The Hunter

by Shen, L. J.

  The four judges from the Olympic committee had already entered the club. Junsu and the staff were talking to them upstairs. Their bags were at the reception area. Before I went to the range, I asked Bill if he could go outside and see if there were any photographers. I promised I’d keep an eye on the bags. He agreed. As soon as he was out of sight, I planted what I needed in each of the judges’ suitcases. When he came back, I pressed a wet kiss to his cheek.

  “Thank you for being a great friend.”

  “Sure thing. Thank you for being the least scary warrior I’ve ever met.”

  I smiled. I knew it was goodbye.

  He didn’t.

  I’d spent the night trying to figure out how I was going to use the information Hunter had given me about Junsu and Lana in a way that wouldn’t frame him, and I hadn’t slept a wink.

  At the range, I made my way straight to Lana’s target. The ground was soft beneath my feet, but I knew better than to think the fall would be anything short of painful.

  I stopped when my back was pressed against the target, standing in front of Lana, daring her to draw. We were alone out here. She could, if she wanted to.

  Lana lowered her bow, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits.

  Wordlessly, I threw something between us. A simple bandana, offering her a rematch.

  A smile tugged over her lips. The taunting kind.

  “So sorry I had to sample your boyfriend. Not knowing what he tasted like was a mystery I couldn’t bear,” she purred sweetly.

  Even though I believed Hunter, her words still hit me somewhere deep. I wanted to pounce on her and tear her limbs for even uttering his name. He was mine, even when he wasn’t.

  I smiled back at her. I had a plan. “Take the bandana.”

  “I can kill you, even blindfolded.”

  “Please do. Was he good?” I asked, watching as she made her way to the bandana in the middle of the space between us.

  “So you don’t know? You two haven’t spoken?”

  I shook my head. She thought he’d kept her secret.

  “He was great.” She flipped her shiny hair to one shoulder, still walking. “I might see him today for dinner after I’m done whooping your ass. We’ll see. The Patriots’ quarterback also wants a date. It’s hard being me.”

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  She picked up the bandana, went back to her spot, and tied it over her eyes. Raising her bow, she aimed at me. My heart was in my throat. I wanted to move away, to punch my own face for what I’d gotten myself into. Lana’s hands were steady, but her chest rose and fell quickly.

  “You idiot. You know I’ll do it,” she muttered, seeing nothing behind the blindfold.

  “Then do.” I swallowed. “Kill me like I killed Spot.”

  “Don’t say his name,” she warned. “Don’t you dare.”

  “It was an accident,” I repeated. “A terrible accident I’ve regretted every moment since that day.”

  “I know!” she snapped, lowering her bow momentarily, stomping. “It wasn’t just about Spot, you idiot. It was about everything. You had parents and a family and talent and security. And you were easy prey. So insecure and apologetic and…and…” She waved her hand in my direction. “You.”

  She raised her bow again, huffing, “Now stand still.”

  I did. Sweat dripped down my spine under my sweater, and I felt my legs shaking. I wanted to throw up. She drew the arrow again. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

  Do it. Get it out of your system before it is my turn to hurt you back.

  “Drop out of the match, and I won’t kill you,” came her voice.

  My eyes popped open.

  “That’s a big request,” I said hoarsely.

  “You are my target,” she pointed out.

  “Because I put myself here willingly,” I argued. “Will all be forgiven and forgotten if I step down and don’t show up in half an hour?”

  She didn’t know I was wired under my sweater.

  That she was being recorded.

  “Yes,” she said grimly. “But you need to tell them now.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “Okay.” She lowered her bow again, removing the blindfold and discarding it on the ground. Her eyes, dead and flat, scanned me.

  “Just so you know…” Her throaty voice wrapped around my neck. “Hunter was everything the media said he was, and more. I had a lot of fun stealing your boyfriend. I wish we could continue this. I’d have loved to torture you for a lifetime.”

  I stepped away, knowing now how deep and delusional her lie was. “I know.”

  I turned around to find Junsu in the shadows, under the roofed seats, scowling. I brushed past him, not stopping when he whispered my name.

  He used to shout it before. Now, he was scared.

  He knew.

  Junsu was at my heels. Now that I’d decided not to compete, he pretended to be invested. Devastated, even. He spoke, but none of the things he said registered. I unlocked my car, stuffing my bag into the passenger seat.

  Junsu grabbed my shoulder and spun me so I faced him, his expression etched with fury.

  “What was that?” he demanded.

  “I’m guessing that’s a rhetorical question.” I brushed off his touch.

  That was it. I’d lost. My Olympic dream officially went down the drain. Hell, I’d flushed it myself. Somewhere in the back of my head, panic had begun to set in. I knew it was the last time I’d set foot in this club. After everything that happened—everything that was about to happen—I couldn’t come back and practice here. Not professionally, and not as a hobby. I imagined I’d find a new place, or maybe go to the woods or to the farmhouse my parents had outside of Boston. I would still practice, but not professionally.

  It was time to find out who I was.

  What I was good at, what I stood for.

  It was time to get out of my shell and live. And it’s frightening.

  “You didn’t even try. You quit.” He motioned his arm toward the club.

  “So?” I shrugged. “My career. My dream. My prerogative.”

  “My reputation,” he countered, shoving a finger to his chest. “You could lose by few points. Now I look incompetent.”

  “Ah.” I smiled. “Cat’s out of the bag now. So you did want me to lose, just not by much.”

  Junsu’s face fell. “What? No! I…”

  I leaned forward, brushing my lip over his nose purposefully. I felt goosebumps rise on his skin. We’d never been this close physically. “I know what you did, Junsu. You and Lana. I know about your deal. Lana came clean to Hunter when she tried to seduce him in your office. You did this to yourself. Now I have a witness, and a three-page letter I left with each of the four judges on the committee. They’re going to find them shortly, if they haven’t already. An identical letter was sent to the United States’ Olympic and Paralympic Committees. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to the police station. Hunter Fitzpatrick, AKA the boy, already gave them his official statement, as per my request.”

  I bowed, the way he’d taught me when he started training me, mocking the sign of respect he’d insisted we give each other.

  “No!” Junsu barked desperately, tugging at my hand.

  I lunged into the driver’s seat, locking the doors automatically before he got to me. He pounded his palms over the window, his voice muffled by the glass between us.

  “She had money! I needed to pay for my son’s college.”

  I started the car, feeling tears stinging my eyes. I didn’t dare let them loose.

  “Sailor! You ruin my career if you do that! My family! My reputation!”

  I backed out of the parking lot, blazing down the street I’d driven every day. It held memories, a piece of my heart, and a broken dream I now left behind.

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to set foot on it afterwards.

  By nighttime, the details about Junsu and Lana were plastered all over the news. I got calls a
sking if I wanted to retake a match with someone else, considering Lana was not going anywhere near the Olympics anytime soon after what she’d done. I declined. The Olympic spot went to a thirty-three-year-old mother of four from rural Indiana by default. Her stats were crazy.

  Mom, Dad, and Sam gathered in the living room around me while we watched her interview. Their hands were on my back, shoulders, and arms.

  I was safe with my family. I was home.

  It occurred to me, as I stepped into my father’s office for the first time in four days, that I was about to get my ass fucked so hard, I’d be able to easily slide an entire watermelon into it by the time he was done with me.

  Four days.

  Zero sleep.

  Zero work time.

  Two unwritten college assignments.

  Plenty of half-leads regarding Syllie’s wrongdoings.

  Victory was within reach. I could brush it with my fingertips, and I was rabid for it. Maybe the bloodthirsty Fitzpatrick lineage did run through me. Because I’d never felt particularly competitive until I moved here.

  The visit to the refinery was scheduled for tomorrow, and guess who’d finally decided to show signs of life and reappear at the office?

  Ding, ding, motherfucking ding. Yours truly.

  “You’re alive,” my father pointed out rather unhappily, still reading something on his iPad at his desk, his eyebrows somewhere on his upper forehead.

  Cillian sprawled in front of him in his designated seat, texting.

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.” I stepped inside, planting my ass on the seat next to Cillian.

  I turned to my brother. “Leave.”

  His molten eyes shot up from his phone. He had the challenging, taunting gaze of a man who was waiting to be invited to war.

  “Are you high?” he inquired politely.

  “Sober as a miserable, bloated celebrity post-rehab. I need to talk to Da. Alone.”

  They exchanged a look that spoke dozens of sentences. Finally, Gerald nodded. My brother stood, but not before flashing me a warning look that said after Da plowed into my ass, he intended to shove explosives into it.

  The door closed, and I turned to my father.

  “I have some great leads about what Sylvester is up to,” I started, but he cut me off with a wave of a hand, sending the iPad crashing against his desk.

  “You go MIA for four days after your agreement with the Brennan girl goes bust, and you think I care about your conspiracy theories?”

  “I think you care about this company,” I enunciated through gritted teeth. “And I have information.”

  “Stop being a professional timewaster,” Da countered. “And get to the heart of it. You are here because you messed up and didn’t have the guts to face the music. You broke the rules. You weren’t celibate.”

  “No,” I admitted. “I wasn’t, but I didn’t sleep with that other chick, Lana. And that thing with Sailor…” I paused, feeling my nostrils flare. “It wasn’t just fucking.”

  I wanted to take back the sentence, take it all the way back. What was I saying? I didn’t have feelings for Carrot Top, did I? Only she hadn’t been Carrot Top for a long-ass time. She was the girl I wanted to talk to every day, all day, if I could. The girl who made me laugh. The girl who gave me a hard-on, not only up close, but just thinking about her. The traces of her scent alone made me want to hump the shower tiles.

  I hated that I cared about Sailor Brennan, that I couldn’t stop thinking about her, worrying about her, obsessing over what she was doing, thinking, DoorDashing. The little huntress had gone and conquered every inch of my brain, filling it with herself, and without my notice—without my fucking permission—slipped from my brain to my heart.

  “Don’t try to sell me the girlfriend angle.” Da raised his hand to cut me off. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “I didn’t say she was my girlfriend. But I feel…things,” I said vaguely. I also said the word things like it was made out of pube hair, spitting it out of my mouth in record time.

  “Was?” Athair regarded me skeptically.

  “She dumped me,” I admitted.

  “I don’t believe that for a second.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck what you believe.” I smiled courteously, crossing my legs and cupping my hands over one knee. “It is the truth, and you don’t get to dismiss it. I guess this is the part you’ve been waiting for, where you wave your new signed will in my face. Go ahead. Have your fun.”

  Not missing a golden opportunity to shed blood, he opened his drawer and produced that goddamn will, making a show of flipping the pages by licking the pad of his index (side note: people who do that should burn in hell. Twice), signing his initials on each page quickly.

  Looking up, he flashed me a grin.

  Song of the day: “Dead Bodies Everywhere” by Korn.

  “I do have a proposition for you,” he said while signing.

  “I love propositions,” I replied, oddly calm. “That’s what got me into this mess in the first place. What do you have in mind?”

  “You say you developed feelings for that girl—” He air-quoted the word feelings, a Parker Jotter pen between his fingers.

  I wanted to put him in a box. It’d be worth the solitary confinement.

  “Sailor,” I cut him off. “Her name is not ‘that girl’. It’s Sailor.”

  “Yes. Her. And I say this is just a desperate plea to try to save your inheritance. So how about this? I’m giving you a second chance. A clean slate. A redemption, if you will. Admit that this was a lie, that you didn’t actually develop feelings toward Sailor, and I will tear this will apart right now. But there is a condition.”

  “What’s the condition?” I asked, unblinking.

  “You cut all contact with her. Forever.”

  The last word sat between us like a ticking bomb. Forever was a long-ass time. An hour? That sounded more doable.

  “Genes aside, we’re cut from the same cloth, aren’t we, ceann beag?” He cocked his head. “This is what you’ve been trying to prove to me. That you’re a Fitzpatrick. That you belong.”

  “If you’re asking me to choose between my family fortune and a girl, my answer is obvious—the fortune.” I paused, watching his throat working behind his silky orange tie. “But if you’re asking me to choose between the family fortune and Sailor Brennan, I’m going to have to kiss your money goodbye and bow out of this one, Fitzpatrick or not.”

  His smile evaporated. He wasn’t expecting that plot twist. Honestly, I wasn’t, either. Especially considering Sailor had conveyed to me her lack of wanting to stay in touch verbally, by text, physically, and every other way short of skywriting. Maybe she had told me to piss off through skywriting. I hadn’t looked at the sky in a while.

  Nevertheless, it was the truth. I couldn’t resist the chance to pursue her. I couldn’t forfeit the right to hug her, order DoorDash food with her, argue about who was a better tipper, and tell her about my day. Because those were the happiest moments of my life, and every single goddamn time I reached for my Dala horse and my neck was bare, I knew she had it—my one possession that meant something.

  If she hasn’t burned it by now, that is.

  “You’re rejecting my offer?” Da sobered, smoothing his tie.

  “Trust me, we’re both bummed about it. So I guess that means I’m fired?” I stood.

  I still needed to finish my Sylvester investigation, no matter what. I no longer stopped midway when shit became hard.

  “You’re not coming to Maine,” he confirmed. “Start looking for a job.”

  “Bet.” I gave him a little bow and flipped him the bird for good measure. As I stepped out, I grabbed the chrome handle of the glass door and turned around to him with my parting words. “By the way, this door? Designed by a masochist. It takes three hours to close it. Here, that should fix it.” I kicked the door’s cylinder. Unhinged, it flew into Da’s office and crashed on the floor in one piece.

  I l
ooked up at him, flashing an unhinged smile from the supervillain variety. “Maybe I am a Fitzpatrick after all. Look how good I am at ruining things. You’re welcome.”

  That evening, I sat my ass down to listen to how Syllie’s night was going. The answer was bound to be better than mine. I tried to DoorDash the Cypriot place that had opened three blocks from my apartment, but found out my bank account had been cleaned by Daddy Dearest—all future and current transactions declined.

  The old Hunter—the one from six months ago—would’ve called the mom he ghosted not-so-friendly and had her Venmo the necessary funds to feed Africa. But the new Hunter was too prideful to beg, let alone for food. So I cracked open a can of beans, tried to microwave it, almost caused an explosion (who knew metal wasn’t microwave-safe? Not this fucker), and settled for crackers and expired cream cheese.

  I was legit the bitch-eating-crackers-like-he-owns-the-place meme. FML in the ass.

  I was wondering how I was going to continue paying Knox, who was literally sitting in a van, freezing his balls off, to record Syllie live through the devices he’d sold me. I hoped he accepted sexual favors, because homeboy was currently more broke than Jenna Jameson had she switched careers to celibacy expert. I was fucked in the most unorgasmic way known to man.

  I was three hours into the evening’s investigation on Syllie—he’d just finished having dinner with his family, during which he and his wife had discussed the riveting subject of matching Christmas sweaters—when I heard the three knocks on my door.

  I put my crackers down, frowning. If it was Cillian with one of his devil’s pep talks, we were going to exchange some fists, not words. But no. Cillian should’ve been on a plane on his way to Maine by now. I went to the door, throwing it open.

  And there she stood.

  Aingeal dian.

  Holding a bag of takeout food. Grease trickled from the edges of the brown bag. Sailor and junk food. My mouth watered, and my balls tightened.

  Am I dead? Is this heaven?

  “This is not a let’s-have-sex offering, Hunt. It’s not even a peace offering.” She raised one palm in warning. “But I come bearing gifts and an offer. You helped me nail Lana. Let me help you nail Syllie.”