The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  “Here, Legally Blonde.” He tossed the food onto my desk without sparing me a look.

  “Fuck. Thanks, old sport.” I looked at the food in disbelief. “Juggling college and work is a bitch.”

  Kill slid a piece of paper with an email on it across my desk after the food. “Have someone else write your essays for you. Have them make you summaries for the tests. Life’s too short to pretend you give a damn about business law.”

  “Do you give a damn about anything?” I jested. My parents had fucked both of us up thoroughly, but in different ways. I cared too much and acted up. He didn’t care about anything at all.

  “I’m sure I do, but I’ve yet to find it,” he said.

  “Liar.”

  “The truth is overrated—an uncreative, uninspired way of seeing things.”

  I got used to the hard work and the late-night studying. I even got used to fucking just one girl. The only thing that made me frustrated as hell was Sylvester. I listened to his recordings thoroughly, almost every night, and still couldn’t find anything concrete to nail him with.

  One day, Da called me into his office. I could count the times he’d done that since The Dinner on one hand, so I approached in a sour mood. Pushing the door open, I noticed Kill and Syllie already seated in front of him.

  “Sit,” Da spat, barely glancing at an empty chair next to Syllie.

  “I’d rather stand. What’s up?” I asked.

  All eyes darted to me. I think they were as surprised as I was to hear my voice, low and sober and lacking that playful, wannabe-rapper twang my family loathed so much. I was growing a spine. The growing pains were a bitch, but I was starting to recognize that I didn’t have much choice.

  “Hunter,” my father warned.

  “Leave him be, Athair. There are much more pressing issues right now,” Cillian growled impatiently.

  I’d have kissed him on the mouth if he wasn’t my brother and my lips weren’t partial to a little redheaded banshee.

  “Well?” I jutted my chin out.

  My father sat back. He looked worn out, tired as fuck.

  “The three of us—you, me, and Cillian—are going on a trip to monitor the progress on the refinery. We’re giving them the opportunity to sort the machinery mess, but it is clear something needs to be done. There have been too many hiccups with the project, and I think it could raise overall morale if we show a united front and go there together,” Da said.

  I was surprised to be included. At this point, I was thankful they didn’t put a pair of goddamn orange shorts and a white bra on me and call me their office Hooters waitress, but something else irked me.

  “What about you, Syllie? Are you coming?” I flashed him my good-natured smile.

  The man turned to me, shaking his head.

  “Someone needs to make sure everything runs smoothly here. Also, my wife has that thing,” he added as an afterthought.

  “What thing?” I pressed. Someone goddamn had to.

  “She’s a bit under the weather. She underwent surgery a little less than two months ago.”

  “What surgery?” I didn’t relent. I could see Kill in my periphery, smiling in amusement.

  “Oh, I’m not sure this is a conversation she’d appreciate me having. Obviously, I regret I cannot join you.”

  “Obviously,” I repeated, cocking my head, examining his face. He met my eyes with defiance.

  “Weren’t you the one who brought it to Athair’s attention that we were falling behind schedule on the refinery and it would never pass health and safety inspections at this rate?”

  Syllie’s smile began to fade. I knew I was pissing off more than just him. Da hated being criticized. Especially by me.

  “That’s his job,” my father boomed behind his desk. “What’s your point, ceann beag?”

  I shrugged. “No point. Just putting things together.”

  “Your job is filing things, not gluing them into a narrative,” Da reminded me. “It’s settled then. You’re coming with us. You’re excused now.”

  I saluted him, marching out. Instead of sitting back at my desk, I sauntered all the way to Syllie’s office, checking on all the BS I’d used to record him, seeing that nothing had been moved. Since that first time I’d met Knox, I’d paid him two more visits and managed to put a tracker on Syllie’s phone (he used burner phones, but even the slyest motherfuckers slipped sometimes). I’d gotten two numbers for reliable private investigators, but I knew something like that could blow up in my face if I didn’t handle it carefully.

  My nights were spent as follows:

  Come back home.

  Fuck Sailor.

  Talk about our days over takeout food—she was my Western Wall, there to listen without judgment, to hear without shoving her opinion down my throat—then listen to Syllie’s recordings after I was done with my college shit. Sometimes Sailor helped me. We would sit together on the couch, I’d massage her legs, and we’d both have our AirPods tucked in, listening to different parts of Syllie’s recordings. When one of us felt we were on to something, we’d play it for the other. So far, though, Syllie was too careful for his own good.

  Finally, when we retired to bed, I’d fuck her again. Sometimes she fucked me. Sailor was a feisty one.

  We didn’t talk about what we were.

  What we weren’t.

  We just existed: a butterfly and a man who appreciated beautiful things.

  Co-existing in the eye of a storm we’d been thrown into.

  Knight: Yo, asswipe. What are you doing next weekend?

  Hunter: Scratching my balls. Making voodoo dolls of my dad. That kind of thing. What kind of question is that?

  Knight: One I’d like a serious answer to, you little ass fucker.

  Hunter: Not ass-fucking, unfortunately. Study, probs. Got dinner at my folks. You?

  Knight: In Boston with bae for her book deal. We’re coming to see you.

  Hunter: You’re fucking an author now? That’s the height of intellectuality you’re going to reach. I hope you realize that.

  Knight: Did I say see you? I meant stay with you. Also: Ha. Ha.

  Hunter: Cheap bastard.

  Knight: Is that a yes?

  Hunter: It’s not a no.

  Knight: Would your nerdy roommate mind?

  I hadn’t told Knight or Vaughn about bumping uglies with Sailor—not that I was embarrassed or anything. But I knew she was private. She hadn’t confided in her friends about us, and it felt like betraying her confidence. Especially if at some point my father found out about us and shit hit the fan. The more we kept it on the down low, the better. I wasn’t going to throw away my inheritance over a pussy—no matter how sweet and tight—and she was getting sweet-ass media coverage and hitting all her PR marks.

  Sailor was recently interviewed on a local morning show, had been featured in two teen magazines, and Crystal, her agent, had said her name had been Googled more last month than a certain Kardashian sister, even though the latter allegedly remodeled her entire face and some other body parts. Keeping Sailor a secret was making sure what we had was just that—an ongoing fling with an expiration date. She wasn’t my girlfriend. But we lived under the same roof and enjoyed sucking each other’s privates.

  Really, there was no reason to tell Knight about Sailor, just like there was no reason to tell him about any of the other flings I’d had over the years.

  Hunter: I hardly care what she thinks.

  Knight: Brutal as always.

  Hunter: Catch ya next week.

  Knight: Be seein’ ya.

  The following morning, my new king-sized bed arrived. I got it for Knight and his fiancée, Luna. I paid a rush fee to make sure the little fuckers had somewhere to sleep. I hadn’t gotten the chance to bring Sailor up to speed about it, because the previous night, as soon as she’d walked in the door, I’d been too busy ravishing her to squeeze a sentence in.

  It caught her off guard as we drank our morning coffee on Saturday morning
like two grown-ups or some shit. The elevator dinged and the movers came out, holding the boxed pieces with the giant-ass print of the bed.

  Sailor arched an eyebrow over the rim of her cup, feigning calm curiosity, but I knew she was pissed. Her green eyes always turned a shade darker when she was annoyed.

  “I don’t remember exiling you from my bed. We have a bit more time to our arrangement.”

  I grinned, dropping a kiss at the crown of her head.

  “Not gonna sleep in the new bed for a second. My friend Knight and his girlfriend-slash-fiancée-slash-ballbuster Luna want to crash with us next weekend. She’s meeting with her literary agent here or some shit. That cool?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged and meant it.

  The tension had evaporated from her shoulders. I knew it was going to be hard on her when I gave her the boot. Honestly, I’d miss her ass, too (and her pussy, and mouth).

  “But you won’t be sleeping in my bed when they’re here. No one can know about us,” she warned.

  I nodded, happy she still had her head screwed on right. Some chicks lost it where a well-endowed billionaire was concerned. Not Sailor Brennan, though.

  “I’ll crash on the couch when they’re here.”

  She turned around, rinsed her coffee cup, and put it away. I came behind her, trapping her to the counter, massaging her shoulders. The right one was still a little sore, but she told me she’d been killing it at the range. I thought her chances of getting that Olympic spot were really good. It was going to soften the blow and give her shit to focus on when we were over. I couldn’t wait to drown in unlimited pussy and cheer on Sailor as she kicked ass and took names in the Olympics. I would even toast with a drink or six when she got that medal.

  “What are we doing today?” I asked, kissing the back of her neck. “I mean, other than porking each other.”

  “Not much.” She turned around, her voice flat. “I’m going shopping with Emma, Persy, and Aisling.”

  She’d been doing a lot of shopping lately and looking fuck-hot in her new clothes. Her hair was bangin’, too, and I overheard one of the Penrose sisters, the mouthy one, Emmabelle, telling her she should get a Tinder account. She was coming out of her shell, and in true Sailor fashion, she’d broken that bitch in two and strutted out on ten-inch heels. I couldn’t help but feel stupidly lucky to be the guy next to her. She was going to be a man-eater soon, but I had been the first to fuck her out of her weird limbo, to introduce her to society.

  “I’ll tag along.” I pinched her ass.

  Despite the time that had passed, I still hadn’t acquired any friends in Boston. It was goddamn near impossible. I worked with middle-aged people all day, then took evening classes in college, mainly with single moms and older people who worked full-time jobs like me.

  Sailor put her hand on my chest. It was her go-to. That, and licking her finger and cleaning shit off of my face when we were eating. Just like the chest-hair pulling, I didn’t hate it.

  “Um, no, you aren’t.”

  “Why not?” I frowned, surprised.

  “Because we’re going to talk about girl stuff.”

  “Like penises and dildos?” I was supremely hopeful that was what women talked about. Naked. Other than my sister. I’d rather die than picture my baby sister naked. Sweet Jesus, why did I let my mind wander that far? Now I couldn’t not picture Aisling having a slumber party in her lingerie, and I wanted to throw up all over the kitchen island like in that South Park episode.

  Fuck my life in the ass.

  Sailor cocked her head, frowning. “Try clothes and boys and petty, albeit harmless, gossip.”

  “I like clothes and petty, albeit harmless, gossip.”

  “Did I mention we do all this to the soundtrack of A Walk to Remember? No? Because no gathering would be complete without a few chick flicks,” she drew out.

  “Pass,” I grunted, not wanting to beg for her company.

  She threw her head back and laughed, rubbing my arm. Sailor (Sai-lor. Pretty name, I realized, albeit fashionably-fucking-late) was not cold or distant like I’d imagined. She touched me all the time in a non-I-wanna-get-dicked-by-you way.

  “I figured you’d be looking for entertainment, so I took it upon myself to call your brother and make plans for you.” She sneaked away from my touch when I began to draw her close for a quickie.

  “My brother?” I echoed, spinning on my heel. Did I have another bastard brother I wasn’t aware of? Because there was no way she was talking about Kill. “You mean the asshole who looks at me like I’m cow shit clinging to his twelve-hundred dollar Magnannis?”

  “One and the same.” She zipped her North Face rucksack, throwing my bomber jacket into my hands from the back of the kitchen island stool. “You’re going horseback riding.”

  “You’re shitting me.” I stared at her, jacket still in hand. “Why would I do that?”

  Why wouldn’t I do that?

  I wasn’t sure if I was angry or in awe of her persuasion skills. I’d been successfully avoiding any type of conversation with my mom and da because they sucked all the balls, but with Cillian, I was outwardly, full-blown beefing. My feelings for him weren’t complicated or convoluted. I simply wished him a slow, painful death. My heart couldn’t be bought with a cheesesteak and the email of some TA at Harvard who overcharged for essays I could download online.

  “You can’t hate your entire family,” Sailor pointed out, shouldering into her jacket. It had been pissing since that first night of rain when I wrecked her uterus. “You have to make some allies if you want to survive being a Fitzpatrick. He’s going to be your first.”

  “Sounds ambitious. Also, unlikely.”

  “Also, happening,” she countered calmly, shoving me toward the door with surprising strength.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I bared my teeth, dragging my heels along the floor like a toddler.

  “Look at it as my parting gift to you. I don’t want to say goodbye without knowing you have a few people to rely on. Figured your mom and Cillian are your best bet.”

  “Why not Aisling?” I tried to dodge her touch at the same time I tried to pinch her ass. We tango-ed like a pair of aggressive peacocks for a few seconds.

  “Oh, you have Aisling’s vote, for sure. But you need the swing states’ support. Think of Cillian as Virginia.”

  To put his name with anything virginal would be a crime, but I saved her my smart-ass comment.

  I wanted to be mad at her, but for the life of me, couldn’t. Leave it to this crazy bitch—and I used the term endearingly—to call the other craziest motherfucker I’d ever known and negotiate the terms of my relationship with him.

  “I don’t have any riding shit,” I gritted, stalling.

  “Figured as much. Cillian said he’ll let you borrow some,” Sailor sing-songed.

  I turned around to face her as she swung the door open. The movers were marching back from my room, dusting off their hands.

  “I hate you.” I double-tipped them, waving them goodbye. Because I could be both a cunt and a great person at the same time.

  “I’ll find a way to carry on.” She flashed me a smile I wanted to wipe off with a kiss.

  “Don’t be so sure. It’ll be a struggle when I hate-fuck you and put a hole with your shape through your mattress.”

  Sailor gave me another shove. “Then I truly hope your friends won’t mind sleeping on a Sailor-shaped mattress, because I’ll definitely be taking the new bed. Good luck and goodbye!”

  The door slammed in my face, and all I could do was laugh.

  Goddammit, Sailor.

  Downstairs, Kill picked me up to go to the equestrian center. I spent the ride fiddling with the Dala horse on my neck while Cillian sneered at numerous things we passed along the way: a bed of wilting flowers, a broken tree on the side of the road, general litter. Everything pissed the asshole off. He was going to be dead by age thirty-three of a heart attack. He gave me such rotten-ass juju I’d need to lo
ck myself in a Hindu holy site on an Indian mountain for a decade just to get rid of his negativity.

  When we got there, I found out Cillian had a few horses that legit belonged to him. Apparently, he hadn’t limited his riding hobby to my ass alone. I knew Kill had played polo in his youth, too, and was more accomplished than I (insert shocked emoji here), but when we hurled our tall frames onto two twin, black Arabian horses and began riding, it was pretty clear we were both skilled.

  Cillian handed me a helmet, a saddle, and a pair of boots. He looked like an eighteenth-century aristocrat in his gear, and I wondered if he enjoyed being so perfect twenty-four-fucking-seven. From the outside, it looked exhausting.

  We headed to the neck of the woods, the saddle—made of rich leather that’d been broken in by my brother—tinged my nostrils with an earthy scent. I’d missed riding. There were signs scattered across the woods warning riders about hunters (ironic). When Cillian shot me a sidelong glance to see if I cared, I shrugged, aided my horse, and galloped forward. Straying far on a horse I wasn’t familiar with in woods I didn’t know was supremely stupid, but I knew my brother was responsible enough to keep us both alive.

  Kill caught up with me quickly.

  “So, are you still playing the part of Auguste Dupin and scheming Sylvester’s downfall?”

  Of course he’d reference an Edgar Allan Poe character before Sherlock Holmes. Kill thrived on being different. He probably thought I was under the impression Auguste Dupin was some sophisticated French dessert. I rode faster, making him sweat for the conversation.

  “He’s cooking something up,” I clipped. “Years of being an asshole make me an expert at recognizing shitheads when I see them.”

  “I trust your instincts,” Kill drawled with his usual, grave politeness, ignoring the pack of blonde stable girls who burst out of a corner of the woods, giggling and pointing at us. Cillian didn’t even spare the groupies a look. I realized, with some annoyance, that I wasn’t particularly interested in sampling their goods, either.