by Fox, Logan
“Like the app,” I say.
Hunter pauses in his fire starting duties to glance at me over his shoulder. “Excuse me?” There’s frustration in his eyes, as if not understanding me makes him uneasy.
Get ready, Hunter—there’s gonna be a lot of that coming your way if you still intend on grilling me tonight.
“Strange - random hookups seem to be your thing.”
Hunter turns back to the fire, adjusts a log, and flicks the edge of his knife against the stone. This time, the only thing that comes off it are sparks. A second later, the cotton glows. He crouches lower, blowing over the pile of fluffy stuff until it smokes and, eventually, catches flame.
It’s fascinating to watch, but I’m focusing more on him that the fire. His hair is long in the back—it curls rebelliously over the collar of his button-up shirt. It’s a shaggier cut than you’d expect to see on someone wearing a suit.
Maybe it’s a long drive to the hair dresser.
But what about those grubby feet?
The tattoo on his wrist.
Who are you, Hunter Hill?
He gets to his feet, and the new angle of his arm throws light over the mark.
No…not a tattoo.
A scar.
And the type I recognize. The ones you create when your body is screaming for mercy, but you ignore and try to find a vein anyway.
My, my, Doctor Hill…I do believe you’re living a double life.
“What was your vice of choice?” I ask, sipping at my glass of port.
Hunter stands, dusting his hands against his suit pants without looking at me. The few sparks he produced have set the tinder aflame. Bright tongues caress his pyramid of logs; a ravenous dog licking blood from its master’s fingers.
His voice is quiet and strangely distant. “Heroin.”
Heat flashes through me, but it’s not coming from the fire. That’s still in its infancy and this heat is dangerously primal.
There’s a reason my dress has long sleeves—it’ll take a while for my scars to heal. And there are others on my body I know will never go away.
When my love affair with H was new and bright as Hunter’s fire, I was careful. I chipped so I could never become addicted and my tolerance would remain low. The cravings would then be psychological, not physical.
When I lost my first job—the boss tried to grope me, so entirely unrelated to my addiction—my life didn’t have structure anymore. Weekends merged into weekdays, and I found it impossible to keep track of when I was supposed to be up and when I was supposed to be down. And because being down sucked donkey balls, I chose up.
I chose up way too many times.
He comes to sit beside me, downs his glass, and turns to the side table. I hear something opening, and an invisible ice cube slides down my spine.
I throw back the rest of my port.
I have so many questions but I can’t ask them. This is a dangerous topic—Hunter knows it, I know it.
Why the fuck didn’t he lie?
You know what, I shouldn’t be here. Not an epiphany, sure, but I just realized why this guy is so fucking wrong.
Somehow, I’d missed the signs.
Any minute now, he’ll pull out his kit and prepare a hit for us.
He’s no doctor. He can’t be.
He’s a fake. A phony. And I knew it the moment I laid eyes on him. But I didn’t want to believe.
Maybe that’s how he feels about me. Six months at his clinic, and in the last hour, I’ve considered shooting up more times than I can count.
I’m not clean.
I’m filthy, and he knows it.
He was looking for someone just like me.
I fumble with my purse and take out my cellphone. I type a frantic message, not even bothering with context. They always get it wrong in the horror movies. Short texts with as much info as possible. So many people would have lived if they’d just been calm under pressure.
Clover: help
Hunter’s talking to me, but his back is still turned.
Clover: pls help
I hear noises that my brain finds comforting and familiar.
Fuck, he has got heroin, doesn’t he? Powder or sugar? Are we going to snort it or shoot it?
My heart beats a hundred miles a second. I force my trembling fingers to pick out another message on my phone’s tiny keyboard.
Clover: I think—
But his voice makes my entire body go rigid.
“I want to fuck you.”
I lift my eyes from the cellphone screen, and suddenly all I can see is black night pressing in against Hunter’s glass walls.
Pushing, pushing, pushing…like it wants to come in.
Chapter Fourteen
Hunter
Clover studies me as if she doesn’t realize I can feel her eyes on me. The tinder takes, and I make sure the kindling packed around it takes flame too before I rise. Taking my glass from the mantlepiece, I head for the sofa.
Normally, I would have chosen a nearby armchair but I take a seat right beside Clover instead. She stiffens and drains the rest of her glass.
A completely unreasonable reaction. How is tonight any different from her previous ‘supply runs?’ Isn’t this what she does, seducing rich men and then stealing the silverware as they snore through their post-coital comas?
I must stop second-guessing myself. I decided on this course of action weeks ago—my planning, the time I invested in this project, all a waste if I back down. And why should I, just because Clover didn’t respond to my instructions like I’d hoped?
It’s time to put an end to these ridiculous thoughts.
I drain my glass and put it on my side table. There’s a small ivory box nearby, which I draw closer. Arranged inside are several oiled leather pouches along with hemp rolling papers and a zippo engraved with my initials.
A gift from my sister; one of only a handful of people who know I smoke cannabis.
As I roll a joint, I hear repetitive tap of cell phone buttons beside me. Still trying to find somewhere else to sleep tonight, Clover? Are you too good for my silk sheets? I guess I’d better just resolve this unspoken tension between us.
“You think I want to fuck you,” I say.
All sounds and movements beside me cease. I sit back, holding a flawlessly rolled joint in my fingertips.
Her eyes are frozen as if she’s found something too intriguing in the forest to bear looking away.
“Ms. Vos.”
She doesn’t respond. Is she experiencing a psychotic break? Perhaps a bout of catatonia?
“Clover.”
Her head snaps around, moisture glimmering in those wide, Bluestar eyes. “It’s so dark out there,” she says, her voice trembling.
I glance through the glass walls of the sitting area, sweeping my gaze over the Ponderosa pines surrounding my property.
“Forests tend to be dark at night.” I frown at her. “Did you hear what I said?”
“This whole place have glass walls?” The words fall out of her mouth a mile a second.
“Does—? No. Are you feeling all—?”
She squeezes her eyes closed. When she opens them, every trace of fear is gone. Her eyes dart to the joint and then back to my face. “Not here. Upstairs.”
Clover stands, looks around, and heads for the stairs. I rush to my feet, staring after her with parted lips and a deep frown etched between my brows.
She obviously misheard me.
“Ms. Vos.”
She takes the stairs one at a time that shock of red hair shifting around her shoulders with each step. “Clover.
I hurry after her, catching up as she sets foot on the landing. I grab her elbow, and she tears it free with a low growl.
“You got me, okay?” she spits out as she throws her hands up. “I don’t have anywhere to go.” She storms up to me and stabs a finger in my chest. “But I’m not some charity case you get to brag about to your stuck up friends. Yes, I need a place to sleep tonig
ht. I’ll give you what you want, but don’t you dare think you’re doing me a fucking favor.”
Her fingers flash between us. “Quid pro quid,” she snaps.
My mind goes blank. All I can manage is a murmured, “Quid pro quo,” but the correction is completely automatic.
I stick the joint between numb lips and light it. Who knows, maybe this will all make sense when my mind isn’t so crowded anymore. I draw long and hard, filling my lungs with itchy-sweet smoke.
Her eyes flicker to the joint, back to me. A slow realization washes over her face, and a touch of color paints her cheeks.
I don’t often become angry. Irritated, frustrated, yes. But pure anger is something that usually has to accumulate over time. Layer upon layer of sediment.
I take another drag of the joint and then hold it out to her. Smoke coils between us before I exhale.
“Since you insist…” I say, pushing the words through my teeth.
Chapter Fifteen
Clover
The smell of weed hits me like a freight train. I reel back, staring at the joint Hunter’s pointing in my direction. I’m not sure, but I think I just fucked up bad. He looks determined but pissed off at the same time if that little frown between his eyebrows is anything to go by.
Yeah…I’ve always had an issue with keeping my mouth shut. That and not blowing a fuse when I can’t figure someone out.
I snatch the joint, and glare at it. “I’m an addict,” I say, clenching my jaw. “Why in the name of Zeus would you—”
A laugh bursts from Hunter like a broken water main. He grabs the landing’s railing with one hand, teeth flashing white as he holds his stomach with the other.
“Zeus?” he manages through another gale of laughter.
Fucking Christ, it’s the alcohol, you sick freak.
All sorts of weird shit comes out of my mouth if I’ve been drinking. You’d know that, if this was a date, and you weren’t the founder of the fucking rehab facility I’ve just wasted six months of my life in.
I break the joint apart, drop it to the wooden floor, and crush it under my sandal’s heel.
Hunter straightens. I take a step back from the intensity of his now fucked off expression.
He takes a step forward. His eyes blaze, and he swipes absently at a lock of hair that’s fallen over his forehead. “You don’t understand, Clover.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He stops. Frowns. “That’s your name.”
“Vos. That’s what you can call me.”
“Even when I’m fucking you?”
God, I wish he’d stop saying that word. It’s doing unmentionable things to my insides. Hedonistic, sinful things. He’s so uptight, so regal and commanding that a dirty word like fuck sounds more erotic coming from those lips than anything I can imagine.
Except cunt, maybe.
I realize I’m brushing my hands over my arms and clench them at my sides instead.
“I didn’t…I was angry, okay?” I swipe a hand over this man’s ridiculously beautiful house that makes no sense. “Let me leave. I won’t say anything—”
A chuckle cuts me off. “Say anything about what?”
For the first time tonight, he doesn’t sound like he’s talking from a teleprompter. “This.” I gesture between us. “This.”
His lips squirm before settling on a smile. He steps forward, forcing me back a step. Then he crouches and retrieves the filter-half of the joint I’d destroyed. Miraculously, that half escaped the grinding of my heel unharmed.
Hunter lights it, hands it to me.
“You’re not addicted to heroin, Clover. Your mind simply craves its solace.”
Chapter Sixteen
Hunter
Crave. Solace.
And I would know, wouldn’t I?
She’s retreating. It’s difficult, acknowledging the truth. It might even seem impossible.
My apologies, Ms. Vos. All I can offer is the truth.
A fucking abundance of it.
Thankfully, the weed is taking its toll. The tide of negative thoughts flooding my mind dissipate. Weed brings on the idealist in me. The man who thinks anything is possible—even reasonable—as long as the right intentions are applied to it.
It’s what made my impossible, possible.
Curing addiction is an act that should earn someone knightship. Instead, I have to endure taunts behind cupped hands. People insinuating that my research is existential at best.
They claim addiction is a disease, but scoff when I inform them I’ve found a cure.
I’ve healed it before, and I plan to do it again.
Clover’s disease still runs rampant through her. A wild horse, not yet broken but temporary herded into a stall. But with enough determination—hooves ringing on wood—it will break free to wreak havoc once more.
But not if I break it first.
I put out my hand. Clover’s eyes latch onto the joint. Is she thinking of the release? The blissful anonymity it brings? She should—it’s worth it. Our psyches fight us on a daily basis. Sometimes, all we can do is temporarily restrain them while we take control of the wheel.
The destination isn’t always an improvement but at least we can say the journey was our own.
Chapter Seventeen
Clover
The joint feels warm and brittle in my fingertips. A flicker of flame ignites the paper, and I draw deep at it. I cough, take another pull, and push it away from me. Hunter takes it, draws deep, and crushes it out under his bare sole.
I’m transfixed on that foot until fingers grasp my chin and turn my face upward.
Fuck it, I’m done fighting this.
I thought I’d grown a fucking spine after six months of rehab. Turns out, I was just playing hard to get.
It’s his self confidence. His aura. Hunter Hill is heading somewhere with the speed and determination of a jet plane. And me? I’m walking barefoot through the desert. I would have found my own footprints again by now—but the desert wind keeps blowing them away. I don’t realize I’m going in circles and the whole while the sun bakes on me, scorching my flesh.
I stand on tip toes, leaning into Hunter’s touch.
He studies me, but even in this moment I can’t read anything in his eyes. I like to know what I’m dealing with, but this man is an enigma. No, I don’t like to know. I have to know. It’s the only fucking compass I have in this godforsaken desert I’m stranded in.
“Can you trust me?” Hunter asks.
His pulse exudes like electricity from his fingertips, thrumming against my jaw bone.
“No.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.” My mouth feels numb around the word, and I have no idea if it’s my response or the weed’s.
My body relaxes. My mind breaks apart like driftwood in a storm. My anger drains away. My fear relinquishes to curiosity.
And even the dark doesn’t press as hard against the glass anymore.
How does he stand living out here by himself? Can’t he sense those eyes on him, watching his every move? Unseen but as physical as an unwanted caress.
I can.
Ever since my mother died, I always can.
But those aren’t her eyes—that much I know. Those eyes belong to someone who’s still alive. Not a human, but a demon wrapped in human flesh. Those eyes watch me even now. As if that demon tracked me here over uncountable miles. Perhaps my fluttering heart was its beacon, my racing mind a signal fire burning bright.
“I am going to fix you, Clover.” Hunter’s breath washes over my lips and it feels as blissful as the sun peeking out after a week of drizzle.
Warm.
Comforting.
Real.
“I’m not broken.”
“And because you think that, you’ll never be whole.” Hunter presses his thumb to my bottom lip. A current surges through me, forcing my lips to part with an inaudible gasp.
What the fuck was in that weed? My heart races as I c
onsider the possibilities.
Meth. Cocaine.
Heroin.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
He fucking wouldn’t.
Tears fill my eyes, and I squeeze them free.
“No,” I whisper.
“It’s the only way.”
“No…please…” My voice is reduced to a mewl.
My body responds like a moonflower touched by starlight. My eyes roll back, breath whispering past lips tingling with pleasure.
“Enjoy it, Clover.” A warm puff of weed-scented breath accompanies each word. “Because this is the last time heroin will ever have control over you again.”
Chapter Eighteen
Hunter
I’ve strayed so far from my script, I’m not sure I can ever get back to it. I try not to think of the wasted time I spent preparing tonight’s events. Instead, I focus on what is coming.
But I’m distracted, and I despise the feeling. My thoughts should be on the research trial, but instead I’m fixating on the feel of this girl’s lips against the pad of my thumb.
So soft.
So warm.
Why didn’t I choose a sativa? I can’t think straight with all this dopamine in my brain. Can’t concentrate.
I’m saving this girl’s life, but for some reason I’m riddled with guilt.
Guilt, of all things!
Is it because there was no warning, Clover? You look as if you feel betrayed.
I was your priest, you my altar boy. I broke the trust. Now you’re overwhelmed with self loathing, blaming yourself for falling into my trap.
“There’s no other way.” It takes me a few seconds to realize those words are mine. “I’m sorry.”
She brushes against me.
Her lips are bright as loganberries.
I’m a man of science. I should have been able to resist her mouth, but I can’t. I’m a bee drawn to a blossom, its ultraviolet nectar guides speaking to something in my very DNA.
