The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  The first few days, I’d been adamant that Sailor could do whatever the fuck she wanted with her time. As long as the weekly snitch-a-thon established I was as clean as a whistle, I didn’t have to make her a friend. Never mind that I was lonelier than a functioning brain cell in Brody Jenner’s head. Obviously, I had my pride (okay, I called Vaughn and Knight so often they legit changed their numbers, but that was purely in the name of comedy).

  Today, the fifth day of our cold-war bullshit, I got home at nine, strolled into the hallway, too tired to check what Sailor had ordered for us, and headed straight to bed.

  “Ohhh,” I heard a soft moan from the door leading to the main bathroom. My dick stood up alertly.

  Hold the goddamn press.

  “Hmm,” Sailor’s little voice sighed once again.

  Even though a small part of me said I was being a grade-A creeper, a bigger part told the small part to STFU, duct taping its mouth and throwing it into some strange dude’s trunk. The devil on my shoulder chided me to take a peek through the door crack. In my defense, it was ajar. She knew what time I was coming home and was perfectly capable of locking the bathroom door, as she’d done dozens of times a day.

  “Ahhh,” came her voice again, and my dick roared with blood, so hard I could feel the friction from my briefs against the ridge. I wanted to rub myself against myself. That was a level of horny even I wasn’t accustomed to.

  Sailor was masturbating, and suddenly, the day—despite containing ten hours of work, bickering with Da and Cillian, following Syllie secretly like some strung-out puppy, and going to evening classes—looked a lot better.

  Taking a step forward, I glanced through the sliver of space between the door and its frame. Sailor sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi, butt naked, staring at the water inside through squinted eyes. Weird orgasm face, but I wasn’t judging.

  She lurched forward, her body folding in two.

  I realized she wasn’t pleasuring herself, much to my dismay. She was wincing and massaging her right shoulder, which was swollen. And by swollen, I meant her deltoid was the size of a tennis ball.

  Sailor tried to swing her legs into the Jacuzzi, still clutching her right shoulder, but ended up falling flat on her ass on the marble floor. The sound of her tailbone against the surface reverberated in the room. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking silently with pain. I was about to take a step back and let her have her moment—Sailor would kill me if I burst in to save the day—when I noticed silent tears running down her cheeks.

  Turn around and walk away. Not your problem, said the devil on my shoulder, same asshole that had wanted me to rub one out in the hallway to the sight of her masturbating.

  The angel somehow managed to pull the duct tape from his mouth and said, You can’t be that much of a dick. Besides, it’s Sailor.

  He was right. It was Sailor, and in my world, Sailor deserved better.

  Annoyed, I shoved the door open, tromping in.

  “Hunter! Jesus! What are you doing?” She went from sad to outraged in a second, trying to cover her tits with her arms, but she had zero movement in her right shoulder. I hooked my hands under her armpits from behind and brought her back to a sitting position on the edge of the Jacuzzi, ripping a bathrobe from its hook and wrapping it around her shoulders. Her hands still lay protectively over her chest, and her teeth were chattering. I didn’t know how to break it to her politely that I’d already seen her tits (and they were way nicer than I’d imagined, and of course I imagined them on the reg).

  Also, if I were to defend my virtue in her position, I’d probably start by crossing my legs, because she had a nice, delicate fluff of red hair nestled between her thighs that I couldn’t unsee. It wasn’t a raging, curly bush that screamed neglect and lice. Just a few, soft hairs I wanted to brush away softly as I ate her pussy like In-N-Out after a night of partying.

  Redirect that thought, asswipe.

  “Just got home. What happened to your shoulder?” I squatted down, feeling the strain of my pants’ fabric against my knees and dick. At this moment I missed living in Thom Browne sweatpants.

  “You had no right to burst in here!” Her eyes flared wildly. She clutched the edges of the robe, trying to cover more of herself. I helped her by wrapping it around her and taking a step back, looking sideways at some decorative wooden log sitting on the edge of the champagne-hued Jacuzzi.

  “Wasn’t planning on it. Then I heard you moaning in pain when I went to look.”

  “You shouldn’t have looked!” she shrieked.

  “The door was goddamn open, aingeal dian,” I snapped, turning my gaze back to her.

  We stared at each other, panting. I didn’t know why I called her what I did, but it made me want to punch everything in the room, starting with my own face. I realized, as I stared at her really annoying face (which never failed to get my ass into trouble), that I’d missed being in the same room with her.

  “You were crying. And, no offense, but that buff linebacker’s shoulder doesn’t fit the rest of your body. We’re taking you to urgent care.” I made a move toward her, and she raised her leg jerkily, kicking me in the boys. I groaned, folded in two, and held my nuts, nearly foaming at the mouth with pain.

  “What the fuck!” I yelled.

  “Shit.” She gasped, raising her hands in apology. “I didn’t mean to. I thought you’d take a step back if I kicked the air.”

  “That wasn’t air!”

  “Sorry. I miscalculated.”

  “Aiming is literally all you need to be good at. You’re a fucking Olympic archer!”

  “Technically not yet, and you have a lot of balls.”

  “Well, you have not-much tits.”

  “My breasts are fine.”

  “I don’t believe you. Let me have a taste.”

  I looked up from my offended nuts, noticing that she was full-blown smiling, and that I was full-blown fucked.

  How did I not realize Sailor Brennan had the most amazing goddamn smile in the entire goddamn world? She radiated. Her face glowed like candlelight, her eyes gleamed, and that mouth…her lips weren’t thin or boring at all. They were full and pink and had a dusting of orange freckles that I wanted to devour. Violently.

  Dusting of orange freckles. Listen to yourself, fucker. I was cheesing so hard all I needed was wine and some crackers to create the perfect picnic scenario.

  The trouble with Sailor was she had the one thing I wanted—and not an ass that had seen a surgeon and a hundred squats a day, in case you were wondering. But talent, real and raw and tended to. Her excellence burst from her fingertips. She was sharp, laser-focused, fully bloomed. Unstoppable.

  Or was she…

  Sailor’s situation suddenly came into sharp relief.

  Advils every morning.

  Missing gym time.

  Developing a Vin Diesel shoulder overnight.

  Yeah, bitch wasn’t going to get out of this one.

  “Oh…uh, what’s up, Hunt? I’m sorry I kicked you in the nuts, but to be fair, you walked in on me completely naked. I swear I don’t need urgent care. I—”

  Without a word, I tackled her, hoisted her up on my shoulder, and wrapped my arm around her lower ass, carrying her out of the bathroom. She sucked in a breath, too sore to claw at my back in protest. I was surprised to find her skin silky everywhere. The backs of her thighs were like pressed velvet, so soft I wanted to sink my teeth into her calf and nibble my way up to her pussy. She objected the entire time I marched to her room and placed her on her bed. Next thing I did was open her closet and rip out an Anti Social Social Club hoodie and a pair of baggy pants. I turned around and started dressing her.

  “What are you doing?” She wheezed when I put her leg through her pants. She was kicking the air again, frantic.

  “You’re going to urgent care,” I clipped.

  “I’m fine. It’s just a little swollen.”

  She tried to worm out of her pants. I couldn’t believe I was now actively keeping a gi
rl in her clothes. This was hell. I was sure of it.

  “Sorry, doll.” I tsked, finishing with the pants and moving on to putting a hoodie on those surprisingly terrific titties. “Either you need something for that shoulder or you’re going to turn into a mutant monster. I’ve watched enough horror flicks to know you’d turn at the stroke of midnight, and I don’t want to be here in the morning when you make me your breakfast. Although, let it be known, I’d be happy to eat you out whenever you please.”

  She yelped in agony. She couldn’t even laugh she was in so much pain. Jesus.

  I found her car keys, shoved her into the passenger seat, and buckled her up like she was a kid. The entire time, Sailor threatened to kill me in numerous ways, some of them very creative and extremely painful. I answered calmly with all the ways I’d wanted to kill her when we first moved in together, including the sunset-in-the-Bahamas stabbing and hurling her from the Eiffel Tower. It was beyond me how someone would be so obsessed with something—getting to the Olympics, in her case—that they’d put their health at risk.

  After we were done fantasizing about killing each other, she refused to shut up about how this could set her back with her training. Turning on the radio didn’t work, so I decided to change the topic.

  “You know at first, I looked through the door because I thought you were flicking the bean.”

  She shot me a look in my periphery, her eyes full of fire and wrath.

  “You can tell a lot about a person by their masturbation choice.” I shrugged, driving the empty streets of Boston. They were becoming familiar. “Rubbing one off in the ho-boiler bodes well for your conservative personality, you know? You seemed like the type to do it with a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries by your side, reading a nice Danielle Steel hardcover.”

  “I don’t masturbate,” she said, staring me down defiantly, daring me to challenge that.

  I believed her. She seemed like the type of chick to be too busy to explore sex, for all its wonders.

  I rubbed my stubbled jaw. “Because you don’t know how, or because you don’t care about getting off?”

  “Both,” she surprised me by admitting.

  “I can help with the former.” I cleared my throat.

  “So nice of you to offer.”

  “That wasn’t a no,” I pointed out.

  “It wasn’t a yes, either. I’m just trying to take my mind off the fact that I’m about to get a lecture about not treating this inflammation earlier. I hope the steroid shot will help. I have an early practice tomorrow.”

  Bitch was still planning to train in a few hours. Unbelievable.

  “It’s just fucking archery,” I hissed. “You shoot nothing. It’s not even a real Olympic sport. It’s the shit people watch to fall asleep. Perspective.”

  “I’m truly sorry you’ve never found something you care about, Hunter, but you don’t get to judge me.”

  “I just did.”

  “Shut up.” She scowled.

  “Make me.”

  “How?”

  I wiggled my brows, and she dropped her head to the headrest behind her. “Ugh. Your mind is dirtier than a junkyard.”

  I kept my mouth shut the entire time we were in urgent care. Sailor got a steroid shot, painkillers, and had her shoulder scanned and checked. The stern doctor who saw us told her she needed to start physical therapy, real physical therapy, once the swelling was under control. He gave her at least two weeks off training. She duly agreed and acted like the goody two-shoes I’d thought she was before we moved in together.

  But as we walked back to the car, she said, “Can you believe it? He actually thought I could take two weeks off.”

  “Because you are,” I replied, not missing a beat.

  Why did I care? Why? Why? Why?

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I should be the one sending your parents a weekly report,” I muttered.

  She laughed, and then clutched her shoulder.

  Seeing her like that made me violent.

  At home, I put her to bed and watched as she crashed. The painkiller whooped her ass good. She was down in two seconds.

  Her last words were, “Hunt, it’s kind of creepy that you’re staring at me like this.”

  I high-key agreed, but I couldn’t help it. She called me Hunt and told my da I was awesome and always knew what I felt like eating when she ordered DoorDash, even if we hadn’t spoken all day.

  She had so much passion, and I had none. Yet I jerked off three times a day, and she didn’t even need to get dicked regularly.

  Sailor Brennan confused me.

  I fell asleep on her carpeted bedroom floor, like a goddamn tweaker.

  The next morning, Sailor came out of her room wearing her rags training clothes. I was standing behind the kitchen island, sipping a cup of coffee in designer track pants and a hoodie.

  I dragged a steaming cup of coffee her way as a pre-peace offering, before I unleashed hell on her. Sailor smiled gratefully, taking a sip and hoisting her archery equipment over her injured, slightly-less-swollen shoulder. Total demon. If I were a king going to war, I’d want her to lead my army. Bitch would destroy anything in her path to get what she wanted.

  “Thanks again for yesterday. I owe you a huge one. And I’m going to start by telling your dad I think he should loosen the leash on you. You really are pretty rad.”

  Her green eyes widened when she talked, like a kid telling a story.

  “Take a mental picture of this moment, aingeal dian, because it’s about to take a sharp turn for the worse.” I grabbed my phone from the marble counter and tossed it into her hands. I jerked my chin toward it.

  “It’s unlocked. Check my call log.”

  Sailor hit the green button and looked at my last call.

  “That’s Junsu’s number.” Her eyes flared. Her entire face twisted. First in confusion, followed closely by shock, realization, and finally, rage.

  “I called to let him know what was up with your shoulder. Texted him a picture of the doctor’s orders. You’re out two weeks. Sorry, baby girl.”

  There was silence.

  A disproportionally good amount of it.

  The uncomfortable, I’m-about-to-fuck-you-up kind of silence.

  If I had the privilege of famous last words, they’d be, Sailor’s tits are a ten. I know they don’t look it in oversized hoodies and DriFit shirts, but it’s true.

  Just then, the woman from the morning show on the flat TV screen behind us blurted from the living room, “And now I have a special guest. With us today is the gorgeous, talented, young—did I mention gorgeous? Ha-ha-ha—archer, Lana Alder!”

  The camera zoomed out, and I saw that the woman, who sported more plastic than The Container Store, was sitting in front of a chick who looked to be my age, maybe slightly older, and wore a green mini dress. Real talk? She was bangin’. Think Margot Robbie with a mean-ass rack and legs to rival Sofia Vergara’s.

  The two started chatting about Lana’s upcoming movie, which honestly sounded like a hot mess, and exciting love life, which—also honestly—sounded anything but exciting. They were five minutes in before there was any mention of archery. Sailor was so mesmerized by the TV, she seemed to forget she was about to gut me with one of her arrows.

  The host said, “I hear that, other than the two veteran women archers representing the US, Joanna Dingham and Mary Turner, it’s a tight competition between you and Boston-based Sailor Brennan. That means you might represent us in the Olympics in Tallinn next year—as well as being an accomplished actress and model, and owning your own online clothing store!”

  The hostess’ cloying sweetness gave me sugar poisoning. I wondered if she puked rainbows. Also, this Lana chick had more business ventures than Richard Branson. No wonder Sailor was bitter about her.

  Lana giggled in a voice high enough to break a window, showing a mouth full of capped teeth. “Oh, I promise you, I will be there next year. Unfortunately, Miss Brennan lacks the focus and ch
arisma to rise to this occasion, at least in my humble opinion. I’m going to make the US proud, and I’m going to do it wearing my new line of jumpsuits, so look out for it!”

  I took the remote and turned the TV off. Without warning, Sailor picked up her shit and darted to the door. I was faster. I pounced, blocking her way out with my body.

  “Two weeks,” I repeated. “Get your ass back in bed. Pronto.”

  Rather than answering me with actual words, Sailor took a step back, grabbed her bow, and plucked out an arrow, her face void of emotion. She was vivid, loose-limbed. Also, completely deranged. But I saw the huntress within her.

  She was a daring little thing, and that made me want to fuck her even more.

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” I said dryly. I was bailing on work for her, and if she was going to shoot me—literally goddamn shoot me—we were going to have a problem.

  She raised the bow, using her injured side, and drew the arrow in a perfectly smooth motion, squeezing one eye shut as she zeroed in on me. The string pressed against her mouth.

  “Sailor.”

  “Three seconds to move from the door, Hunter. Three.”

  “Sorry, aingeal dian, but I think you just met the one motherfucker who is dumb enough not to be scared of you or your family.”

  “Two.”

  “Meh. You don’t have it in you.” But was I convincing her or myself?

  “One.”

  She released the arrow.

  I repeat: Bitch. Released. The. Arrow.

  I watched, paralyzed from the neck down, as it spun toward me. I could swear it was going to nail my throat to the door. It missed by an inch, spearing the door right above my shoulder. Swallowing, I glanced to my left, realizing the arrow had caught some of my hoodie’s fabric and was physically nailing me to the door.

  She drew another arrow, nonchalant as all fucks.

  “You missed.” I narrowed my eyes, staring her dead in the eye.

  “Fool.” She smiled back. “I never miss.”

  “I’d rather be the one nailing you against the door.” I flashed her a Joker-style psychotic smirk, my rage toward my pint-sized, stubborn roommate spiraling into a pool of more unidentified feelings.