The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  “You have the recipe, too.” I took the trash from her, disposing of it myself.

  “Then why is she winning?” she asked softly behind me. “Because right now, it looks like she does. What does she have that I don’t?”

  “Fame.” My back was still to her as I continued moving about.

  “And beauty,” she finished.

  I wanted to say that no, Lana Alder didn’t hold a candle to her mysterious, punch-to-the-balls beauty. That Sailor had discipline and passion and morals, and you couldn’t beat those with a toothy, white smile.

  I knew, because I was a Lana, and the dudes with the talent always left me eating dust when it came to the finish line.

  Look at my friend Vaughn, who got an internship in England.

  Or Knight, who was attending his college of choice and slaying the fuck out of life.

  I wanted to say reality catches up with the myth. Always.

  Instead, I walked back to her and kissed her temple. “Just fame,” I said.

  She nodded, seeming to understand all I wasn’t saying. Sailor reciprocated by pressing her hand over my heart, stopping me from moving away.

  “About Syllie,” she said. “What he said about you… I just want to share something my father once told me. He said if you love someone, and they love you, there’s no point taking offense in what they say or do to you, because they never mean you harm, anyway. And if you don’t love someone, if you don’t care about them, then there’s no point in taking offense in what they say or do to you, because you don’t care about them. Either way—”

  “You don’t get offended,” I finished. It was a fair point; even I had to agree.

  She smiled. “Yes. This Sylvester Lewis guy, you don’t care about him. Don’t make it personal, then. Just bring him down.”

  We shared an awkward hug, during which I wondered when my limbs had turned so goddamn clumsy, and then I retired to my bedroom before I did something stupid.

  I got an incoming text message before I’d even closed the door. Sailor?

  Maybe she changed her mind.

  Maybe it’s a booty call.

  That temple kiss was a killer.

  But no, it was Alice, my old flame. The chick my father may or may not have paid a fortune to keep her mouth shut. I never bothered to ask her if she jumped on the bandwagon, because the answer would hurt like a bitch. Still, I’d messed around with her not even weeks ago. What was fucking wrong with me?

  Everything, you moron. That’s why you have a babysitter.

  I opened the message. It was another thirst trap. This time a picture of her pink-lace-covered crotch with her hand shoved inside the panties. Real subtle. It was followed by an actual text.

  Alice: Skype? ☺

  I turned my phone to silent and crashed, dreaming of Sailor straddling my face and riding it.

  When I woke up, all I had were nocturnal emission, a killer headache, and a thirst for Syllie’s blood.

  Hunter used a GPS app to get to his parents’ gigantic mansion.

  He didn’t know the way by heart, something he admitted to me with a sullen frown that ripped through my chest like a bear’s claws. We had to be buzzed into the premises after waiting at the iron-wrought gate for fifteen minutes for a servant to open for us.

  “Sorry I don’t have a key,” he mumbled sourly. I nodded.

  “God. This place looks like the Castle of Otranto. You sure your grandfather’s ghost isn’t roaming around?”

  “If it is, I bet it’s taken up residence in the help quarter’s bathrooms. He was a notorious rake.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “I’d be hiding in the showers—not my parents’. But damn, it’d be a good time.”

  The trip up the drive went silently, me clad in a sensible, off-white dress—mainly to appease his parents—and Hunter with a sour frown. The gates rolled closed slowly behind us, almost tauntingly so.

  My parents were going to crap themselves when they saw me wearing something so feminine, but I knew Hunter was on edge about this visit and wanted things to go as smoothly as possible.

  Guilt also gnawed at my gut for shutting him down for the rest of the week leading to today. Part of it was about protecting myself from getting attached to him, and the other part was trying to extinguish public relations fires.

  The day after Hunter and I shared sushi and that temple kiss, Lana Alder had challenged me to discuss the feud between us during her appearance on Rise and Shine, America. I watched the video on YouTube on repeat while sitting on the toilet, long after I finished my morning pee. She’d grinned slyly as she turned to the camera.

  “I wish I could be as supportive to Sailor Brennan as I am toward my other Olympic sisters. Unfortunately, she did something unforgivable to me. I think it’s high time she addressed it publicly, seeing as she’s been relentlessly promoting herself in the media. People need to know the real Sailor Brennan, not the person she tries to appear to be.”

  Lana went on to suggest that someone with heavy pockets must be backing me, but she made it sound like whoever it was also rolled me between their sheets. I got a phone call from Crystal not an hour after the interview aired, her phlegmy smoker’s cough assaulting my ear.

  “You have to tell me what happened between you and Lana so I’ll know how to approach this.”

  “I can’t,” I croaked. I didn’t want to repeat it in anyone’s ears.

  “That bad?”

  I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see me. I squeezed my eyes shut. “It was an accident.”

  Hunter had tried to talk to me about it a few times, but confiding in him would have led to more questions, which equaled more intimacy, which resulted in total disaster.

  We finally reached his parents’ house, and our car slid around the circle drive. Hunter parked next to a handcrafted fountain: the silhouette of a maiden holding a bowl above her head, the water pouring from it around her like a waterfall. The fountain—as the rest of the estate—was lit in warm, champagne lights. I noticed my father’s Maserati already parked there, as well as Sam’s matte-finish Porsche 911 and a brand new black Aston Martin Valkyrie that admittedly looked like a squashed ladybug.

  Hunter rounded my car to open the door for me, oblivious to the stinking wealth he wasn’t a part of.

  Jane greeted us at the door, flinging herself into Hunter’s arms. She received a pat on the back. My parents and Sam were evidently somewhere in the castle, getting their tour from Aisling, Cillian, and Gerald. Everyone was dressed formally, and everyone eyed me like I was a ticking bomb about to detonate all over the vintage furniture.

  Which, just like the exterior of Avebury Court Manor, was noteworthy.

  Everything here was big and extravagant. The first floor stretched across what could easily be three football fields. The limestone beneath my feet was a dramatic shade of crème, with accents of gold, copper, and bronze. The central chandelier dripping from the high ceiling was made of dozens of vintage champagne bottles with little lights inside them, and the vases across the hallways were the size of a fully-grown person, crammed with fresh, oversized flowers.

  “Come, I’ll give you a tour. There’s a bowling alley, gym, two swimming pools, and a candy bar.” Jane tugged at my hand, barely containing her joy at having us around.

  A candy bar?

  Hunter must’ve seen the look on my face as his mother dragged me toward the other side of the floor, because his palm found my free hand and rubbed the inside of it. “You heard right.”

  “I thought my ears were failing me.”

  “Nope. Just your panties. Get rid of them.”

  We exchanged a private grin as Jane began to babble about the architecture of the castle.

  The tour took forty minutes, and we still couldn’t cover all the rooms on the first floor. By the time we were done, I wasn’t so heartbroken that Hunter hadn’t grown up here. This place wouldn’t feel like a home in a million years. For the entire tour, Jane tried to stri
ke up a conversation with her son. She was met with polite, dry responses. Hunter regarded her with distant civility. It reminded me of a potential buyer who was listening to a pitch from a realtor, rather than a conversation between a mother and her son.

  Finally, we returned to the dining room. My parents and Sam were there, back from their own tour from hell. I hugged them.

  Sam said, “Whoa, a dress.”

  I punched his arm. “Take a hike.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll get lost in this nightmare of a house.”

  Aisling, who stood next to Sam, let out a nervous laugh, blushing as she looked at him. He ignored her.

  “Again, I’m right fucking here.” Hunter narrowed his eyes at me.

  Sam’s gaze flicked to my roommate. “Is he treating you well, little sis?” he asked, not breaking his hold on Hunter’s gaze.

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s for me to take care of. Welcome to the twenty-first century, big bro.”

  “That wasn’t a yes,” Sam pointed out.

  “He is treating me fine,” I said.

  When we sat down, Mom squeezed my hand from across the table and winked.

  “You look good, my love.”

  “I feel good.” I smiled, reassuring her. I felt like crap, actually, except for my shoulder, which was better now. I was hysterical about the Lana business, and the proximity to Hunter didn’t help matters, either. I had the terrible sense of losing control, or maybe realizing I’d never had it in the first place.

  “Not too good, I hope.” Dad flashed Hunter a look full of menace, which Hunter met, unblinking.

  “Way too good, unfortunately for me,” Hunter muttered.

  “Aaaand it’s showtime.” Cillian plucked a glass of wine from a silver tray offered to him by a servant, sitting back indulgently.

  “Front-row seat,” Sam remarked next to Cillian, and the two clinked their glasses with condescending smirks.

  “Ceann beag, do you think you can manage one dinner without offending everyone at the table, including some of the dishes and decorations?” Gerald inquired coldly, taking a seat at the head of the table.

  He hadn’t bothered greeting me when we walked in, and he’d barely glanced at Hunter. In fact, the only time he did look at us was when Hunter was oblivious to him. Then he’d sneaked a peek. It was like he was having a one-sided power struggle with his own son. It made me want to hurl a fork in his direction.

  Hunter took a glass of wine from the tray, offering it to me, before plucking one for himself. He was walking on thin ice—stomping on it, more like—and I couldn’t blame him. The air was thick with aggression, and he needed to save face. “Do I think I can? Certainly. Do I want to? No, that would be boring. Care if I treat myself to a glass of wine?”

  “I do, actually. You are nineteen.” Gerald sniffed his wine, swirling it in its glass.

  “Yes, an age when it is legal to drink in every western country save the United States.”

  “Which is, unfortunately, where you are currently situated.” Cillian grinned at his younger brother.

  “Could’ve fooled me. This place feels a lot like hell,” Hunter mumbled.

  I jumped into the conversation headfirst, wanting to avert the looming family crisis.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick, I can assure you Hunter hasn’t had a lick of alcohol since we moved in together. He is the designated driver. I’m sure one glass of wine isn’t going to hinder his progress.”

  “Are you that lax on him with other rules, too?” Gerald frowned at me from across the table.

  I smiled, batting my eyelashes. Forget the fork, I’m throwing the steak knife at him, and I’m aiming for his heart.

  “I’ve never been accused of being lax before, sir.”

  “I’m sure you were not accused of anything, sweetheart,” Dad said through clenched teeth, staring Gerald down.

  Gerald raised his hands in the air, backing off. “Clearly. I was merely teasing.”

  “Tease someone your age.” Sam flashed a smile that didn’t match the danger lying behind it.

  We had some kind of raw fish as a starter, followed by bread, cheese, and various tapas dishes. Then came the main course: steak and whipped mashed potatoes with butter and chives, with shavings of a type of mushroom that cost hundreds by the ounce. Mom seemed to hit it off with Jane conversation-wise, I talked to Aisling, and Dad, Gerald, and Sam discussed business, which left Cillian and Hunter to try to form some kind of a tête-à-tête. I half-listened to them while discussing colleges with Aisling.

  “How is Syllie’s wife doing?” Hunter asked.

  I’d noticed that when provoked about his antics, Hunter never missed an opportunity to flip his family the finger, but when he was actually talking to them, he walked on eggshells.

  Cillian shrugged, cradling his wine glass and staring through his brother like he didn’t exist. “Unfortunately, I don’t keep tabs on women’s health unless they frequent my bed.”

  “And you speak of my manners,” Hunter said tightly, throwing a large piece of steak into his mouth and chewing.

  “I have the refinery to care for. Syllie is a very resourceful person. I’m sure he can help his wife with whatever she’s dealing with.”

  “Resourceful enough to hurt us?” Hunter asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Aisling was telling me about the merits of going to an out-of-state college, but I was drawn to the conversation between the brothers.

  “Probably.” Cillian yawned, picking up a blueberry and examining it coldly.

  I saw what he saw, what he liked about the tiny fruit—that little crown each perfect blueberry had that made it regal.

  “Yet you wouldn’t back me up in front of Athair.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why, pray tell, is that?”

  Cillian considered him through narrowed eyes. They’d fit on a snake better than they did on a human being. Cillian was gorgeous, his colors warm against the iciness of the rest of him. The older Fitzpatrick brother always looked a step away from gracefully dipping a sword into your chest and watching you draw your last breath with a pretty smile.

  “Because you didn’t have sufficient evidence and you reeked of hysteria. Both made your case weak.”

  Hunter said nothing, watching his sibling under a deep-set frown.

  “Did you know that the word hysteria derives from the Latin word for uterus?” Cillian asked conversationally, dissecting his steak meticulously into pieces the exact same size, a la American Psycho. “In ancient Greece, it was believed that a wandering and discontented uterus was to blame for that dreaded female ailment of excessive emotion.” He put his fork down and stared at what he’d carved on his plate.

  I watched him behind the diamond-studded rim of my wine glass.

  Cillian’s hawk-like eyes and panther gestures gave me violent, uncomfortable shivers. He made me feel uneasy, unequipped—like the dirt beneath his shiny loafers, and he hadn’t even tried all that hard to provoke these emotions in me. I didn’t envy the people he actively hated.

  “Do you speak Latin, Cillian?” I asked, taking a bite of my steak.

  Aisling stopped talking, shooting me a do-you-want-to-die? horrified expression. The rest of the table fell silent, the tension hovering above our heads like a thick, dark cloud.

  “A fair amount. Any particular reason you’d care?” He popped a piece of steak into his mouth.

  He’d requested his steak so raw, so bloody, the juicy meat made the corners of his perfect lips glisten.

  “I was wondering if the word jerk derives from the Latin word jealousy. Thought you could shed some light regarding that.” I smiled sweetly, cocking my head to look at him.

  Jane sprayed her red wine across the table, making a choking sound that prompted Gerald to pat her back. Dad, Sam, and Hunter exchanged amused looks, chuckling under their breaths. Mom’s eyes glittered with pride. Sticking it to the big man ran in our family.

  Cillian tucked his chin down, regarding me for the first
time with faint interest, like my existence was a brand new thing he needed to consider.

  “Do you think you’re clever, Miss Brennan?”

  “Not a genius by any means, but I get by with my perfectly adequate, average IQ.” Another mocking smile touched my lips. “I’d ask you the same question, but I already know the answer. You think you’re the smartest person in the room.”

  Cillian sat back and watched me, enjoying a private joke at my expense. “Prove me wrong.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” I made a show of taking my phone out of my purse. I knew it was the equivalent of taking a dump on the table as far as etiquette went, but I couldn’t help myself. I browsed through my images until I found the one I was looking for and passed my phone to Cillian across the table.

  “Hunter’s IQ test from when he moved to Todos Santos,” I explained. “I found it in one of the packed boxes in our apartment. Actually, I can see all the Fitzpatrick siblings’ scores. Hunter must’ve packed them by accident. Your baby brother sits at 147 points, which marks him as a literal genius. Yours is merely 139. Still above average, but no 147. Now tell me, Cillian, is your math as good as your Latin?” I blinked innocently.

  “Mo órga.” Gerald cleared his throat behind his napkin, signaling Cillian to kill this conversation.

  But I couldn’t stop myself. I was on a roll.

  Cillian sat back, refusing to show signs of discomfort.

  “Measuring one’s competence by their IQ level is like measuring a horse by its coat.”

  “Or a woman by her bra size, to put it in a form ceann beag could relate to,” Gerald jested, his potbelly wobbling with laughter.

  Jane winced at her husband, slapping the tips of his fingers across the table. She muttered an apology to my parents. Dad and Mom exchanged looks, relieved. Compared to the Fitzpatricks, we were actually a normal family.

  Sam, however, watched the entire thing, his eyes ping-ponging back and forth, with a smile behind his pint of Guinness. I had no idea where he’d gotten it. No one else was having Guinness. But this was my brother after all, the most resourceful man in Massachusetts.

  Hunter sipped his water. I noticed he hadn’t touched his wine. Everybody in the room was probably under the assumption he’d devour his little treat. It was a long middle finger to what was expected of him. A tinge of pride prickled my chest.