by Shandi Boyes
Seeing the storyboard precipitates even more anger… and despair. I leap up from the floor and yank down every shred of paper off my storyboard, ripping them into tiny specks of paper that float into the air like snowflakes falling from a darkened sky. Even though I am destroying hours of hard work, the feeling of triumph is worth the loss in research.
Once the storyboard has been destroyed, I focus my attention on removing every skerrick of information about Hunter off my laptop. I remove the scanned handwritten notes and sketches I placed on there with the app he created for me, and I delete any notes and references in my writing applications.
My manic behavior only ends when I open up the nearly finished manuscript about Archer Boyd. I’d been working on it nonstop the past three weeks and only have the final chapter and the epilogue to go. A new idea formulates in my head when my eyes scan the beautiful words in front of me.
Twisting a red editor’s pen into my hair to hold it off my face, I pull my writing chair in close to my desk and set to work. Everything I'm feeling is put down onto paper. Every word I type loosens the restrictive hold Hunter has placed on my heart.
I type and type until I have nothing left to type, and six hours has ticked by on the clock.
I sink into my writer's chair, staring at the incessant blink of a black cursor on a white screen. Since my manuscript is finished, my writing application is requesting for me to fill in the title page. My heart beats wildly in my chest as the events from the day I arrived at the cabin until the present day roll through my mind. When the scene stops on the first day I spotted Hunter on the back patio of his glass house the perfect title smacks into me.
Exhaling a large breath of air, I type the name of my newly penned novel:
Spy Thy Neighbor
The smell of warm paper and fresh ink filters through my nose when the inkjet printer at my side sets to work printing the one hundred and fifty A4 sized pages of my manuscript. I save the one and only original copy of the manuscript to a spare USB before deleting it from my writing application.
I only have one plan for this book, and it isn’t publishing it.
Leaving the printer to do its job, I trudge down the stairs and head to the main bathroom. I shed my clothes on the way, not wanting to waste any time. The thought of a heavenly, hot shower is the only thing keeping me motivated at the moment.
I try to keep my focus off Hunter as I lather my body with soap, but it's a fraudulent mission. I've showered with him numerous times in this very shower. It's crazy to think how much things have changed in twenty-four hours. This time yesterday I was waking up sexually satiated, and now it feels like I haven't been touched by him in months instead of hours.
God, I am pathetic.
I thought taking weeks to make my decision to leave Riley was pitiful, but this beats that tenfold. Hunter only betrayed me mere hours ago, and I'm standing in the shower missing him. I am better than this. I am stronger than this.
Remembering a promise I made to my mother three years ago, I switch off the water and step out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around my body, I pace into my bedroom. My steps are more determined than they were before I emerged into the shower. After dressing in a wool skirt, lace-topped stockings and a cashmere two-piece cardigan, I call for a taxi before setting to work on packing my belongings. It's time for me to go home.
Unlike the time I packed in a frenzied haze weeks ago, this time I take my time ensuring I have every item I arrived with. My clothing and laptop will travel with me on the plane, but my writing chair, printing equipment, and storyboards will be gathered by a transport company later in the week.
A grin curls on my lips when I open the top drawer of the dresser and discover the crotchless teddy Pepper snuck into my suitcase three months ago.
“I don’t think I’ll need you anytime soon,” I mumble to myself, placing the lingerie onto the unmade bed in the middle of the room.
I inhale deeply, gathering the quickest scent of my last sexual encounter with Hunter still lingering in the air before making my way to the taxi parked at the front of the cabin.
"Thank you," I say with a smile when the cab driver with kind eyes removes my suitcase from my hand.
I quickly pace back into the cabin to gather the freshly inked manuscript from the printer and the USB from my writing cave before making my way back outside.
“Could you please start the meter, I’ll only be a few minutes,” I request to the taxi driver.
His eyes connect with mine before he curtly nods. Leaving my laptop and handbag in the backseat of the taxi, I saunter toward Hunter's house. I know he isn't home as one of the garage doors on his four-car garage has been left open, and his Hellcat is nowhere in sight.
A swear word seeps from my lips when I bend down to place the manuscript on the doormat and the computerized voice of Patricia sounds through my ears.
“Welcome, Paige.”
My eyes dart to the security panel at the side when it flashes up a message stating the front door has been unlocked.
“Thank you,” I say, catching my eyeroll halfway that I'm communicating with a computer program.
I feel the shake of my voice all the way up my arm as I push open the heavily-weighted door. I shouldn’t be entering Hunter’s residence without permission, but curiosity killed the cat.
My heart bleeds more with every step I take into his home. The smell of cheap floral perfume is trapped in the space since the privacy blinds are still lowered, and no windows have been opened. I feel physically ill when I enter the living area and see that the couches are askew. The thick Persian rug is indented from where the sofas used to lie. The coffee table is upturned, and even some of the paintings on the walls are hanging crookedly. It looks more like a fraternity house after a raging out of control party than a private residence.
Pushing aside a champagne glass that has a coating of red lipstick on the rim, I place the manuscript and USB for Spy Thy Neighbor onto the counter Hunter regularly eats his three slices of peanut butter toast at. Ignoring the pain splitting my heart in two, I snag a pen from a computer desk in the corner of the room and write an inscription on the title page of the one-of-a-kind book. In true Hunter style, I keep my message brief:
Enjoy.
Paige Turner
New York Times Bestselling Author
The hairs on the nape of my neck prickle when I sense a presence standing behind me shortly before the snarled words of, “What are you doing in my house, Candace?” are spoken in a voice I'll never forget.
Chapter Twenty-Three
A tiny shiver moves through me from the anger projected in Hunter's low, sharp tone. I don't need to turn around to know he's angry; the terse crackling in the air makes me acutely aware of the anger flowing out of him in tiny, invisible waves. He isn't the only one angry. My blood hasn't stopped simmering since last night, adding to the pain festering in my heart. He betrayed me and played me for a fool. He doesn't deserve an explanation for my intrusion. He deserves nothing.
Squaring my shoulders, I pivot on my heels and make a beeline for the front door. I keep my head down low, using my hair as a shelter to ensure he doesn’t see the pain etched on my face that even the world’s most scalding shower couldn’t remove. The smell of hot, sweaty skin and alcohol increases the further I pace, as does the knot in my stomach.
I jerk to a halt when my wrist is suddenly seized, and I become pinned to the wall by Hunter's imposing frame like I was weeks ago. Furious heat sweeps through my body when I realize he's shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but his favorite pair of jeans. His hair is saturated wet and flopped to the side; his face is sleepless, and the other half of the nearly empty bottle of liquor he's grasping in his hand is seeping from his pores, suffocating his normally alluring smell.
Even knowing I'll never budge a man of his size, I push on his torso with my hands while barging my hip into his waist. His stance remains firm, not the slightest bit intimidated by my fight. His eyes are
wild, his nostrils flaring with every breath he takes. His boozy breath flutters on the overheated skin of my cheeks as his furious eyes scorch into mine.
“What are you doing here, Candace?” he asks again, his voice just as vicious as it was the first time.
Tears teem into my eyes. "I came to say goodbye.” My lips thin with annoyance, hating that my voice came out in a quiver.
Hunter's furious mask slips for the quickest second before it returns stronger than ever. When he sucks in a deep breath, he pushes me into the wall more firmly. His fierce blue eyes sear into mine, pausing the frantic beat of my heart.
“You had your fun, and now it’s time to leave?” he slurs.
My stomach recoils from the bitterness of his words. “Yeah, I had my fun,” I sneer, my anger steamrolling back in when I catch the quickest whiff of the cheap floral perfume still lingering in the air. “Because being betrayed is a rollercoaster ride every woman lines up for.”
Hunter takes a step back, balking at my allegation. I use his unsteadiness to my advantage. I push on his chest, slip under his arm, and race to the door. My harsh movements send a trickle of tears down my cheeks.
Just as I grasp the steel bar door handle, Hunter commands, “Patricia, commence security lockdown.”
“Yes, Mr. Kane,” replies the computerized voice of Hunter’s home security system.
The clicking of locks overtakes the shrilling of my pulse in my ears. I furiously yank on the door, endeavoring to open it. It remains shut, locked tighter than Hunter’s mouth during interrogation.
Gritting my teeth, I spin on my heels. “Let me out,” I demand. The quiver of my voice is more from anger than devastation. My entire body is shaking and slicked with sweat; my eyes are welling with tears, and every emotion I’ve ever felt is hammering into me.
“Patricia, play the surveillance of my arrival home last night,” Hunter instructs, completely ignoring my request to be released.
“Yes, Mr. Kane,” Patricia replies.
I blink, reeling back the tears looming in my eyes when I am confronted with the image of Hunter arriving home with the pretty redhead last night. The gut-wrenching video is projected onto a large white screen that has lowered from the ceiling in his living room. It's so large, it covers the entire span of the window in Hunter's living area.
Unlike last night, this visual gives a bird's eye view of the entire incident captured by the surveillance cameras installed in Hunter's house. Blood roars into my ears when the pretty redhead removes her coat and tosses it onto one of the leather couches in Hunter's sunken living area. I try to tear my eyes away; I beg them to look at anything but the screen, but no matter how hard I plead, my eyes refuse to budge.
My throat tightens painfully when the redhead slips off her shoes and pads closer to Hunter. Eagerness beams out of her as she curls her arms around his neck. My breathing halts, preparing for the brutal blow I am about to be dealt.
I inhale a sharp, quick breath when the series of events unfold differently than I had imagined hundreds of times since last night. Hunter doesn't return the redhead’s embrace; he pulls away from her and stalks toward a bar set up in the corner of the room.
After his fingers punch something into his phone, he places it onto the counter and snags a liquor bottle from the small selection of bottles in front of him. The redhead pouts her lips before she prances after him. My brows furrow, utterly mortified. Even with her ego copping a hard blow, she continues with her endeavor of seducing Hunter.
When she molds the luscious curves of her body into Hunter’s side and runs her fingers through his beard, I clench my jaw and snap my eyes to Hunter. He's watching me with dark, troubled eyes while guzzling down mouthfuls of the amber-colored liquor from the bottle clasped firmly in his hand. Ignoring the pain clawing at my heart from his furious glare, I turn my eyes back to the video.
The Hunter in the surveillance video replicates the one standing to the side of me. He's also choking down large gulps of brown liquid, but he's using a glass tumbler instead of a bottle.
The swirling in my stomach intensifies when the pretty redhead loosens the buttons of his shirt. My stomach lurches when inches of his smooth, tattooed torso is exposed, and her efforts shift to the belt holding up his jeans. I snap my eyes closed, sending tears rolling down my cheeks. Why would he want me to watch this?
My eyes pop back open when the sound of glass smashing filters through my ears. Brown liquid seeps down one of the nude paintings lining the walls, pooling around the shards of glass sprawled across the floor. I lift my tear-swamped eyes from the bottle of alcohol Hunter just broke on the wall to him.
"Watch it," he demands, his tone flat and brimmed with anger.
I shake my head, sending more tears streaming down my face. Hunter spans the distance between us. His furious, fast pace helps him reach me in under a heartbeat. He curls his body around my back, enveloping me with his feverish heat before he grips my chin and forces my head back to face the projector screen.
“Watch it,” he commands again, his hot breath fanning my earlobe.
The furious beat of his pulse adds to the quiver of my chin when my eyes return to the projector screen. I flinch in the same manner as the redhead in the video when Hunter upends one of the couches in his living room, sending it sailing across the room. It hits the wall with such brutal force, one of his nude paintings falls to the ground.
Hunter snaps his eyes closed and inhales numerous deep breaths as the redhead stands to the side of him with her mouth gaped open in surprise.
Once he has reined in a small sense of composure, he flutters open his eyes and locks them with the redhead. I can't hear any of the words he's saying, but I can tell he's apologizing. The mortified look on his face displays his remorse for scaring her.
After doing up the buttons of his shirt, he gathers the redhead's coat from the couch still sitting in its rightful position, places his hand on the curve of her lower back and walks her to the door.
"Patricia, play the surveillance video from the Dungeon Nightclub at sixteen times the speed from four AM this morning," Hunter requests, his voice slurred and crammed with anger.
“Yes, Mr. Kane,” Patricia complies.
Even though my gaze remains planted on the screen, Hunter keeps his hand wrapped around my throat with his index finger and thumb pinching my chin. Although his hold could be construed as aggressive, my body isn't registering it like that. It's excited by his domineering nature. My heart was shredded last night, but as the images of Hunter downing drink after drink at a bustling nightclub alone filters before my eyes, the insane beat of my heart transfers to another region of my body.
“You didn’t sleep with her?” I mumble more to myself than Hunter.
"I fucking wanted to, but I couldn't," he responds to my silent interrogation, his voice gruff and packed with sentiment.
The beads of sweat rolling down Hunter's naked torso are absorbed by the back of my cardigan when he steps in closer, molding his body to mine. I try to suppress it, but the faintest moan topples from my gaped lips. Even being irately angry, knowing he purposely set out to hurt me last night, my body melts when the bristles of his beard scratch the skin on my neck. Wetness puddles my panties when his teeth sink into my shoulder blade, and the thickness of his erect cock grinds the curve of my backside.
His hand wrapped around the base of my neck lowers to my breast while the other one slides beneath the hem of my skirt. My knees shake when his thick fingers brush over my panties clinging to the folds of my pussy.
I throw my head back and snap my eyes shut as his finger slips into my panties before slowly entering my clenching core. As his thumb and index finger rolls my budded nipple, his finger pumps into me, tightening my coil at a record pace.
Just as the first signs of an earth-shattering climax peek out from the horizon, Hunter mutters, “One last fuck before you run back to your country club friends to tell them how you spent your Christmas break slumming it wit
h those less fortunate.”
All signs of an orgasm come to a screeching halt – as does my heart. I lurch away from him, both disgusted and shocked. When I spin around to face him, I nearly lose my footing, dizzy from both the closeness of a climax and the anger roaring through my veins. I feel the heat rising from my gut to my cheeks when I catch sight of the mocking smirk on Hunter's face. His eyes are blazing, and his entire composure screams of arrogance. He's the ugliest I've ever seen him.
“Candace Paige Maloney, daughter of Gerald Maloney, Senator from California.” His tone is dangerously even. “Prestigious granddaughter of Richard Breene, ex-Governor and oil tycoon with an estimated worth of over three billion dollars.” He drawls out my grandfather’s worth like he's announcing the jackpot in the lottery. “Her major at college was political science before she changed it to creative writing after her mother was diagnosed with ALS.”
Tears prick my eyes at the mention of my mother’s name. The only thing keeping them at bay is the flash of remorse that sparked in Hunter’s eyes for the tiniest second before continuing with his malicious drunken tirade.
“Candace’s best friend since kindergarten is Quinn Peters, crowned Miss Daisy Beauty Queen in 2012. She currently works at a local coffee bean chain while attending audition, after audition, after audition, as she, along with the other 88% of Los Angeles residents, is an aspiring actress. Surprise. Surprise.”
My teeth grit. "Are you done?" I cross my arms in front of my chest. I'm so angry, my face is red, and steam is nearly billowing out of my ears.
“Just one last thing.” He lifts his index finger into the air – the same finger that's still glistening with evidence of my arousal. “Patricia, bring up the last searched item on my home server,” he requests, his words slurring.
