Hunter (The Fractured Fairytale Series)

by J. A. Wynters

  He’s taken Red away to Croatia. Ever since getting shot and shacking up with my sister, he’s discovered this newfound love for life. He suddenly has one. And he’s happy. He deserves to be, and I like that he makes Red happy too.

  After so many months of living in a hotel room and working around the clock to keep everything ticking along while Wolf has been recovering, it's been great getting back to business as usual. With Jenny behind bars and all our names cleared, I’m looking forward to my right-hand man being back. After all, he’s not just my business partner, he's also my best mate. Rob is a good number two, but he’s no Wolf.

  Rob drags a chair over to my desk; it scraps the floor like nails on chalk and he shoots me a ‘fuck you’ smile as I cringe at the sound. He’ll pay for that later. We go over the schedule for the next few weeks, double-checking clients and manpower. We’ll need to do another recruitment drive soon. I roll my eyes. I’ll set Wolf on that when he gets back, sucking some of his newfound happiness away. It’s making him soft.

  I read through my emails, answer clients and consolidate accounts, my eyes burn by the time I’m done. I check my watch; I have about an hour’s worth of work left and then I can go home and have a nap before another gig tonight.

  I’ve been working too many shifts lately. My body feels it; not enough sleep, interrupted meals and no routine of any sort. I could easily take a break—I am part owner of our security business—but I don’t.

  Every night there are different challenges and many, many rewards. A few fights to break up with minuscule men with Napoleon complexes and too much alcohol in their systems, and desperate women who are more than eager to go with me to the toilet and make me happy. They want to see me smile from their knees, and I’m not one to deny a beautiful lady what she wants. I’m selfless like that.

  Rob’s voice drones on about something and the words on the screen blur when my phone rings. I don’t recognise the number and frown.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Evans?” A sweet female voice has me automatically on edge. Very few women have my private number and I know exactly who they are.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “This is Emily Shepard, Daryl Dark’s personal assistant.”

  Daryl Dark, a frikking legend in the rock scene, the man has been around longer than the pope, he’s been around every fucking block—twice—and his reputation precedes him. The name Dark suits him from what I hear, his clothes, his lyrics, his attitude and the way his PA is ruining my already shitty mood. “How did you get this number?”

  “It was personally given to me by Mr. Dark. He said it was passed on by a certain musician who says he owes you his life.”

  I nod into the phone. That could be a number of people. I set the thought aside, for now, intrigued, despite my better judgement. “What can I do for you, Miss Shepard?”

  “It’s Emily,” she clarifies as if it’s an important detail, “Mr. Dark is coming to London next week. He plans on renting property for at least six weeks while he records his new album. He’ll require some personal protection while in town.”

  “So, why are you calling me?”

  “He requires your services.” Her voice is curt and lathered with condescension.

  “Where are his usual guys?”

  “A few will accompany us to London, but he would prefer a local, someone who knows the territory and knows what’s going on. You’ve come more than highly recommended.”

  I rub my hand across my chin and look at our current client list and upcoming events. With a bit of juggling and overtime, I guess we can squeeze in one more client. It’s a short-term contract and if I send Rob, I can cover his shifts till Wolf gets back.

  “I’ll brief one of my guys and have him contact you, just sen—”

  “No. Mr. Dark wants you to do it.” Her rudeness is starting to rub me the wrong way and I'm tempted to hang up.

  “Look, Miss Shepard, I—”

  “It’s Emily and Daryl wants you.”

  I sigh. This is already too difficult. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “Fantastic, I knew he could count on you.”

  “I didn’t s—” but she hangs up before I can finish. I grind my teeth and glare at my phone. “What the fuck?!”

  Rob looks up at me and raises an eyebrow.

  “Just some asshole who thinks I’ll ask how high when he tells me to jump. Don’t need that kind of headache.” But even as I finish talking, determined to let Mr. Dark sort out his own shit without me, my phone rings again and I see a familiar name on the screen.

  I suck in a galvanising breath and swipe, bringing it to my ear. “Mr. Legend, it’s been a long time.” Not long enough. My head falls back into my chair and I glare at the ceiling, why does this day keep shitting on me?

  “I told you to call me Justin.”

  “Yeah, you did. What can I do for you?”

  “I believe a mutual friend got in touch?”

  “Well, his pushy PA did. Look, I don’t thi—”

  “I was hoping to speak to you before she got in touch but Daryl likes to jump the gun.”

  “You don’t say.” I roll my eyes.

  He chuckles on the other end. “Look, you’ll be doing me a personal favour, I’ll owe you one.”

  My grip tightens around my phone and I exhale sharply. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sure.” We both know I don’t mean it. I hang up, shove my phone into my back pocket and grab my keys. An email drops in from Mr. Dark’s personal assistant with all the details for Daryl Dark’s impending visit. I leave it unread and head for the door.

  Rob eyes me again, “So, how high you gonna jump boss?”

  “High enough to teabag your mum.” I snap at him and stomp out of the office, his laughter echoes in my wake.

  3

  Hunter

  Daryl Dark is the epitome of your stereotypical rock star. He had a wild history and is often a headliner in music magazines. He’s more famous for his infamy than his illustrious rock career, but any which way you look at him, the man is a musical genius and a survivor. In a sea full of fish, he became a shark. He was always ahead of everyone else, smashing out hit after hit after hit. It's part of the reason his record company pays to cover shit up and buys stories from the editor's desk before they hit the tabloids. All in all, the man was a walking arrogant dick that thought the world owed him something and he is currently strolling towards me.

  I steel myself. This is going to suck.

  He waves at no one and smiles at invisible fans. I shake my head already picturing the delusions and paranoia he’s just offloaded from his private jet. A leather jacket is flung over his shoulder and he’s wearing a dangerously faded pair of denim that look like they’re staying intact by sheer will power.

  He reaches the Audi and extends a thin, muscular corded arm, covered in faded black tattoos that have bleached and bled into the skin over the years. He has young, icy-blue eyes set in an aging man’s face, his forehead mapped with deep lines and crow's feet.

  “You’re the guy?” he asks in a deep Liverpudlian accent.

  I shrug, “Hunter. Good to meet you, Mr. Dark.”

  “Of course it is.” He winks at me and shoves a bag into my hands before stepping towards the car. He stops, his body halfway inside, then looks up the tarmac towards the noisy jet, “Hurry up now, love. We don’t have all fucking day, now do we?” he shouts then disappears into the Audi.

  I follow his gaze. A woman hurries towards us. She’s pulling one of those suitcases on wheels, one seems to be broken and it wiggles around as she struggles to catch up. She is as drab and enthusiastic as the tarmac. A grey suit, crisp white shirt, shiny white shoes designed for comfort and efficiency over style, a too-tight bun and a face set so firmly, she looks like a walking mannequin. She reaches the car and gives me a cold smile that’s as genuine as a car salesman, ditches her suitcase and slips into the car without a word. My whole face
tightens and my jaw clamps.

  Emily Shepard. The PA. Rob did the regular checks on her knowing she would accompany Mr. Dark. Unfortunately, he found nothing out of the ordinary. The only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Shepard, graduated top of her class from the University of Birmingham. Did a few odd jobs before landing this role. She’s been Daryl’s PA for two years and she looks as if it’s worn her down. If my memory serves, she’s meant to be twenty-five, but dresses like a seventy-year-old at her mother’s funeral. I guess her dress sense matches her personality. Cold and drab. I shrug. Not my problem anyway.

  “Let me get that for you,” I mumble to myself as I pass the bags to Tom, the driver, to load into the boot before I get into the passenger side of the car.

  I give Tom the go ahead and we pull away and towards the apartment Mr. Dark had rented for his visit. Tom has already been briefed on the route we are taking and the entry point into the house.

  A funky smell derails my thoughts and I look back to see Daryl inhale a lungful of his foul-smelling cigarette. The ember burns a bright orange before a river of smoke cascades from his mouth and spills into the car.

  “This is a non-smoking vehicle, sir.” I try for polite while opening all the windows to let the stench out.

  “Sure it is.” He replies and puts the cigarette to his mouth again. The woman sitting next to him squirms uncomfortably, her face turned away.

  “I have to insist you put that out, sir.”

  “It’s just a smoke, guy, take it easy.”

  I instruct Tom to pull over as I grit my teeth and grip my chair. Everyone has to die sometimes right? “Sir put the cigarette out now.”

  He takes another drag as if I don’t even register on his radar, his eyes lock on mine for a second before he blows out the smoke and chucks the cigarette out the window. He falls back into his seat, his arms crossed like a petulant teenager.

  I turn and face the front again and motion for the driver to continue. I suck in shallow breaths, knowing the fucking smell will linger in the upholstery. Something about cigarette smoke, it sinks into everything. Every hair, every cotton fiber— even skin—like it’s petrified to vanish.

  Damn it! My clothes smell like they’ve been worn by an old tramp, and even with the windows down the tincture of cigarette fumes clings to my nose.

  By the time we pull into the driveway, I’ve regained some composure and pushed my anger aside, remembering the pay cheque at the end of this deep, long, dark tunnel which is Daryl Dark.

  I accompany him into the mansion. It is a world unto itself. People who do not have exuberant amounts of money at their disposal have no real understanding of how the other half lives. This humble abode, as he called it, was like a life-size representation of Daryl Dark’s ego designed out of bricks and mortar. Overly large and ostentatious with all the trimmings.

  He scans the place and turns to Emily. “Where the fuck are my guitars?”

  “Waiting at the studio.”

  “All of them?” his face tightens.

  “Yes.” Her voice shrinks a little and I fight the urge not to stand between them.

  “What the fuck good is that to me if all my guitars are there and I’m here?”

  “Well, you said… I thought—”

  “Thinking doesn’t suit you, love, and you should do less of it!” He huffs, “I’m going to shower, that should give you enough time to get Raven and Black Dust over here.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he stomps away and into the house.

  The way he talks to her has the muscles in my back bunched up. She might be a cold, irritating, know-it-all, but everyone deserves a modicum of respect.

  She avoids my eyes before grabbing her phone. “Hi Tom, can you bring the car around?” She holds for a beat before dashing to the door, her shoes silent on the tiles. “Great, I’ll be right out.” She disappears outside, and a car door slams.

  I shake my head. What the fuck was that? I pull out my phone and dial Justin. He picks up after the second ring.

  “Mr. Legend,” I start.

  “It’s Justin.” He corrects me again knowing I’ll never call him by his first name.

  “I think you need to find someone else to do this job.”

  “It’s only been a few hours.”

  “A few hours too long.” The tension building in my back grips and tightens.

  “There’s no one else.” He states.

  “Have you tried anyone else?”

  “No. No one else can do his job but you.”

  “I don’t think I can either.”

  There’s a short silence before he speaks again, “I’ll owe you one, and I’ll pay double what you usually charge for services.”

  “It’s not a money thing.”

  “It’s always a money thing, everyone has a price.”

  “Why is this so important to you?”

  There’s a long exhale on the other end of the line. “It’s personal. I need this favour.”

  “And I’m it?”

  The silence from the other end is enough of an answer.

  “The man is a dick.”

  “He’s worse than that.” Justin chuckles. “Thanks, Hunter, I know I can count on you.” He hangs up before I have a chance to say anything more.

  I tuck the phone back into my back pocket and grind my teeth wishing for the first time ever I was sitting outside on a stool at some dodgy club dealing with drunk fucks.

  4

  Emily

  I slam the door to the car a little more violently than I mean to and Tom takes off without a word. My heart sits somewhere in my throat clogging the scream I want to release. Fucking Daryl. I hate it when he speaks to me so dismissively and I hate the way I still react to him after all these years. I know he’s nothing but a man-child that needs to be constantly watched so that he doesn’t hurt himself, but his brash words and his attitude still sting.

  The thing that irks me most is that he knows who I am, and it’s like he’s trying to coax a reaction out of me. Force me to do something other than my submissive responses and annoyed replies. Whatever his motives are, I suspect they have nothing to do with me and everything to do with him. I can’t wait to break away from both of them and breathe on my own.

  I draw in another breath and promise myself that the next eight months would be my last. I ignore the stupid voice in my head that tries to remind me I’ve been saying that for the last two years. Instead, I allow my anger to keep simmering while I think about the meathead who stood next to Daryl and looked at me like I needed saving—like I was helpless.

  Hunter Evans. His piercing green eyes stared at me as Daryl snapped his fingers. I huff pretending I didn’t notice the sharp angle of his jaw or his muscular forearms. Just another idiot with a hero complex. A good looking one, but still an idiot.

  I stare out of the window and remember how much I hate London. Being back here feels like walking through an endless memory. One I hoped I’d put behind me. Every time I come back here I know it should feel like home, instead, it just feels empty.

  I watch the buildings drift by in blurs and look up to the familiar grey sky, as much as I want to hate it, it fills me with nostalgia.

  Tom pulls up at the studio and I climb out of the car waiting for the day I’d be here as more than just someone’s PA.

  5

  Hunter

  I look at my watch. It’s exactly 9 a.m.–the time Emily informed me that Daryl wanted to leave just before I departed last night. My shirt is already wet with sweat and clings to my body, feeling too tight around my throat as I stand outside like an idiot. After ten minutes, I knock. Keeping my temper in check and not kicking the fucking door off its hinges.

  It opens and Emily stands on the other side. She’s in another grey suit only slightly lighter than the day before, her hair is strung as tight as she is. She doesn’t smile. “He’ll be running late; you might as well get used to it.”

  “Great.” I grind out and the sun’s heat pushes against me. It�
�s still early but it’s going to be a hot day. Why anyone would record an album during the few weeks of a British summer is beyond me.

  “We’re not leaving before eleven at the earliest.” She's polite and curt and hides halfway behind the door like she might be afraid that I bite. She looks at the floor and her teeth graze over her lower lip before her gaze swings back to my face, hers indifferent. “Would you like to wait inside?”

  I run a hand over my face, it’s too hot, “sure, thanks.”

  I step inside and she’s already halfway across the room as if she’s running away from me. I close the door behind me and follow her through the foyer that’s almost the size of my entire house, before veering left and into an exquisite modern kitchen.

  It strikes me how white and clean it is. It's the opposite of mine. Especially since Wolf’s special paint job before he left and took Red with him. I set that problem aside considering for the hundredth time if I should get another roommate or rent the place out and get something smaller just for me. I promise myself to deal with it after this job, just like I did after the last one.

  “How do you take your coffee?” She asks, looking at the mug in her hands.

  “Very seriously.” I deadpan. Her mouth doesn’t move an inch. Ice queen. When she doesn’t respond at all, I ask for a splash of milk and one sugar. She makes the coffee and sets the mug in front of me.

  “Thank you.”

  She throws me a half fake smile and looks away before rounding the table to sit across from me. A stack of papers spread out in front of her as she clicks on a laptop and focuses on the screen. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was putting a barrier between us. Not that she needs one.

  It gives me a chance to study her. She’s perched on top of the stool with her legs crossed and sits upright. I can tell she has a small frame but it’s swallowed in the stupid grey suit that doesn’t compliment her complexion at all. It’s like she is trying to disappear. Her hazel eyes are hidden behind glasses, and her make-up is natural and sparse. There’s something about her, but whatever it is she is trying to hide it and her personality is as dull as her suits. I wonder if that’s why he hired her. All business and no play. She will definitely make Hunter a dull boy.