappear.

  My heart stutters, and my world narrows to those four words. Senator’s. Son. Found. Dead. Then Dan Roberts’ face takes center stage.

  Numbness seeps into my limbs, and the sound of the busy sidewalk disappears—the street traffic, too. My pulse echoes in my ears. There’s only my thundering heartbeats and that news headline.

  Pounding arrhythmia and panic.

  Fear and hysteria.

  I’ve killed a man?

  I shake my head. No. I’ve never killed anyone, even though there have been numerous people who’ve tempted my restraint. I am the self-appointed person who gives criminals a dose of their own medicine when the legal system fails to provide punishment. I give victims revenge, and assholes a chance to change their ways.

  I don’t do death.

  That is for a higher power to decide.

  “What’s wrong?” That voice sounds near my ear, and I squeeze my eyes shut to find focus. “Are you okay?”

  I breathe through the delirium and finally blink to find him staring down at me, his forehead wrinkled, his lips tight.

  “I’m good,” I whisper. Then louder, “Just light-headed from the exercise.”

  “You need food.” He scrutinizes me, reading me, and my cheeks heat under his surveillance. Under my guilt.

  I step back. “I need to get home.”

  “No.” He follows, matching me step for step. “Tell me what’s going on.”