The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  “Adoptive brother, and he is too much of a daredevil. Rich, handsome, but bad pedigree. No, thank you.”

  “I saw her ad on a bus downtown. You think they’re together?”

  “Sailor and Hunter? No way. He is basically sex personified, and she is…well, a great ad for contraceptives.”

  Laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

  “Mousy,” the first one agreed. “But they came in together, and there’s a rumor going around that they live together.”

  “Maybe he lost a bet,” the second woman tooted, delving through a bag of makeup by the sound of it.

  “Maybe he’s running out of women to sleep with,” the other cackled.

  “She better enjoy it while it lasts. He goes through them fast. I doubt she’ll keep him interested.”

  “Maybe he’ll leave her with a souvenir. Did you see his sex tape? H-a-w-t.”

  I flushed the toilet and stomped out of the cubicle noisily. I offered them a serene smile as I squirted soap into my hand, catching their horrified gazes in the mirror when they realized who I was. They looked to be in their mid-twenties, both wearing tight, revealing dresses and the shocked facial expressions of horrified koalas.

  “I’m so glad you ladies aren’t interested in Sam, because knowing my brother, he’d never look at you twice. As for Hunter, he’s too good for you, too. But I’ll be sure to bring him up to speed regarding everything you discussed today. And his brother, Cillian, too.”

  “Wait, you know Cillian?” the one with the fake tits asked.

  I nodded. “Absolutely. We were just discussing the merits of women with natural breasts who stay out of gossip. Well, have fun!”

  I turned around and marched away on shaky legs.

  Ten minutes after the restroom incident, which I kept from my friends because there wasn’t any need to rehash my humiliation, the band began to play, starting with “Twist and Shout.”

  Belle ran to the dance floor like her butt was on fire. She didn’t know how to twist. But lack of knowledge never stopped my best friend from trying something new. I loved that about her. It always made her the most interesting person in the room.

  Persy and Aisling were locked in a heated conversation about reality TV shows I’d never heard of while I fed my inner self-destructive gremlin by scrolling through my phone, reading an article about Lana Alder, who’d apparently gotten a small part in another Hollywood film. I took a deep breath, trying to control the jealousy expanding in my chest like a balloon as I watched pictures of her on set. I didn’t know how she did it, how she stayed focused on the craft while traveling, interviewing, launching sportswear lines, and making movies.

  A hand appeared in my vision, two fingers snapping together to get my attention. I looked up from my phone screen.

  Hunter.

  “Dance with me, CT.”

  “Why?” I asked, blinking at him in confusion. I had two left legs and the coordination of roadkill. I couldn’t dance if my life depended on it. I’d tried dancing at the only party I’d ever gone to—sophomore year—and was subjected to such thorough humiliation. People took videos of me dancing and forwarded it to half my school. Saggy Sailor, they’d graffiti-ed on my locker. Apparently, my back looked hunched and droopy when I danced.

  “Because…” He tilted his chin down, his voice low, smoldering. “You’re obviously bored, and my family is watching us, and I’m partial to fondling you.”

  “It’s the dress,” I muttered.

  “I’d actually prefer fondling you out of it.”

  I sliced my gaze sideways, noticing that Aisling and Persy hadn’t picked up on my exchange with him. They were now watching a video, probably of the reality show they were arguing about. Even though Hunter was just after a friendly dance to show his family we were getting along, I couldn’t unglue my butt from my chair.

  “No fondling.” I crossed my arms over my chest, buying time.

  “No promises. Get up.”

  “Did you tell anyone we live together?” I accused, my eyes narrowing into slits.

  He stared at me, wide-eyed, mouth parted. “Negatory.”

  “Did you tell anyone we were dating?”

  “This is the lamest twenty-questions game I’ve ever participated in. No.”

  “Well, people are talking about us.”

  “That’s what people do. They fill the air with useless words to entertain each other. It’s called gossip, and it sucks all the asses in the world. Doesn’t mean it was me. Our building employs more than a hundred people. All of them work for my father. That means he’s spreading whatever the hell he wants to spread.”

  “People are going to think I’m your…your…” I couldn’t say it. It sounded wrong and filthy, even in my head.

  “Fuck buddy?” he provided with an easy smirk, probably enjoying watching me change colors in my seat like a billboard sign.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”

  “You’re welcome. Your shares will skyrocket after our six months are up. Now, let’s dance.”

  I looked around us, feeling my forehead dampening, my heart rate accelerating. I didn’t want to get up and show him what a horrific dancer I was. Hunter stretched his open palm in my direction, leaving me no choice but to accept it.

  And still, I didn’t.

  “Am I going to stand here waiting for long? Asking for a friend called my ego,” he noted.

  I felt my throat bobbing, but couldn’t swallow my anxiety.

  Saggy Sailor paired with Boston’s most eligible billionaire.

  Most days, I could pretend we were just two randoms sharing a space. Now that it was clear we’d arrived together, I felt everybody ogling me, trying to find out what Hunter saw in me.

  Nothing, I wanted to scream at them. He sees nothing, because there is nothing. His father is twisting his arm.

  “Sailor?” Hunter frowned, obviously no longer amused by my stalling.

  I mumbled something underneath my breath.

  “Come again?” he asked.

  I repeated myself, this time a breath louder.

  “Can’t hear you.”

  “I can’t dance!” I threw my arms in the air, frustrated. I blushed so hard my scalp burned. The live band swallowed my yelp, but I still wanted to die. “I don’t go to parties. I don’t mingle. I don’t dance. I don’t know how to…how to…”

  “Be a normal human?” Hunter asked unhelpfully.

  I shot him a dirty look. He laughed, taking both my hands and yanking me up. I practically dragged my heels as he pulled me to the dance floor by force.

  My level of mortification seemed foreign, yet somehow familiar. I hated myself for never attending any parties, for not being prepared for this, even though I was only partly to blame. Not many people wanted to hang out with the shy, awkward daughter of the guy who allegedly did the dirty work of Boston’s elite. At the rare times I was invited to parties after the Saggy Sailor ordeal, I always passed. It was guys like Hunter who scared me the most—the beautiful, popular, athletically accomplished creatures who looked down on me. I knew they were waiting for the slightest sign of weakness to leap and tear me to shreds.

  The minute we got to the dance floor, I turned around and made a run for the entrance—literally dashed for the door. Not my most mature moment, granted, but escaping the situation trumped all else. Before I could build momentum, Hunter scooped me by my waist, like I was a toddler, and placed me right in front of him.

  “Sailor,” he said gravely, but there was a hint of humor there, too.

  “Let me go! I don’t want to dance. It wasn’t a part of our agreement.”

  My vision blurred at the edges, and I realized I was in a real state of panic. I’d just ruined my entire badass façade with his trashed room, my archery…everything. Where were Belle and Persy? What was happening? Why couldn’t I stop shaking?

  A quick glance around confirmed my worst fear. Most people who sat at their tables or swayed on the dance floor were glancing at us curio
usly, whispering to each other about the unfolding drama I’d created. I was becoming the main attraction.

  “Sailor,” Hunter repeated, poised, his hand circled around my arm. I was tiny and gaunt against his tall, muscular frame. Insignificant in every sense of the word.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Sailor.”

  “What, for the love of everything holy?” I pressed my fists to my eye sockets. I was never going to be able to look him again. And he was definitely not going to cash in on that kiss.

  “Listen. It’s a slow song.” He hooked his fingers at the nape of my neck, pressing his thumbs just below my eyes, peeling my hands away. He held me like I was a porcelain doll. Fragile and beautiful and rare.

  “Take a deep breath, open your eyes, and look at me,” he purred, his tone steady, almost lulling.

  Somehow, I obliged. When my eyes fluttered open, I was momentarily taken aback by how sympathetic and sweet he looked, frowning down at me, his brilliant gray-blues studying me.

  “This part is crucial, so listen carefully: nobody knows how to dance unless it’s professionally. Nobody. But especially white people from Boston. We are notoriously bad at dancing. If there were Razzie Awards for dancing, my bathroom would be full of statues.”

  I bit my lip, stifling a giggle. “Nonsense. You go to lots of parties.”

  “Dancing is not my preferred cardio when I attend them, trust me.”

  I chuckled bitterly. I glanced around, or at least tried to, but he kept my head screwed in place, palming both my cheeks.

  “Now, I’m going to put my hands on your waist, and you are going to not freak out. Then you’re going to wrap your arms around my shoulders, and you are still not going to freak out. Then we are going to sway like drunk babies who just learned how to walk, and even then—you will not freak out. That’s all there is to dancing. Up to the challenge, CT?”

  I nodded, swallowing to keep my groggy throat wet. I looped my hands over his shoulders. His hands wrapped around my waist, and we started moving.

  I held him like he was made of glass.

  He held me like I was made of clouds.

  My heart rate subsided, and I inhaled, trying not to think about what an idiot I’d made of myself in the last ten minutes.

  Hunter must’ve known I was still gathering my wits, because he kept quiet. I peeked around and saw other couples dancing, getting back to their business. Gerald was seated at his table, oblivious to the mini drama, thank God. Belle was in the far corner of the room in the arms of a handsome stranger in a burgundy suit. Cillian was dancing with a tall brunette next to them, but was scowling directly at Emmabelle. She was laughing loudly, making conversation. I bet the cold fish didn’t like the commotion she brought with her one bit.

  Aisling and Persephone were still talking at our table.

  The tune drifted into my ears, and I recognized the song. It was an acoustic version of “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden.

  Hunter didn’t address my meltdown. I wondered how many people had seen me trying to escape his grasp, but didn’t ask.

  “So…ceann beag?” I tilted my head sideways.

  “It means little one in Gaelic.”

  “Cute.”

  “You mean condescending,” he countered. “It is.”

  “Do you speak Gaelic?” I knew it wasn’t the most useful of languages, but rich people knew a lot of things others didn’t. Polo, for instance. Or tying a bowtie with one hand. Even though I was Irish through and through, my Irishness was limited to burning instead of tanning, getting freckled whenever there was a hint of sun out, and obsessing over folklore.

  Hunter gave me half a nod. “Da’s fanatic about it. It was a bitch to learn.”

  “Do you realize the limitless opportunities in knowing this language?” I tried to regain some of my confidence, mustering a smile.

  “Not really,” he said dryly, his eyes darting to my lips. “Enlighten me.”

  “You can call me anything you want, and I won’t know the meaning of it,” I all but exclaimed. “Carrot Top is nothing. Think outside the box, pretty boy. Let your imagination roam free.”

  “So you admit that I’m handsome.”

  “I don’t think anyone on this continent can dispute that,” I grumbled.

  “Pretty sure I’m hot shit in Australia, too.”

  I laughed. He wasn’t wrong. “No. You are virtually perfect, from the outside. But your inside makes you an endangered species. Totally murder-able.”

  He examined me quietly, shaking his head and grinning.

  “Aingeal dian,” he said. “Well, for the most part.”

  “Does that mean crazy bitch?” I screwed my nose, realizing too late that I was trying to be adorable, and wondering what the hell had come over me. I never tried to be endearing, especially where guys were concerned. I always tried to make sure I came off like I couldn’t care less about them.

  “If only,” he answered, still staring at my lips.

  “What, then?” I filled the space between us with words so he wouldn’t get any ideas. We couldn’t be seen kissing. In fact, I had to show his father we were friendly, but not overtly so.

  He frowned. “No. Your ass is gonna Google Translate it.”

  “You’re impossible.” I fought a smile, biting down on my lip.

  “Impossible? No. Extremely hard? Always.” He narrowed his eyes, but took half a step back so I couldn’t tell if he was speaking the truth.

  I quieted, thinking about how he’d been awesome during my public meltdown. If only he wasn’t a sex-crazed, billionaire brat, we wouldn’t want to kill each other.

  “Why did they kick you out of that British school?” I whispered.

  I wondered what it felt like to be him, to barely know the city you lived in, yet know everybody in Boston knew your business.

  “Sex tape.”

  “That young?” I nearly shrieked. I knew he’d starred in one a second ago. I wanted to barf every time I thought about it. I’d promised him I wouldn’t Google him, though, and I hadn’t.

  “Kidding. I got expelled for blowing up a tree with gunpowder, believe it or not.”

  “I choose not,” I said, stifling another laugh. Somehow I couldn’t imagine the hedonistic devil in front of me doing something so wildly creative.

  “You’d be right, too. It was my friend, Percy, who did it. He was named after the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, who actually did get kicked out of school for that reason. He lost a bet. But when it came down to owning up to it, I knew Percy was going to get royally screwed if he got the boot. That boarding school was the only thing his rich grandparents had agreed to pay for. His dad lost their family money gambling.”

  Hunter took my hand, laced his fingers through mine, and gave me a little twirl. My body swooshed along with the movement instinctively. I watched the room spin under Hunter’s arm and felt the skirts of my dress rustling against the floor. He lowered my upper body like in the movies, and it occurred to me that people were watching us again, but for the life of me, I couldn’t give a damn.

  “You got kicked out for a friend?” My eyes flared. “Why?”

  When my back was level with the floor, he held me there for half a second, his face close to mine. “You know why. You’re just as loyal.”

  He whisked me back up, and we began to sway again. I clung to him more tightly than before. He felt like iron and steel beneath my fingertips. I wanted to escape his touch and lean closer to his chest at the same time.

  “Why did you never tell you father?”

  “Because he wouldn’t have believed me. And if he had, it’d serve as more proof to him that I am stupider than a can of sweet corn.”

  Hunter’s lips brushed against my ear, the tip of his elegant nose in my hair. My heart was in my throat. I wanted to march over to Gerald Fitzpatrick and flip his full plate all down his suit for making his son believe he was anything short of wonderful.

  “Sailor?” Hunter asked.

>   “Yeah?” I cleared my throat.

  “Guess what?” He breathed in my face. If only he didn’t smell as he had—of cinnamon and male and my full-blown demise. “You’re dancing.”

  Mood song: “Under the Pressure” by The War on Drugs.

  Did I come from watching Da watching me spinning Sailor on the dance floor, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, nuzzling her hairline?

  No, I did not.

  Was I close to coming, though?

  …ain’t gonna lie, my balls did tingle.

  She was surprisingly compliant for a girl who possessed the etiquette and cordiality of a rabid capybara (basically a giant rat—look it up. Real nasty pet choice).

  Maybe she exhausted herself mid-meltdown. Like when toddlers fall asleep in the height of their tantrum. Fuck knows she looked like she was about to off herself when I tried to drag her to the dance floor.

  But it wasn’t like I had many options to choose from in the camaraderie department.

  Da and Cillian ignored my existence, Mom was a shitty conversationalist, and Aisling screwed off with her new friends to form a fucking girl band or whatever. Chasing tail was not in the cards for me. I had zero friends here. Hitting up Vaughn and Knight on the phone several times a day wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

  I wanted to show Da I was playing nice with the guard dog he’d appointed for me. The fact it looked like I was going to plow into her later that evening sweetened the deal, especially because he could never ask her if we fucked.

  See, Da? Not as brainless as you think.

  When the fundraiser ended, and Sailor kissed and hugged her friends goodbye (why did chicks do that? They were going to see each other the next goddamn day, in all probability), I shoved her into the limo and spent the time scrolling through pictures of hot girls I’d fucked. I needed to clear my head. Also, to empty my dick. Our little dance had given me an unexpected hard-on. True, she wasn’t Candice Swanepoel, but damn, did she rock that dress like nobody’s business.

  Sailor was sitting on the end of the crème leather seat, as far away from me as humanly possible, watching the city lights flickering to their slow, midnight death. People scurried into their homes like mice.