HUNTER (The Corbin Brothers Book 1)

by Lexie Ray

  “It sounds too good to be true,” I said, still a little suspicious.

  “Oh, it is,” he said. “I’m a slob.”

  I laughed, feeling infinitely better than when I first arrived at the shore. How had hope happened along so swiftly after I hit the rock bottom of despair?

  Chapter Seven

  When Nate steered his car back in the direction of the city, I was surprised but almost relieved. If you lived in the city proper, there was little need for a car. Living in the suburbs with Jeff and Brenda had been what I’d needed to heal, but I missed being in the heart of New York.

  Once, when I was at Mama’s, we’d taken a train from the house for the girls to see the gigantic Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. They’d all ice skated, but I’d hung back. No one had ever taken me ice skating before, so I was content to watch from outside the rink. That seemed like just yesterday even though it was already March.

  “What part of the city do you live in?” I asked, watching buildings fly by outside.

  “East Village,” Nate said casually.

  My eyes bugged out of my head. “You’re really serious about this writing thing, aren’t you?” I asked.

  Everyone knew the East Village was one of the cultural hearts of the city. You also pretty much had to be loaded to live there.

  “Actually, I wasn’t always a writer,” he said. “I used to be in real estate.”

  “Aha,” I said. “The truth comes out.” Now it made sense why he had a car. He needed to be all over the city at specific times. That, and he could afford it.

  Nate grinned. “Ah yes, now you see me for what I truly am. Preying on the desperate, selling them a box to live in for thousands of dollars a month.”

  “Let me out,” I joked, scratching at the door handle. “I can’t be seen with you.”

  “I’m not in the business anymore,” he said. “I was good at it and it was good to me. That’s why I’m in the East Village. But it just became time to do something else. I’m taking a little vacation from real estate to do some writing.”

  “Have you written anything I would’ve heard about?” I asked.

  Nate shook his head. “Been writing plenty, but getting published is another thing.”

  I frowned. “I’m sure it’ll happen for you sooner or later.”

  “I hope it’s sooner rather than later,” he replied. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll turn out to be my muse. I already have a story in mind that I want to write based on your little ancient curse idea.”

  I found myself blushing. “But that was just joking around,” I protested. “You can’t write about that.”

  “Can and will,” Nate said, wagging his finger with each word until he was pointing at the ceiling of the car. “It’s called artistic license.”

  The honking of taxicabs was like music to my ears as we drove into the city. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until that very moment.

  “Look at you, all starry-eyed for NYC,” Nate observed as we were stopped at a traffic light. He was right. I was practically drooling, watching people in sweaters and jackets walking up and down the sidewalks, tall buildings watching over them like sentinels.

  “I do love the city,” I admitted.

  “The first thing we’re doing is get you a T-shirt,” Nate said, “one of those cheesy numbers that all the tourists have.”

  “But I do heart New York,” I said, batting my eyelashes.

  “It’s settled.”

  Before I could react, Nate double-parked. The horns were deafening and some of the curses made even me blush. I squawked as Nate threw open the driver’s side door and leapt from the vehicle. He didn’t so much as put his emergency blinkers on before jogging to a sidewalk kiosk. I hid my face from the scowls of passing drivers and cabbies.

  A bit out of breath, Nate jumped back into the car and nosed back into traffic. He tossed a plastic shopping bag onto my lap.

  “For Jasmine, who hearts New York,” he said.

  And right there was the T-shirt, cheesy red heart and all, that publicly declared my love.

  “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it.

  “Everyone needs something to love, even if it is a big, dirty city,” Nate said, winking at me.

  We pulled up to an extremely nice condominium high rise and got out of the car. A valet got behind the wheel and drove the car away to parts unknown.

  “Underground parking lot for residents,” Nate explained, watching me stare after the car. “He’s not stealing it, I swear.”

  “I can’t believe you live here,” I said, staring up at the gleaming glass and steel. “I thought you’d be in one of those grungy studios you always imagine artists living in.”

  “You forget I was a real estate agent in my first life,” he said. “I definitely had insider knowledge of this beauty—and the funds to make my living here possible.”

  Nate greeted the doorman and we took the elevator to the fourteenth floor. Even the hallways outside the condos were kept nice—nothing like the slums my mother and I would rotate through.

  “It’s not a penthouse, but it’s pretty comfortable,” Nate warned as he unlocked his door.

  It might as well have been a palace. My jaw dropped open as I stepped into the luxury condo. Every inch of flooring was a golden wood, the grain swirling artfully over each plank. River stones made up the fireplace, continuing up the wall all the way to the incredibly high ceilings. The condo was exceedingly spacious, and the vaulted ceilings added to that perception.

  The walls were painted a creamy white, which helped brighten the entire space. Several floor-to-ceiling windows helped with that, too. Nate walked over to the sheer, light curtains and threw them back. I was treated to a magnificent view, loads of people walking down the sidewalks and plenty of cafes and galleries.

  “Most of the art I have comes from right here in East Village,” he said, unaware of my utter awe.

  I looked around, trying to shut my mouth. One huge canvas seemed to be the centerpiece of his collection. The shape of a nude woman reclining dominated the hanging artwork, but it was done with a quick, almost impressionistic hand. It was abstract, but not so abstract that you didn’t understand what you were looking at. Other framed pieces were smaller but no less vibrant. Nate clearly had good taste in everything from art to decorating.

  “I’ve seen a lot of homes during my career,” he said, removing his beanie and rubbing a hand over his buzzed hair. “It’s easy to form your personal tastes when you’ve seen just about everything there is on the market.”

  “I guess,” I said doubtfully.

  The kitchen was separated from the rest of the open space with a long, L-shaped bar made from the same rocks as the fireplace and hearth. Every fixture and appliance was modern stainless steel, buffed into an almost burnished finish. Nothing gleamed, but everything glowed. It was very fine, but inviting at the same time.

  “It’s not too ostentatious, is it?” Nate asked, wringing his hands.

  “Osten-what?”

  “Ostentatious,” he repeated patiently, “showy. Do you think I’m pretentious?”

  I shook my head at all the unfamiliar words. “I think it’s all beautiful.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he said, smiling. “Want to see your room?”

  I nodded, suddenly excited.

  “Actually, it’s my room,” Nate admitted. “But I’m moving into the office. I really need to focus on my writing and I don’t sleep that often. This is the office.”

  He cracked a door open and I realized that the last place I’d seen so many books was my high school library. Shelves upon shelves of books towered to the ceiling. There were so many volumes that the shelves weren’t enough. Several stacks teetered on the floor. I spotted a desk in front of the window, but books covered its surface.

  “How are you going to work in here with all of these?” I asked. “You can’t even sit down.”

  Nate looked sheepish. “Maybe you can help me organi
ze a bit,” he said. “I told you I was a slob.”

  “Hopeless,” I teased, shaking my head. “We’re better off making you a chair and desk with all these books. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

  “It’s touch and go,” he joked back. “Some days are worse than others.”

  I turned serious. “I don’t like the idea of you giving up your room for me,” I said. “We’ve only just met. A couch would be more than fine. A space on your floor would be generous.”

  “Absolutely not,” Nate said. “It’s you who’s doing me the favor, remember? All these hopeless books need cataloging, those appliances in the kitchen don’t stock or clean themselves, and I sleep more often on the futon in here than I do in my bedroom.”

  With a start, I noticed the leather futon for the first time. Stacks of books had tumbled over its surface.

  “You have to get awfully friendly with those books to sleep there,” I said uncertainly.

  “I get downright intimate with those books,” he confided, leaning close.

  I laughed and blushed, putting my hands on his chest and pushing him away.

  “Fine, then,” I said. “Please show me to my room, Mr. King.”

  It was just down the hallway, past a large bathroom.

  “Unfortunately, we will be forced to share this bathroom,” he said. It was as big as any bedroom I’d ever seen, that beautiful rock from the kitchen and fireplace repeated on the floors and countertops. It was simply magnificent.

  “Unfortunately?” I repeated. “I just have one toilet to clean. That’s pretty lucky, if you ask me.”

  “And my hair styling is down to a new record time ever since I buzzed my hair,” Nate said. “You’re good at this glass-half-full stuff. A lot better than the no-hope Jasmine I first met.”

  I flushed in shame. Had that whole episode at the shore really been mere hours ago?

  “I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” I said. “I was really at rock bottom and, well, you pretty much saved my life. I could organize that library and clean this place for the rest of your life and never be able to repay you.”

  “I’m just glad that you didn’t end up literally at the rock bottom of that cliff while you were at your rock bottom,” Nate said. “And don’t worry about anyone owing anyone anything. If you don’t want to, we never have to talk about what happened on that cliff ever again.”

  I nodded. That sounded good to me.

  “And here’s your room,” he said, opening another door.

  I gasped involuntarily. The same floor-to-ceiling windows were present, but the curtains concealing their view were a faintly gold metallic material—a little thicker than the ones in the other room. The bedspread matched the curtains, bringing a light elegance to the room. The bed itself was low to the ground, almost Eastern in its design. There was no headboard or footboard; rather, a welded metal piece of artwork hung on the wall, giving the illusion of a headboard. In here, the wood floor had been covered by a thick carpet. I could imagine stepping out of bed on a cold morning and having the thick fibers caress my feet, warming them against the chill.

  “Will this suffice?” Nate asked, looking a little anxious.

  “Suffice? This will more than suffice. This is incredible.”

  Forgetting myself, I threw my arms around his neck. I didn’t know how else to thank him.

  “You’re more than welcome,” Nate said.

  I released his neck and fell into a fit of coughing. The adrenaline that had surged through my body after the cliff and meeting Nate, then coming back to the city, had long since deserted me. I was physically and emotionally spent.

  “You look like you need to lie down,” he observed.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked weakly. “I’m sick. I really do have HIV. The person you’re entrusting with your housework, your cooking, and sharing your living space with feels like she’s going to faint on her feet.”

  “Then that person better lie down,” Nate said calmly. He took me by the hand and led me to the bed, turning the covers down and helping me ease down into it. The mattress immediately formed itself around my body. I had never been so comfortable in a bed. It was probably the nicest one I’d ever laid in.

  “You know, I think I will lie down,” I joked lightly. My aching muscles felt instantly better even though a pervasive dull throb continued throughout my entire body.

  “Don’t get up until you feel better,” he said, looking down at me. “Tomorrow I’ll take you to the doctor. The key thing about HIV is that you need to start a regimen of medication. Everything will be fine.”

  After Jeff and Brenda’s completely negative reaction to my HIV positive diagnosis, hearing someone tell me that everything was going to be fine made me feel a little dubious. I was willing to try to believe it, though.

  * * * *-

  I was so scared to be happy in those first few days. There had been so many other times when I had dared to be happy—when Mama first took me in and got me off the streets, when Jeff and Brenda had embraced me as family. But every time I got too comfortable or thought that my life was finally getting turned around, something terrible happened. My feelings were betrayed, I was used and thrust back out onto the street, I was discarded like trash. To say I was tentative in those first few weeks would be an understatement.

  “You walk around on your tippy toes like something’s going to break,” Nate observed one day. He was lounging on the couch, a book splayed across his chest. He hadn’t picked it up in about fifteen minutes and was partially covered by a throw blanket.

  I’d been carrying a basket of laundry into the bedroom to fold and put away. Nate had sent me with his credit card to pick up whatever I needed in the way of clothing and toiletries. When I’d come back with a couple shirts, a value pack of panties, and a pair of jeans, he’d taken me out himself. Nate turned out to have impeccable fashion sense. He had a specific aesthetic and it fit my own style perfectly. I now boasted two whole drawers in his dresser and half a rack in the walk-in closet.

  “I don’t want to bother you while you’re working,” I said, propping the laundry basket on my hip.

  “Does it look like I’m working?” Nate asked, raising a dark eyebrow and putting his arms behind his head.

  I shrugged. “You could be concocting the next scenes in your mind at this very moment,” I offered.

  Nate rubbed his face. “Wrong,” he said, his voice muffled. “I’m sitting here, inactive, not thinking about scenes in my book, not even reading the work of other writers to get inspired for scenes in my book.”

  “Writer’s block?” I asked, naming his most-hated nemesis.

  “Writer’s block,” he confirmed, “and a hell of a headache.”

  “Your office is too dim,” I said automatically. “You need to open the curtains and get a desk lamp, at least. We’ll need to move all those books stacked against the window for better light.”

  Nate smiled at me, but its tightness told me that he was in pain. “You have all the solutions.”

  “And here’s one more,” I said saucily. “Let me get you some aspirin for that headache. I hate to see a man suffer needlessly.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ve already taken something.”

  “Let me put this laundry away and I’ll fix some lunch,” I said over my shoulder. “You’re probably just hungry.”

  But once I’d gotten all the clothes put away, exhaustion overtook me. I eased down on the bed, closing my eyes, and tried to ride it out.

  It came in waves, which was normal, the doctor had told me. Nate had taken me to his personal physician. Everyone there knew Nate’s name, which I chalked up to good service. I didn’t have health insurance—one thing Jeff and Brenda had overlooked when they were trying to get my life up to speed, I mused. Nate covered the exorbitant cost of some of the drugs I needed while his doctor gave me samples of the others. I had to get a medication organizer just to keep track of it all.

&nb
sp; “Rest when you feel like you need to,” the doctor said. “Take your medication on time. Call if you have any questions. Come back in a few months.”

  I was fully prepared to adhere to all of these instructions. I must have drifted to sleep. A cool hand on my forehead woke me up.

  “You have a fever,” Nate said softly. He brushed my bangs away from my face. The touch was comforting and I leaned into it without thinking.

  “What a pair we are,” I said tiredly. “You with your headache, me with my HIV.”

  Nate laughed and ruffled my hair. “You know, I have a better plan for lunch,” he said. “What do you like to order when you have Chinese?”

  I frowned. “I’ve never had Chinese.”

  Nate fell into a mock swoon, flopping on the bed and making me bounce in spite of the shock-absorbent mattress. I giggled.

  “Never had Chinese!” he exclaimed, propping himself up on one elbow and looking at me. His face looked genuinely shocked but the warmth in his gray eyes told me he was teasing. “You’ve told me a lot of surprising things about your life, Jasmine, but this really takes the cake. Prostitute? Fine. HIV positive? Okay. Never had Chinese food? Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. If you do not allow me to order you sesame chicken, fried rice, and egg rolls immediately, you just can’t live here anymore.”

  I was howling with laughter after his staged tantrum, shoving him off his side and onto his back. Nate was like a balm on my past. He could tease or cajole me about it and make me smile. How was that possible?

  “Order away, then,” I said, feeling inexplicably better than before. Maybe it was the power nap I’d taken, but I was pretty sure it was the man I was living with.

  * * * *

  A day in my life: woke up at 5:00 a.m. Nate liked to work in the mornings. It was one of his most productive times, he said, probably since he just had a full night’s sleep. Made coffee, added a dash of milk, took it to him in the office without saying much. Didn’t want to distract him from the muses.

  Had my own cup of coffee, bite of breakfast, took meds at 6:00 a.m. Showered and dressed. Picked up newspaper debris, books, shoes, etc. Swept and dusted. Wiped down countertops in kitchen. Cleaned bathroom. Cleaned bedroom. If it was Monday, I took inventory in the refrigerator and cabinets, went to market to restock. Tuesday, laundry. Wednesday, washed windows. Thursday, vacuumed rugs. Friday, dusted ceilings and walls with extendable duster. Laid down if pervasive exhaustion took hold. Begged off chores if feverish.