The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  Let me amend—men in general aren’t trustworthy. The pretty ones were extra mean, though. That was a lesson I’d learned in high school that wasn’t in the syllabus.

  Rumor around Boston was, Hunter’s parents had sent him to Todos Santos, California, four years ago after he got kicked out of a British school, hoping to clean up his act by settling him with his Bible-studying uncle and aunt, or at the very least keep him away from the East Coast press. The latter hounded the Fitzpatrick family, and Hunter specifically, seeing as he had the notable ability to act like an idiot. In fact, I remembered one particular headline referring to him as “The Great Ghastly,” after one of his pool parties back west ended up with two people breaking their limbs trying to jump from the roof into his pool.

  Even from California, the rogue Fitzpatrick had managed to make headlines. According to the gossip mill, his sexual conquests were currently in the triple digits, and if angels got their wings every time he had a fling, heaven would be so severely overpopulated, they’d have to start building new, up-and-coming sections in hell.

  Hunter’s hair was muddy gold, curling in angelic twists around his ears, temples, and the nape of his neck, enhancing his heart-stopping beauty. His eyes were narrow, almost slanted, and brilliantly light, a mixture of gray and powder blue with flecks of gold, and his high cheekbones, square jaw, and pouty lips gave him the elegance of a surly, spoiled prince. His nose was straight and narrow, his eyebrows thick and masculine, and he had that healthy, glowing tan of a man who got to see the better parts of the world.

  Hunter’s body was discussed just as much as his antics. He’d played polo while he studied in the UK, and continued doing so privately after he got kicked out and moved to California. He was lean, muscular, and freakishly tall for a polo player. According to the rumors, he had enviable abs and a member the size of the Eiffel Tower.

  In short, he screamed trouble, and not the kind I had time for.

  “I have a proposition for you.” He tipped his nose up.

  God, he was so arrogant I wanted to throw up on his Fear of God Jungle sneakers ($995, Emmabelle had once told me—at this point, he was a theft victim begging to be targeted).

  “The answer is no.”

  “That’s an untextured way of thinking. You haven’t even heard it yet.”

  I raised my palm, smiling politely. “Based on your reputation alone, combined with the fact that we’ve been standing here for ten minutes and you still haven’t gotten to the point, I can deduce we are not a good match. For anything.”

  “I need you to live with me for six months. But, like, in a sick-ass apartment downtown. Super rad shit.”

  He completely ignored my rejection. Furthermore, he talked like he was doing me a favor. True, my parents were not on any list of the richest people in the country, continent, or outer space, but they did very well for themselves. In fact, I’d grown up in luxury. But like Mom, I rejected the idea that money equaled happiness. I found that oftentimes, the opposite was true.

  “Oh,” I said cheerfully. “Well, in that case, the answer is still no.”

  “Wait! I have something you want.” He had the audacity to close the driver’s door behind me, bracing his arms on either side of my shoulders, caging me in.

  I stared at him, bewildered. Was he high or something? “What?” I spat, wishing someone would come out of the club, see us, and shoot an arrow through his skull. Another part of me—a teeny, tiny part—enjoyed the attention this fine male specimen was providing me. I made a mental note to drown that part of me in the bathtub when I got home.

  “My da says if you agree to this deal, he’s willing to sponsor you all the way to the Olympics. Said he’ll make you a household name across America, and Boston’s sweetheart. I’m talking commercials, hooking you up with the best sports agent in America, get you a book deal. You’ll be famous, baby.” He offered me another one of his toothy-dimpled smirks.

  “I don’t want any of those things. I just want to do what I love.”

  “That’s cute, but I know Lana Alder from New Mexico is breathing down your neck in the archery department and might take your place on the squad. And she’s got beauty campaigns and movie deals coming out of her ass, so you might want to reconsider that big, fat rejection.”

  “You did your homework,” I said sullenly. Lana was a sore subject for me. Her name alone made my skin crawl.

  “First and last time.” He wiggled his brows.

  I bit the tip of my thumbnail. He was right. My main competition was Alder, and she, unfortunately, was as gorgeous as she was talented. She was coming to Boston in five months so we could train together with Junsu, and had already secured more media coverage in my hometown than I’d had the entire year.

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “You sure? Same crib, separate rooms. My parents just want you to watch over me.”

  “Why?” My eyes flared in annoyance. “Why me? Why not a willing girl? I’m sure there are lots to choose from.”

  “That’s exactly why. You’re unwilling. They said you wouldn’t be persuaded or seduced—incorruptible. You have good character and know the meaning of responsibility.”

  “Ehm, thank you.”

  “Dear God, woman, that wasn’t a compliment.” He laughed.

  I frowned. “Well, sorry to disappoint your parents, but the answer is still no.”

  “Seriously?” He groaned when I swatted his arms away from me, opening the door again and slipping into my car before I could consider his crazy idea. “My da knows your da and gave him the skinny on things. Apparently, he is super into the idea. Ask him. Da can make your career. If you care so much about archery, do yourself a favor and bite the bullet, man.”

  “My dad is influential, too,” I said, not quite believing the words leaving my mouth. Was battiness contagious?

  “Your dad can influence the body count in Boston, but he is hardly a public figure. My old man, however, donated millions to build a new stadium for the Patriots. You need connections, Sailor. Let me help.”

  I started my car with the door still open, fully tucked in, gripping the steering wheel and feeling my fingers going numb around it.

  “You just have to make sure I’m sober and celibate. That’s it.”

  I looked up at him, aghast. “Like, be your nanny?”

  He shrugged. “I’m fully potty-trained, sleep through the night—sometimes well past the morning and afternoon—and can make a mean-ass omelet.”

  “Can you stop using the word ass as an adjective, verb, adverb, and noun?” I half-asked, half-wondered.

  “I’ll stop saying the word ass if you agree to my once-in-a-lifetime offer.” He pressed the button to lower my window so we could continue our conversation a second before I slammed the door in his face. Good instincts.

  “This is crazy,” I mumbled.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes.” He slapped my window frame, grinning.

  Junsu would kill me if he ever learned of the deal. He said archery was a respectable art, not a Disney Channel special that required me to do press junkets—not that he was ever going to know about it. As far as he was concerned, that qualified as cutting corners. But I was falling behind the curve and knew Lana Alder could crush my Olympic dream—and take great pleasure in it, too.

  Anyway, Dad would kill Hunter Fitzpatrick if he gave me trouble. And Sam, my brother, would get rid of the body. That was the beauty of coming from a mobster family.

  It seemed like a no-brainer. I needed a big endorser to push me. That’s what everyone except Junsu kept telling me. My problem wasn’t lack of skill or talent, but that I was shy and too much of a wallflower to bring attention to myself.

  Still, I said nothing.

  Hunter bent his knees, pressing his palms together. “Help a dude out, old sport. I promise I’m not an asshole. I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as calling myself a good guy, but I’m harmless. My inheritance is on the line here. I just want both of us to survive this
bitch of a time. I swear.”

  He seemed genuine. Besides, how hard could this be? He was a willing participant in this weird deal. Plus, I’d been wanting to move out of my parents’ house for a while. They’d been bugging me about my love life—or lack of it—for a long time.

  “How big is this apartment?” I groaned, feeling my resolution slipping through my fingers.

  “Three bedrooms, about twenty-five-hundred square feet. Skyscraper. Walking distance from here. You can use the spare bedroom for your equipment.”

  “Wow,” I blurted. That beat the studio apartments I’d been looking at to escape Mom and Dad’s constant put-yourself-out-there nagging.

  “Also, there will be a private chef. I was just kidding about the omelet; I can barely open a can of alphabet pasta. And you can bring your friends and Bumble dates or whatever over. I’m an excellent wingman, Sailor. I will hand you a condom and call for an Uber to kick them out when it’s all done so you can shower and take a shit without playing hostess.”

  “You’re gross.”

  “Why? I’ll order them the deluxe service through my app. I’ll even risk my rating—which is four point nine eight, just saying—because that’s who I am as a person: an altruistic, stand-up guy.”

  “Didn’t you do community service for public indecency recently after running down a street completely naked?” I frowned, recalling the article.

  He waved me off. “That was a year ago. I’m a changed man.”

  I was making a mistake. I knew that as I was making the decision. But my drive to succeed won the battle.

  “What’s the drawback?” I narrowed my eyes. “If you need babysitting, there must be a reason for that.”

  “Impulse control,” he said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Specifically speaking, I don’t have any. Just think of me, like, as Bambi: cute AF but super stupid and in total need of supervision.”

  He just said aay-eff. Plus, he willingly labeled himself stupid. I felt kind of sad for him, before I remembered who he was.

  “A few ground rules.” I sat back in the driver’s seat, my car still running.

  Hunter’s diamond-sharp eyes twinkled at my surrender. “Anything.”

  “One, as you said, we’ll have totally separate bedrooms.”

  “So separate they’ll barely be in the same zip code.”

  “Two, no drugs, drinks, or girls in the apartment. I’m not going to cut corners for you, and I’m not bribable, in case you’re planning on pulling any funny business.”

  “No funny business.” He parked his elbows on the edge of my open window, shoving half his body inside and ignoring my personal space, not unlike an eager Labrador. “What else?”

  “No hitting on me.”

  “Done,” he said much too quickly, raising his palm in a Boy Scout swear. “Sized me up pretty quickly, huh?”

  “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “So does a certain organ.”

  I lifted a hand in warning. “See? Exactly what I mean. You’re going to have to cut the BS, because dealing with your potty mouth is above this sitter’s pay grade.”

  “Fine. No sexual innuendos. Can I tell Da it’s on?”

  Everything was moving way too fast. I didn’t even fully grasp that Hunter was here, much less what I was agreeing to. But something told me he was the sign I’d been begging for earlier today. This airheaded, rakish boy was my good-luck charm. He was going to bring me to Tallinn Olympics next year.

  Besides, Persy and Belle were going to have orgasmic seizures when they heard I’d be rooming with the Hunter Fitzpatrick.

  And it wasn’t like I was breaking my no-boy rule until after the Olympics.

  Hunter was a boy, but he wasn’t a good fit for me. I was in no danger of falling in love with him, of losing focus.

  He grabbed my hand and shook it comically. I noticed his palm was softer than mine. Probably the only thing about him that wasn’t tarnished.

  “Can I have one rule, too?” he asked.

  “No,” I said flatly, then sighed. “Fine, what?”

  “Don’t Google me.”

  “Why?” And why was he still shaking my hand? And why, why, why wasn’t I withdrawing mine?

  “Just because.”

  Easy peasy, I told myself. Just like living with a really beautiful, useless picture.

  As it happened, it was not just like living with a really beautiful, useless picture.

  More like living with a Tasmanian devil, judging by the first five minutes of our so-called “roomance” (roommate-romance, as my mother, Sparrow, cheerfully—and creepily—put it).

  A week after Hunter had cornered me outside the archery club, I officially moved into his West End apartment. Mom and Persy helped me with my suitcases and boxes. Belle had wanted to come, but she had “a thing.” Knowing my friend, that thing was attached to a man she was going to eat alive and discard after a few weeks of fun. The minute the three of us tumbled out of the private elevator and took in the apartment, we dropped whatever we were holding, our mouths slacking in unison.

  At first glance, it was everything I’d expected it to be: scarcely and tastefully furnished, floor-to-ceiling windows, new kitchen appliances, not to mention a bird’s-eye view of Boston that made me fall in love with my hometown all over again. The colors were navy and deep burgundy, giving the place a rich-yet-trendy vibe.

  However, on second look, the place looked like every raccoon in North America had raided it. Hunter’s clothes adorned most of the furniture—the couch, on top of the TV, coffee table, floor, even in the sink—and there were open takeout containers everywhere, including on top of the garbage can.

  The modern, gray-accented open-plan kitchen was a whole new level of mess. Everything looked sticky. Food cans were open and dripping. I even saw a trail of ants marching their way from the floor up to an open jar of chipotle sauce on the kitchen island.

  “Well,” Persy chirped cheerfully. “He said there’s a cook, so for sure there’s going to be a housekeeper, too. Besides, you have him by the balls. You can threaten him to keep the place tidy, or else you’re moving back with your parents. Right, Mrs. Brennan?” She placed a cardboard box on the sliver of open space on the coffee table, planting her hands on her hips.

  “Actually, no. We’re making Sailor’s room a sex dungeon.” Mom gathered her red hair into a topknot with one hand, wheeling my suitcase to the hallway in the other.

  I shot her a death glare. “Mom. Super, deeply gross.”

  She laughed with her entire face. It made my heart squeeze. “We are planning to turn it into a second office. My paperwork is getting out of control, and there’s no point moving into a bigger condo.”

  “Why not make Sam’s room a second office? He hasn’t been living at home for years.”

  “Because I don’t worry about his social life,” Mom answered frankly. “And so, he is welcome to come back whenever he wishes.”

  “Which would be never.” I scoffed. Sam was a notorious Bostonian bachelor with a taste for partying, Warren Beatty-style.

  “My point exactly,” she concluded.

  Great. Now I didn’t have a place to run back to if when this thing imploded. By the looks of this apartment, it already had.

  I had no doubt my parents’ decision to convert my childhood room into a home office was to keep me here. They loved me dearly, but had begged me to be more social. If it were up to me, I’d be shooting targets and lazing around with the Penrose sisters until the end of time.

  “You know what?” I turned around, facing both of them, trying to appear more upbeat than I actually was. In reality, I’d almost popped an artery. It had taken Hunter exactly ten seconds to piss me off. “I’m going to tidy up myself, arrange things the way I want them to be—set the tone for the next six months.”

  In the week between the time Hunter propositioned me in the parking lot and now, our fathers had met numerous times to negotiate the terms of this insane, legal
ly binding agreement. Mom and I had met Gerald and Jane Fitzpatrick so we could all sign the contract. Gerald was cold as a fish and Jane nice, but reserved. Hunter was absent from those meetings, and I had a feeling it was because Gerald was either worried he’d say something embarrassing, or because he didn’t want Hunter to feel like he had control over the situation.

  “You sure?” Mom frowned at me. “We don’t mind staying, and you could use the extra help.”

  “Positive, Mom.” I was already pushing them out the door. I knew they weren’t going to cooperate if I told them my plan.

  Mom wasn’t hard to get rid of. She understood my independent streak and my need to do things my way, because I took after her in that department. Persy was another story. She was a do-gooder, innocent and agreeable to a fault. I sometimes wondered what drew me to my best friend, who was the same age as me, eighteen. We were polar opposites in both appearance and personality. She had long, wavy hair the color of sand, huge blue eyes, and the soft, traditional beauty of a rose in bloom. She was attending college like her parents wanted her to, and didn’t have one rebellious bone in her body.

  I was wild, driven, and tunnel-visioned. I hid my scrawny body in ill-fitting clothes, loose tops, boy-sneakers, and jeans. Whereas Persephone, named after the Greek goddess who’d been stolen by Hades to live and rule the underworld with him, was quiet but confident, I was insecure to the bone. I loved Persy to death because we both possessed the two qualities I cared about the most: we were innately loyal and stayed away from the rumor mill.

  In fact, that’s how we’d become friends. When I started elementary school, gossip about my father ran through the hallways like the Mississippi River. Troy Brennan was Boston’s infamous “fixer,” and it was said he had a substantial amount of blood on his hands. In spite of that, Persy and her older sister, Belle, sought me out and made sure I had someone to play with at recess and sit with in the cafeteria.

  Belle was everything Persy and I weren’t: a nymph, a fallen goddess. Cunning and adventurous with a vicious tongue. Street smart and daring. The two of them by my side meant I wasn’t bullied, picked on, or harassed during my school years.