by Violet Duke
By the time Hunter pulls into my driveway, the giddy afterglow of my orgasm is long gone, replaced with a bitter sting of disappointment and self-loathing.
Way to go, Brit. Screwing things up like you always do.
Hunter shuts off the engine. Thereâs silence.
âThanks for the ride,â I clench my jaw and try to pull it together. âIâll see you around, I guess.â
I open the door and scramble down before he has a chance to reply. I slam it behind me and stride towards the porch, biting back the sting of tears Iâm shocked to feel welling in the back of my throat.
Why am I so stupid? I dig my nails into my palms in frustration. This was what I wanted, isnât it? I was just pretending to buy into that whole âperfect dateâ bullshit back at the fairground, after all. I always knew this was how it would end, with me back right where I started. Alone. Hell, at least this way I got a mind-blowing orgasm out of it, which is more than I usually walk away with.
I hurry up the steps and scramble for my keys, but I canât find them in my purse. I hunt again, growing more selfconscious and nervy the longer Iâm waiting here on the porch. I force myself not to turn around. I havenât heard Hunterâs truck leave, andâ
âLooking for these?â His voice comes from behind me, too close.
I startle, whirling around. Hunter is at the bottom of the steps, dangling my keys from his index finger. âThey fell out of your pocket, back at the stables. But, you were kind of distractedâ¦â His lips curl in a smile.
âThanks.â I snatch for them, avoiding his eyes.
Hunter pulls them back, out of reach. âNot so fast,â he says. âLook at me, Brit.â
I keep my gaze fixed on the dusty floorboards. I should sweep, I tell myself. I should stop being such a slob, and try harder, and be better.
âHey, Brit.â Hunterâs voice is soft. âWhereâd you go?â He closes the distance between us and reaches to gently tilt my chin up, but I keep my eyes averted, looking everywhere but him. âWhatâs wrong?â Hunter asks.
âNothing.â I try to pull away.
âDonât lie to me.â Hunter cups my cheek, a touch so gentle, it sends a pang right through me. âAre you OK? Listen, about what happened tonightâ¦â
âI donât want to talk about it.â I can feel the emotions whirling, but Iâd rather die than let him see Iâm affected.
âTough.â Hunter insists. âIâm not letting you run away again.â
âIâm notââ
âYou practically bolted from a moving truck,â Hunter cuts me off.
âIâm tired.â I fold my arms. âCan I just have my keys?â
âNot until you look at me, Brit. I mean it, look at me.â
I do.
Hunterâs hair shines gold in the porch light, blue eyes clouded with concern. Itâs almost more than I can take, to have him looking so gorgeous and perfect right now. Iâm feeling scattered and undone, like what happened tonight shattered some hard, brittle part of me, and now everythingâs just messy and raw and impossible to control.
âHunter, please…â My voice twists, and Iâm dangerously close to losing it now.
âPlease what?â he replies, not moving. âIâm not leaving until you tell me whatâs going on in that head of yours.â
âNothingâs wrong. Iâm fine.â I clench my jaw.
Hunter shakes his head. âDonât push me away,â he says softly. âI thought we were past that.â
âWhy?â I answer darkly. âBecause I spread my legs and let you do whatever, like some cheap slut?â
Shock flashed across his face. âWhy would you say that?â
I give a bitter laugh. âItâs what youâre thinking, isnât it? Itâs what they all think. And I donât exactly prove them wrong.â
Hunter takes my face in both his hands, looking at me straight on. Direct. âThereâs nothing wrong with what you did tonightâwhat we did, together.â he tells me fiercely. âYou blew my fucking mind, you were so hot. Unlessâ¦â his hands drop, uncertainty creeping into his expression. âDo you regret it? Did I push too far, is that what this is about?â he asks quickly. âBecause Brit, I never meant to. I thought you were right there with meââ
âI was!â I exclaim. I canât have him thinking even for a minute that he forced me somehow. âI wanted it too.â
Relief floods his expression, then a confused frown. âSo whatâs the problem?â he asks.
âThere is none.â I shut down again. âWe had a great time, itâs done, so you can go now.â
He pauses. âIs that what you want?â
No!
I swallow. âYes.â
Hunter stares at me a moment, his expression unreadable. The sad ache in me twists, sharp and painful. This is it, I tell myself. His cue to leave. I brace myself, willing him just to go, and leave me. For this to be over.
Then he kisses me.
I freeze in his arms, confused. The kiss is soft, slow and tender, and heartbreakingly sweet, but before I can react, he draws back, and gently brushes hair from my eyes.
âYouâre not a slut,â he tells me, his voice low but even. âYouâre not twisted, or trashy, or used up, or broken. I donât know why you think it, and I could kill anyone whoâs ever made you feel this way.â
My mouth drops open in shock, but Hunterâs not done. He tilts his head, resting his forehead against mine, so I can feel every word, the soft whisper of breath and the sweetness of his promises. âYouâre perfect, Brit. Special, and rare. And maybe you canât believe that, but I swear, I wonât stop until you see what I do. The most incredible girl Iâve ever met.â
Hunter kisses my forehead and then reaches past me, unlocking the door.
âYouâre working tomorrow?â he asks.
I nod, wordless in disbelief.
âIâll come by the bar and pick you up,â he says. âSweet dreams.â
I watch in a daze as Hunter heads back to the truck. He starts the engine, then slowly reverses out of the drive, driving away until his headlights are swallowed up by the dark night.
My legs give way. I sink to the porch step.
Youâre perfect.
He canât mean it. I donât know what kind of game he thinks heâs playing; or maybe itâs not a game, and heâs fooled himself into thinking Iâm something Iâm not. Either way, heâs wrong. I know it, deep inside, the way Iâve known it all my life.
Thereâs nothing perfect about me, nothing precious or rare.
Heâs wrong. He has to be.
But as I sit, clutching the porch railing for dear life, something flickers inside me, just a spark of hope. I feel it, warming me, slipping into my bloodstream and chasing away the dark shadows of doubt and insecurity.
Youâre perfect.
His words whisper in my ear, long after heâs gone, more seductive than any flirtation or dirty words. Nobodyâs ever said that to me before. Not even close. Sure, I know that Emerson loves me, and would do anything for me, but itâs not the same. Nobodyâs ever looked at me the way Hunter just did, as if Iâm something bright and good. As if Iâm worth something.
He sees it in me, what I sometimes canât even see in myself. That man, who could have anything and anyone, wants me. For some crazy reason, he wants me, and he doesnât show any signs of quitting yet.
And for the first time, I realize: maybe I donât want him to.
CHAPTER NINE
HUNTER
AFTER I TAKE BRIT home, I’m wound so tight I spend half an hour standing under the f
reezing cold shower jets, waiting for my hard-on to subside. It doesn’t help.
Jesus Christ.
It took everything I had not to ravage her right there in the stables, to just part her soft, pale thighs and plunge deep inside of her, over and over, until we both were gasping and lost to the world…
But I can’t. Not yet. No matter how much I want her, or how far she pushes me to the edge. I can’t let myself get carried away and ruin everything in one reckless night.
I owe her that much. I owe her everything.
The ranch is too quiet, dangerously still, so I head back down to the stables and set to work cleaning out stalls for the new horses I have arriving this week. It’s tiresome, back-breaking work, the kind of thing one of my stable hands should be doing, but tonight, I welcome the distraction. I lift, and shovel, and sweat, until the darkest part of the night is over, and my body finally aches with something other than wanting her. Only then do I let myself even think of earlier tonight, and the way Brit looked, so goddamn sexy and effortlessly beautiful…
She tasted like temptation. She felt like an angel. She was my darkest fantasy brought to life: wet and writhing and crying out for me to take her. And God, I wanted her. I thought I’d die, going a single second longer not inside of her.
So what the hell are you waiting for?
I catch my breath, sweating hard now from the work. Maybe itâs crazy. I donât even understand it fully myself. But I know, deep down, that Brit isnât ready for more.
Sure, she says she is. Hell, just a few hours ago, she was begging me: her pale skin flushed with desire, so wet against my mouth I thought Iâd died and gone to heaven. I could have taken her, hard and fast and strong, and she would have loved every damn minute of it.
But it would have been wrong.
She wants me, but she doesnât want to let me in. I can give her pleasure, but I canât give her trust. No, that Iâve got to earn, day by day, until sheâs ready to let me into her bedâand her heart.
She thinks you’re a good man.
I close my eyes, waiting for the memories, but it’s not Brit’s naked body that fills my mind. It’s her face: heartbreakingly beautiful, her dark eyes gazing into mine.
Damn. Itâs more powerful than a hundred cold showers, the way she looks at me. Even when we touch, and my desire goes from zero to five thousand in the space of a single heartbeat, itâs enough to keep me hanging on. That look in her eyes, like I’m good, and true, and perfect.
I want to be that man for her, live up to her dream of me.
What would she say if she knew the truth?
No. I can’t think like that.
I stare out at the dark fields, and feel a deep sense of rightness seep through me, as surprising as it is a blessed relief.
This is exactly where Iâm supposed to be.
Coming here to Beachwood Bay gave me a direction, but knowing Brit the way I do now has given me something more than that: itâs given me a purpose.
Because she makes me want to be a better man.
From the moment I wake up in the morning to the second that sleep claims me at night, sheâs always there, in the back of my mind. Reminding me that good things exist in this world, reassuring me that I can feel some hope again. I want so badly to live up to her illusions, be that man she sees in me, even if I canât see it in myself just yet.
I want to give her everything, all the things other girls take for granted: every romantic gesture, every sweet word. Right now she doesn’t believe she’s worth a man’s affection, but I’m going to show her she’s wrong.
She deserves everything. And Iâm going to be the one to give it to her.
Because somethingâs telling me, if I can do thatâput the past behind me once and for all and do my best to be the man she deservesâI wonât just be changing her mind, Iâll be changing mine too.
It might be the only way I can find through this darkness.
I finally toss the shovel down and head back to the house, stopping by the kitchen for a beer. But looking at the neon glare of the refrigeratorââempty save a couple of six-packs and some leftover takeoutââI pause.
How many of these have I drunk over the last three years? How many nights have I wound up in a wasted haze, just to quiet the guilty whispers in my mind so I could fall into a dreamless sleep?
Too many times.
We all found our ways of coping. Momâs got her society functions, scheduling every last minute in the day with charities and lunches. Dadâs working himself into an early grave at the office, driving Covington Investments to its high as one of the most profitable hedge funds in the country. And me? It was all I could do just the keep it together, numbing myself with beer and partying, stumbling through my time in college on the track they wanted for me, but hating myself every minute all the same.
I meant what I told them, Iâm done with their life. Not just the parties and prestige, but the denial too: downing my guilt and pain in the bottom of another drink instead of facing the shadows head-on. I grab the six-packs, and pop the tabs: pouring them down the sink, one by one, until thereâs nothing left. No crutch to dull my pain, no easy way out of this. Done. I slowly climb the stairs up to the loft bedroom and strip off my jeans and shirt, falling back onto the bed. Iâm wide awake, too damn alert, and without the beer haze lulling me under, the memories come flooding back. Of Jace, and that summer, and Brit. Always Britâ¦
*
3 years agoâ¦
“YOU MADE IT!” The party is already loud and buzzing when we hit the beach on the outskirts of town. A bonfire blazes in the firepit, and maybe fifty kids are drinking beers and dancing to the sound of the rock songs pumping through the speakers someone hooked up to their jeep. Itâs the last night of the summer season, and Beachwood is sending it out in style.
âWhat did you do, rob a liquor store?â One of the guys takes in our haul.
Jace laughs, unloading our stash of six-packs and bottled beer. âHelp yourselves.â he tells them, âPlenty to go around!â
âSweet.â They grab some, greeting me and Jace with fist-bumps and back-slaps as we move through the crowd.
âWay to buy us some favor,â I murmur to Jace, amused.
âGive the people what they want and theyâll love you forever.â he winks.
And the people love Jace. When we first dropped by these beach bonfire hangouts at the start of summer, most of the kids gave us a wary side-eye. Weâre outsiders, after all, and worse than that: rich summer kids. But they didnât count on my big brother, and soon enough Jace had them eating out of the palm of his hand with free beers and his effortless charm. Nobody can withstand his good nature for long, not even suspicious townies.
We reach a spot in the sand with a prime view of the party. Jace pops the top on a cold one and hands it to me. âLast night in town, little brother,â he says, surveying the scene. âItâs now or never.â
âFor what?â I ask, feeling the beer buzz work its way into my system. I needed thisâto get away for one last night. Mom and Dad are already talking about my class schedule for the fall, and all the clubs and activities they expect me to take as the newest Covington ambassador at Yale. I thought that college would be a fresh start for me, some kind of freedom, but already I can see, it’s just going to be the same old story in a new town.
âFor your waitress,â Jace replies, pointing across the sunset beach.
I see her there in the crowd, and I stop.
Brittany Ray.
I’ve been watching her all summer. I can’t help it. Something about that girl just screams out to be noticed. It’s not her crazy dyed hair, or her mismatched, funky outfits. It’s something deeper than that, the furious challenge in her eyes.
Danger.
Iâm not crazy. I know that girl is trouble through and through
. So despite everything in me screaming to go say âhiâ every time our paths cross in town, Iâve managed to stay away, keep my distance. But here she is again: dancing in the firelight in a flimsy red dress, her dark hair falling, choppy in her eyes. Walking temptation.
âIâm telling you, man up.â Jace punches my arm. âGo give her a beer. Iâm sick of watching you drool every time she comes around.â
âIt’s not like that.â I argue weakly.
Jace just shakes his head. âYou’ve got to make that move sometime.â he teases. âOr one of these guys will beat you to it. Huh,â he adds, glancing back across the beach. âLooks like someone already has.â
I try to play it cool, but I canât help turning back to check out what he means. Thatâs when I see the two guys moving in on Brit. They’ve got her trapped between them, thrusting and horsing around. Even in the dim light of the fire, I can tell, she’s not laughing.
Before I can think about it, Iâm starting through the crowd towards them.
âBack off!â
I hear her protest as I approach them. âGet your hands off me.â Brit shoves at one of the guys, but he just catches her around her waist, pulling her in against him.
âWhat do you say?â the meathead slurs to his buddy. Heâs wearing an outsize football shirt, a red band of sunburn across the back of his thick neck. âThink she can handle the two of us?â
âFuck yeah.â He grabs Brit’s ass. âYou like it crazy, don’t you, slut?â
I see red.
Without a word, I pull him around and smash him across the jaw, my fist connecting with bone in a satisfying crack.
Someone screams, and then his buddy shoves Brit aside and comes charging at me. He lowers his head and tackles me hard, but I havenât spent three years blocking on the football team for nothing. By the time we hit the ground, Iâve twisted on top of him: raining sharp punches down on his face and neck until an arm comes down around my throat and yanks me back up.
I wheel around, breathing heavily. Itâs the first guy, with a bloody nose now and murder in his eyes. He punches me hard in the stomach before I have time to brace.