The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

“It’s a surprise.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  “Shocker. Close your eyes until we get there.” He backed out of the parking spot at thirty miles per hour, gunning out of the lot like a demon. In the rearview mirror, I saw Junsu standing on the stairs to the club, brows furrowed, hands on his hips.

  Not happy.

  “I can’t,” I heard my voice through the pounding panic in my head. Technically, Junsu couldn’t tell me what to do. He couldn’t tell me who to date. Lana Alder dated all the time. She’d even had a high-profile affair with that actor who played the new Spiderman. “I’ll get nauseous.”

  “Damn, Sailor. Way to crap on carpe diem.” Hunter reached over to pat my thigh, and I inwardly winced.

  I was wearing yoga pants and a bland DriFit shirt and looked like Ed Sheeran in tights. He, on the other hand, looked like he was attending the Oscars. Hunter headed toward the highway at a speed more fitting for a plane taking off.

  “So how come the daughter of the infamous Troy Brennan is such a dork?” he asked conversationally.

  “First of all, my father is a reputable businessman unless proven otherwise.” I repeated the words Dad had told me to say ever since I was old enough to talk. People felt the urge to poke and prod about the patriarch of my family like it was a national sport.

  Hunter snorted, keeping his eyes on the road. “And second of all?”

  “We’re not our parents. Case in point, your father runs one of the largest corporations in America, and you, in contrast, are an amateur porn star.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve seen me in action?” A grin curved over his face.

  “Nope. You asked me not to Google you, remember?”

  “Before I realized you could handle me. Shame. New customers get the first ride free.”

  “I’ll pass. I hear the movie is better.”

  He howled with laughter, his voice sexy and gruff. Determined to ignore the butterflies swarming in my chest, I stared out the window, munching on the skin around my thumbnail.

  “For your information, Alice, the chick you caught me checking out on Saturday, is just a friend.”

  “Does that mean you haven’t slept with her?” My eyes were still trained on the darkness outside, but hope flared in my stomach. We were driving outside of Boston, up north.

  “Nah, I’ve slept with her plenty, but she’s a total herb. Plus, she doesn’t use my balls as Baoding balls like you do. With you, I’m outmatched, outwitted, and outrageously irritated.”

  “So what are you saying? That I’m too smart and mouthy to be your friend?”

  “You’re too everything. I’m happy to pop your cherry, but let me give you a piece of advice—you need to tone the intensity down. I think the only thing I can beat you at is polo.”

  “And a fistfight,” I mused, not correcting his assumption that I was a virgin.

  You shouldn’t care, and he should never find out.

  “Debatable.” He side-eyed me.

  “Anyway, I know how to horseback ride.” I pressed my furnace-hot cheek against the cool window. Whenever I was around Hunter, I felt like my IQ dropped forty points. Nature was a jackass like that. My brain told me to stay the hell away, but my body begged to reproduce with this beautifully destructive male specimen.

  “Polo takes more than being an accomplished equestrian.”

  “I can take down a galloping horse blindfolded with one arrow,” I reminded him. “So technically, I can still beat you at polo.”

  He laughed again, shaking his head.

  “Never met a girl who can be so ice cold and fire hot at the same time. One second I think you’re for sure gonna faint if I touch your hand, the other I’m certain you’re about to kill me in my sleep. You’re a trip, CT.”

  Hunter parked my car on a graveled road outside an old tavern in the middle of nowhere. The Tudor-style pub’s chimney produced a white trail of smoke, spiraling up to a cloudless, starless sky. There was the faint noise of crickets, the highway beyond the trees, and maybe an owl.

  “How do you know about this place? I’ve lived here my entire life and never heard of it. You barely even know Boston.” I unfastened my seatbelt. As I said it, I realized the implication of this truth. Hunter had grown up away from his family, in a foreign land, with strangers.

  Yesterday, Aisling had told us she got to spend her childhood in Boston entirely by chance. An all-girl boarding school opened in our area before she hit first grade. It helped that her parents went easier on her academically, since she was a girl, and Gerald never put pressure on her to join the family business. But Cillian and Hunter were both sent abroad promptly after their sixth birthday, and while Cillian completed his high school education in New England, Hunter was sent all the way to California so his parents didn’t have to deal with him.

  Hunter slid out of the car. “I was on the road with my nanny coming back from a polo match this one time when I was a kid. Our car broke down, and it was pissing rain, so we went in and she let me have French fries, a greasy burger, and a milkshake. It was the first time I had French fries. Up until then, it was only the organic bullshit the personal chef made. Da happened to be in the area, so he picked us up himself. It was the first time he ever did that—like, spent time with me in the middle of the day and shit.”

  He frowned, like he’d just realized why this place was special for him.

  For all his formidable reputation, my father had rarely missed any of my tough tumbler classes. He let me have whatever treats I wanted, and had a second gig as my personal chauffeur until I got my license. We spent Saturdays going to Sam’s MMA tournaments, and both my parents were constant fixtures in our lives.

  “Anyway, every time I visit my parents, I come here. Sometimes I take Aisling. I don’t really have a crew here, so when she can’t make it, I come alone.”

  He pushed the old wooden door open. We ambled into an orange-lit, loud pub with three long rows of hand-carved wooden tables and matching benches. It looked like an inn straight out of a Game of Thrones episode, complete with loud Gaelic music and workmen gulping ale from pints. The scent of smoked meat, warm beer, and sweat curled into my nostrils.

  I felt my body stiffening. I hated loud, crowded places.

  Especially loud, crowded places jam-packed with strange men.

  Especially seeing as I was here with soft-palmed Hunter, who was about as protective as a piece of used gum.

  Every bone in my body screamed at me to turn around and do a U-turn. I wasn’t a scaredy cat, but I was the only woman in this place, and I knew I’d invite some commentary with my boyish attire and wild hair. Hunter nudged me forward, asking the waiter who came to meet us at the door where we could sit.

  “Just wherever, man. Place’s packed.” A pimply teenager with two trays full of mushy peas, mashed potatoes, and roasts floated around the room, yelling the order numbers that came out of the kitchen through the chatter, laughter, and music.

  We sat down, sandwiched between two old men who talked over their beers and a pack of construction workers, their faces and clothes covered in dust. The two who sat by Hunter and me looked young and had a Southern twang. A pile of foamed, empty glasses of beer sat between them as a barrier. They were obviously intoxicated, based on their slurring and slow conversation.

  I fidgeted with my fingers under the table. Hunter ordered both of us root beer, earning an approving smile from me. He proceeded to frown at the menu, fingering the wooden horse peeking through his dress shirt. Rolling my thumb over the edge of the menu, I watched the little horse pressed against the blanket of his fair chest hair, and idly wondered where my brain was, because I definitely didn’t bring it with me to this pub. I finally understood the phrase stupid hot.

  Hunter’s hotness made me stupid.

  “What’s up with the horse?” I cleared my throat, frowning at my menu before he could catch me ogling him.

  Hunter withdrew his hand from it, realizing what he was doing.

  “Oh
, this old shit?” He chuckled, snatching the root beer the waiter gave us and taking a drink to buy time. “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me how you got it anyway.” I linked my fingers together, placing my chin over my knuckles. The guy next to me burped loudly, a warm gust of meat-breath fanning the side of my face.

  I breathed through my mouth, trying not to gag.

  “When I was a kid, whenever I was home from boarding school, my parents used to throw a nanny or two on my ass so they wouldn’t have to spend time with me. On my sixth…no, eighth nanny, Da decided I needed to learn how to play polo. I was being kind of a prick about it. That summer, Nanny Number Eight—shit if I remember her name, but she was Swedish—had to physically wrestle me into the car before practice every day. I hated horses with a passion. What’s to like about the fuckers? They smell, they sleep while standing, and have no gag reflex—which, if I may say, makes them rad fuck buddies, but horrible dining mates. But I digress. So I guess my Swedish nanny was starting to get a little worried for her job because I was displaying resistance—also known as being a goddamn kid. One day she gave me this Dala horse as a gift. Told me the Swedish believe it brings good luck, and I’d never fall from a horse if I wore it. Mind you, I believed in Santa until I was, like, thirteen, so of course I bought it.”

  “And did you? Fall from a horse, I mean?”

  He looked up from the menu, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Nope. Zero scratches. No car accidents, either.”

  “You remember.” I stared at him pointedly. I knew the truth of my statement. It burned in my bones.

  “Remember what?” His face was carefully blank.

  “The name of that Swedish nanny.”

  He remembered it because he cared. But he didn’t want to care. Hunter wasn’t stupid at all. He just built walls upon walls around himself that made it difficult to get through to him, because in his experience, people weren’t there to stay.

  He flashed me a devilish grin. “Sorry, sweets, I don’t. What about you? How’d you get into archery, anyway? That shit’s deader than Henry the Sixth.”

  Hunter took another sip of his root beer, a dark mustache forming on his upper lip. He licked it clean, and I watched as his tongue slowly swept across his mouth. I felt my throat bob. It reminded me he never had cashed in our kiss.

  Maybe he forgot all about it after your meltdown at the fundraiser.

  “You’ll laugh,” I warned.

  “Naturally.”

  I looked down. “It’s a cliché, actually. Robin Hood. Specifically, when I was little, I loved the idea of being an outlaw who’s also good. Maybe because my dad…” I paused, swallowing the shame in my throat.

  “Is a respectable businessman unless proven otherwise?” Hunter quirked an eyebrow.

  I laughed, feeling myself blush. “Exactly. The rumors about him chased me. His alleged sins were mine, too. I’m sure you know what it’s like to be defined by other family members.”

  Hunter nodded. “Straight up.”

  “I liked the narrative of Robin Hood, the romanticizing of a criminal. He seeks adventure, steals from the rich, and gives to the poor. Also, the fox in the Disney film was very orange, like my hair,” I admitted, warranting more of Hunter’s addictive laughter.

  It somehow drowned out all the other noise, even from the guy next to me, who was now chain-cursing at his friend. He spoke animatedly, with his hands, and sometimes elbowed me when he tried to demonstrate something.

  “Besides, I always wanted to know how to use a weapon. Guns are cold, metallic, impersonal; archery requires patience, precision, and passion,” I concluded. “Once I got into it, it became an addiction. It was a safe haven from the chatter about my family, about me. I guess by now you can tell I don’t have a ton of friends, so this helped burn time after school.”

  It was unlike me to open up to someone, especially a stranger, and a beautiful, male one at that. I sounded like a reject, but if Hunter felt I was oversharing or pitied me, his face didn’t betray it.

  He nodded, seeming to consider my words. “I’m glad you found your calling.”

  “I’m sorry you haven’t.” I put my hands on the table between us, expecting…what? That Hunter would gather them in his?

  He didn’t, of course.

  The waiter materialized behind my back to take our orders. I swiveled awkwardly, realizing for the first time that I hadn’t even looked at the menu yet.

  I was about to ask for a few more minutes when Hunter boomed behind me, “We’ll both take the pot roast with gravy, onions, and roasted potatoes, with a side of stuffed portabellas. Also, I’ll tip you twenty bucks for every time you bring a shot of Baileys to the lady when she blushes. Can you do that for us, old sport?”

  The pimply waiter didn’t even bother carding us. He flashed his yellow teeth in a grin, nodded, collected our menus, and dashed to the window separating the bar from the kitchen with our order.

  I turned to Hunter. He wore the lopsided grin of a misunderstood villain.

  “You’re not driving, and seeing as I’m fully sober and celibate, I figured I’ll even the score.”

  “In reverse,” I noted.

  “It is my favorite position.” He opened his arms exaggeratedly, not caring if he bumped into other people’s shoulders in the process.

  That made me blush, and he laughed, muttering, “Easy prey.”

  Luckily, the waiter had his back to us, because it hadn’t even been three seconds since he left. I was going to be so screwed by the end of the evening. Also, so drunk.

  “So… You said you don’t know what to do with your life.” I redirected him back to our conversation.

  The man who sat beside me scoffed, turning his body toward me, but I didn’t swivel to meet his gaze. It was probably just in my head, anyway. I was minding my own business. Why would he look at me strangely?

  “I’m brick dumb, yo. Of course I’ve no clue what I want to do with myself. I’m only good at partying, fucking, and drinking semi-responsibly. Not many people pretend to think otherwise. In fact, I’ve been told very few times that I have potential, and each time I was, I hated it. Potential is like a twelve-inch dick on an impotent: dazzlingly useless. ’Sides, I don’t need potential. I’ve known I was going to take over Royal Pipelines with Cillian since I was four.” Hunter knocked the rest of his root beer down, smacking the empty pint on the table.

  My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “Whoa. That’s young.”

  “My future was written for me long before I was born. Just as well, as I’d have probably been too lazy to write it myself.”

  “And if you could choose?” I pressed. “What would you want to do with your life if you weren’t a Fitzpatrick?”

  The man next to me was now laughing with his friend, slapping the wooden table. Utensils and glasses rattled, dancing against the wooden surface. Hunter seemed completely oblivious to him. He was confident and nonchalant. Things like that didn’t register for him.

  “I don’t know. I could be a DJ. Or maybe I could be a male prostitute. But only for hot chicks. And I would probably be too nice to charge them. Wait, there’s a name for that. Tinder.”

  Hunter laughed at his own words, but the light in his eyes switched off.

  I stayed silent for a few beats, considering the way he saw himself. Finally, I said, “I think you’re talented in a lot of ways. I think you’re funny and stupidly likeable and carry an energy inside you that’s explosive and enviable. You can make anyone feel comfortable around you, and that’s something they don’t teach you at college. You are charming, confident, and could talk your way out of a murder charge. You could probably be very helpful to your father’s company, but maybe not crunching numbers. What about public relations, or—”

  “Jesus Christ, man. Unzip his pants and suck him off, already,” the man beside me snapped.

  He blasted into frantic, slurred laughter, coiling his fist and offering it to Hunter for a pound. He was promptly lef
t hanging, as Hunter stared him down with an expression that suggested he was going to maim him with his empty pint glass. The man dropped his fist, raising both palms in surrender.

  “All I’m saying is you’re wasting your time with Wilma Flintstone over here. I died a little listening to her salivating all over your lap. Don’t you have a friend to save you from this date from hell? Did she scam you into thinking she’s hot on Bumble? What’s going on? Y’all don’t look like a natural fit.”

  The guy beside Hunter—Rude Guy’s companion—coughed out a potato chip, almost toppling backwards on the bench with laughter. A few people stopped what they were doing, quieted, and sent curious glances our way.

  The taunts hit me like hail. Hard and painful and cruel, like that boy on the balcony in the wintertime who didn’t want to go away.

  Like Hunter felt when I first saw him.

  I felt the heat of the humiliation on my cheeks, the sting of tears stabbing the back of my eyeballs. There were many things I wanted to say, scream, throw in the man’s face, but I couldn’t. I was too frozen to speak up.

  And Hunter…Hunter just stared at him.

  “Look, man, you’ve got the looks. You obviously make a fine buck with how you dress. You can do so much better than this ratty-looking thing,” the guy continued, throwing a thumb my way. “Just sayin’ what everyone in this room is thinking right now.” He grabbed his beer and finished his drink in one gulp, throwing the empty pint behind his shoulder comically, wiggling his brows. The pint smashed on the floor.

  Nobody laughed. Nobody spoke. Nobody breathed.

  Hunter’s left eye twitched—just the one tic. Other than that, he was very still.

  I wanted to die. To cry. To shoot a poisonous arrow through Rude Guy’s heart. To run away from here as far as my feet could carry me. Pack my things and leave Hunter’s apartment. I wanted to change my name and my hair color and my wardrobe. Start over somewhere new, where nobody knew me. This guy didn’t know me. That’s why he’d said it.

  He didn’t know who my father was.

  Who my brother was.

  He wasn’t scared of the aftermath.