by Isla Jones
Hunter glanced down at her. “You really have no idea, do you?” He scoffed and shook his head as they went down the restricted corridor. “If I’d answered your questions yesterday, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in a body bag, Harper. Too many folks were watching.”
They reached the second gate—the final gate. “I need you to walk from here,” he said and lowered her to her feet again. “Think you can manage that, Harper?”
Blake nodded as he unlocked the gate. Her brows knitted together as he slipped a handgun from his belt and switched off the safety.
“You brought a gun,” she noted through the daze that enveloped her.
“I don’t plan on getting caught,” he said with an indifferent shrug. Hunter held the gun in his right hand, and offered his left hand to her. She entwined her fingers with his and huddled closer to him.
“Your hands are soft,” she mumbled. “Do you moisturise?”
A deep rumble of laughter came from him as he led her through the gate. He aimed the gun ahead, and said, “You’re all right when you’re doped up, you know.”
The sliver of humour evaporated. The wail of a siren tore through the Institute, and red alarms glared through the white corridors.
Hunter cursed and yanked her down the corridor. Blake staggered beside him, both enduring the blaring red lights and ear-splitting yowls of the alarm. Her heavy eyelids yearned to slip down and pull her back into slumber. But Blake pried them open and stumbled beside Hunter.
Her clammy fingers wrapped around his hand as her legs wobbled and staggered beneath her. Hunter led them to the front office, and aimed the gun around the corner. If Blake hadn’t been so drugged by meds, she would’ve screamed at what she saw. Two security guards lay limp on the floor behind the crescent desk, blood oozing out of their mouths and heads.
“They’re alive,” said Hunter. He must’ve sensed her panic. “Just knocked out, is all. Don’t worry.”
He dragged her through the front reception to the double metal doors.
“You did all of this?” she asked as he unlocked the doors. “On your own?”
“You’re mad,” barked a voice from behind her. Blake stumbled around to face the intruder. It was Clay, Hunter’s cousin. He chuckled as he jogged toward them. “No way Hunter could do this alone. I’m the muscle and the brains, for your information.”
Hunter snorted and wrenched open the door. “Couldn’t manage to silence the alarm, though, could you? Some brains,” he mocked and guided Blake outside. She hooked her arm around his and leaned on him for support.
Fresh air washed over her in a brilliant welcome. The night sky was clear, and twinkled at her.
“The moon looks like a banana,” said Blake as she gazed up at the white slice.
“So it does,” agreed Hunter, though he didn’t glance up at the moon to confirm. He lifted her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. She stared down at the concrete ground instead. Hunter and Clay sprinted away from the Institute toward the carpark. Blake watched the back of Hunter’s boots kick up at her, almost reaching her, with each rapid step he took. A grunt escaped her lips as he skidded to a stop beside his motorbike, yanked her off his shoulder, then dropped her onto the bike.
“Jackass,” she murmured.
He swung his leg over the bike and balanced himself on the leather padded seat. “A jackass who just saved you,” he corrected, and revved the engine to life. “Hold on.”
Blake placed her forehead on his back and coiled her tired arms around his waist. Clay started the motorbike beside them before he took off, leading the way. But before Hunter followed him, he slid one hand down and clasped it around hers, holding her in place. She wondered if it was a comforting gesture, or a precaution in case she fell off. The thought was fleeting—the bike whizzed out of the carpark, and Blake’s mind flooded with panic as she held onto him for dear life.
10
Madhouse
The bike veered onto a dirt road. Blake’s cheek squished against Hunter’s back; leaked saliva dampened his t-shirt. Her hooded eyes gazed at the familiar trees and swampy soil that passed them by. They’d been driving for some time. The morning sunrise swept over the purplish sky as it crept up from the ends of the earth. Blake yawned and rubbed her face on Hunter’s t-shirt. He didn’t protest, and instead drove up the long dirt road to the bayou cabins.
Clay, a few metres ahead, led the way into the village. Blake peered over Hunter’s shoulder at the scattered cabins. It was a stark contrast to how it’d been the day before. There were no children laughing or running around, no dogs barking or wandering, no suspicious Wolves congregating. It appeared to be abandoned. But Blake assumed that, due to the early hour, everyone was asleep in their homes or passed out at the clubhouse.
The motorbikes parted ways in the middle of the village. Clay drove off, farther uphill, while Hunter steered the bike down the muddy path between two cabins, and up to the terraced house that stood alone. Spud lay on the hammock that dangled from the porch roof. The engine of the motorcycle woke him as Hunter parked on the marshy lawn.
“Hunter!” Spud scrambled off the hammock.
Hunter hushed him and climbed off the bike before helping Blake. Exhaustion showed in her weary eyes and flaccid legs as she draped over Hunter. He grunted and heaved up her over his shoulder.
Spud ran to the front door and swung it open with a creak. Hunter, carting Blake’s floppy body with him, went inside; followed by Spud.
Blake’s gaze swept over the floorboards as they journeyed further into the terrace house, until carpet replaced the wood. She assumed she was in the lounge when Hunter flipped her off his shoulder and onto a lumpy sofa. Almost the very second the cushions embraced her, Blake’s eyelids fluttered shut and she drifted into a calm sleep.
Crackles and pops woke her. The alien sound was a fireplace simmering. Blake was used to waking up to the soft songs of the birds. She blinked open her sleepy eyes and shifted on the lumpy couch. Her finger scraped the morning-mucus from the corners of her eyes.
Blake sat upwards and stretched her tired arms above her head. She looked down at her body and saw that it was covered by a thick duvet. Hunter must’ve draped it over her after she passed out. Or Spud, now that she thought about it. He was a sweet little guy.
Her hooded gaze dragged around the dark room. A fireplace was carved into the wall she faced; Spud curled up on the rug in front of the tempered flames. To the right of the sofa was a worn-out armchair, where Hunter slept. His head lolled back against the headrest and he dozed in the same clothes he’d been wearing yesterday. Though, he’d kicked his boots off, and his bare feet rested on the edge of the stale rug.
Blake pushed the duvet from her body and swung her legs over the side of the couch. Her feet connected with the scratchy rug as she stifled a loud yawn. Her body and brain were in dire need of caffeine, and perhaps an aspirin or two.
The couch groaned as she got up and crept out of the living room. The corridor was as dark, dusty and grim as the lounge. She suspected it hadn’t been cleaned in years, particularly the scruffy carpet. The memory of her clean bedroom, plush carpet, fresh bed, and unsoiled house sprung to mind. With it, came a blossoming desire to go home. But even Hunter’s old house was better than Harmony.
After checking a few rooms, she found the kitchen door at the end of the corridor. Abe always kept a pack of aspirin in a drawer in the kitchen with a bunch of spare batteries and receipts. It could be that Hunter’s dad did the same. Or even his mum.
It was a striking thought. Hunter’s mum. She’d never heard anything about a mother-figure in his life. Then again, she didn’t know much about Hunter or his life to begin with.
Blake strolled around the island bench in the middle of the wooden kitchen and riffled through the drawers. The cabinets, the counter tops, the drawers, the stools—everything was made of oak wood. They were all sanded to a pale, smooth beige, but hadn’t been treated or polished. Blake suspected that the entire kitchen ha
d been built by Hunter or his dad. She decided that it was Hunter. In the two times that she’d visited his home in the Bayou village, he’d appeared to run it. His dad had been nowhere in sight. And there was no sign of him in the house that morning.
The drawers were cruel to her. They had no aspirin or pain killers. Rubbing her throbbing forehead, Blake pushed herself to her feet and assessed the kitchen. Dirty juice cups and cereal bowls were stacked inside the sink, piling up above the tap; a rickety net door was in the far corner, protecting the house from an invasion of mosquitos and flies; stains seeped into the hardwood floors, almost hidden by a thin layer of visible dust. And although it was a cold morning, the mugginess of the swamp-air had wrapped around her—a sticky layer of sweat had already begun to gather on her body, and her hair had frizzed into a tangled mop.
Blake spotted a mouldy retro fridge near the backdoor. Dragging her feet, she walked to the fridge and grabbed the sticky handle. With a few hard yanks, the door wrenched open and things rattled inside. A few glass milk bottles were tucked into the stand of the door, and on the trays inside were slabs of cured ham and loads of beer cans. Blake puckered her lips in distaste and slammed the door shut. Ham wasn’t a great breakfast option for a vegetarian, and she didn’t trust the milk to be before its expiry date.
Blake leaned against the door and rubbed her bumpy arms—goosepimples had erupted all over the bare skin, nipping back at the cold air engulfing her. If she snooped around upstairs, she might find a jumper, she wondered.
“Morning.”
Blake spun around. Hunter, rubbing the ball of his palm against his left eye, slumped into the kitchen. His movements matched his voice—tired and grumpy. She decided that Hunter wasn’t a morning person.
Blake hugged her body, watching as he yawned and opened cabinets, retrieved mugs and bowls, and switched on the coffee filterer. Blake scratched her bare arms—they weren’t itchy, but it distracted her from the sudden unease that clutched her. Despite the near-blinding headache that pulsed in her head, her mind was in a far clearer state than the night before; he was a Wolf and he’d broken her out of a medium security institute, but for what?
She had to be on her guard around him.
“Coffee?” he asked as he tossed a box of cereal onto the bench.
Blake nodded, her arms tightening around herself.
Without looking at her, Hunter arranged two ceramic mugs in front of the filterer. “Get the milk, will you? Or would you rather just stand there and stare at me?” His gaze lifted, and she saw pools of mud beneath his lashes. “Not I mind. It’s not all the time I have girls from the other side of town watching me like that.” He finished with a smirk, but it was forced—it didn’t reach his unreadable eyes.
Blake bit the inside of her cheek, turned her back on him and opened the fridge. Three almost-full glass bottles greeted her again.
“Which one?” she asked, glancing between the three. One had a blue lid, another a green, and the third a gold.
“The blue for us and the gold for Spud.”
She looked over her shoulder, a question in her quirked brows.
Hunter shrugged. “He’s lactose intolerant. Needs some sort of special milk from the city. Clay gets it when he’s up in Baton Rouge.”
A high-pitched yawn, like that of a dog’s yelp, came from the doorway. Blake grabbed the two milk bottles and turned around to see the squealer. Spud waltzed into the kitchen and jumped up on one of the bench stools, stretching his arms in the air and rolling his head. He snatched the cereal box to pour himself a bowl of coco pops before he glanced at Blake. “Want one?”
Placing the milk bottles on the bench, Blake smiled. “That’d be great, thanks, Spud.”
As she perched herself on the stool beside Spud, Hunter poured them a mug of coffee each. He topped both with a splash of milk from the blue-lidded bottle.
“Here,” he said, handing her the steaming mug.
She cupped it with both hands and ran her thumbs over the sides. The heat from the mug only made her palms clammier.
Hunter reclined against the sink and observed Spud. “Why were you on the hammock last night?”
Spud pushed a bowl of cereal toward Blake, which she took with muttered thanks. “Was waiting for you and dad,” said Spud.
Hunter’s brows furrowed as he swigged back a gulp of coffee. “Where’s dad gone to?”
Spud shrugged and said, through a mouthful of cereal and milk, “Don’t know.” Spud swallowed and added, “He took off last night with the Wolves. Didn’t say where he was going.”
Hunter stuffed one hand in his pocket, and raised his other hand to bring the rim of the coffee mug to his lips. As he sipped, his black eyes flickered to Blake, who slurped between her cereal and coffee. Spud followed his gaze up to Blake.
“Are you Hunter’s girlfriend?” Spud asked.
Hunter’s eyebrows shot up, and Blake choked on her coco pops. She wiped droplets of milk from her lips and looked down at the curious boy. “Uh … No. I’m not. Why?”
Spud made a face. It was a look somewhere between a childish scowl and a confused frown. “You were arguing yesterday when you came down here,” he said. “And even though you were arguing, you still kissed. Then you hit him and left. And then Hunter moaned about you to cousin Clay for ages. And then he got you back and you slept over. That’s why.” Spud looked rather proud of himself at the end of his explanation, beaming up at Blake.
Hunter smirked into his mug and his shoulders jerked, telling of a silent chuckle.
Blake grinned down at the boy. “And that makes us boyfriend and girlfriend, does it?”
Spud looked up at the ceiling as he thought. After a few seconds, he nodded. “I think so. At least, that’s what the boyfriends and girlfriends do around here. They argue and kiss and then go into their houses.”
Blake couldn’t help but stifle a laugh; it chocked into a snort at the back of her nose. “Sorry to burst your bubble, kid,” she said. “Hunter and I are just…friends.” She hesitated on the last word, as if had it stung her tongue.
Hunter had his steady gaze on Blake. He was still quiet.
“Oh.” Spud deflated and stirred his cereal with the water-stained spoon. He glanced up from his bowl at Hunter. “Is it because she has gay dads?”
Blake looked between the forlorn boy and the stoic Hunter. Prejudice against her dads wasn’t exactly common in Belle-Vue, but she’d faced it before. Though, somehow, she didn’t think that that bigotry came from either Spud or Hunter.
Hunter shook his head and placed his empty mug in the cluttered sink. “No, Spud. We just don’t like each other that way.”
“Liar,” mumbled Spud. He looked up at Blake. “He fancies you, he does. That’s why he likes the diner so much.”
Hunter sighed and pushed himself from the sink. “Off with you. We’ve got stuff to talk about, and you’ve got school.”
Spud threw back his head and whined. It reminded Blake of herself. “Do I have to?”
“Go.” The firmness in Hunter’s voice made Blake shift on the stool. It reminded her of those times she’d been at Bethany’s house when they were younger, and her mother had shouted at Beth while Blake stayed still and quiet, trying to wish herself out of the uncomfortable situation.
But Spud didn’t argue, unlike Bethany used to. He didn’t talk back. He groaned and slid off the stool instead.
“Fine,” he said before pushed his bowl away from himself. He noticed that Hunter didn’t move. “Aren’t you coming? You need to drive me.”
“Clay will take you,” he said. “Go tell him I said so, and that I’ll see him later.”
Spud yawned and waved goodbye to Blake. She wiggled her fingers back and watched him slump out of the kitchen.
“Spud.” It was Hunter. Spud stopped in the doorway and twisted his body around to look at his older brother. “Tell Clay,” said Hunter, “that I’ll be at the cabin if he needs me.”
Spud’s face slackened. He was
frozen for a moment, then he turned all the way around. “The cabin? The cabin in the woods? What’re you going there for?”
Hunter shot him a stiff stare. “Just do as your told.”
Spud huffed, spun on his heels and vanished down the corridor.
Blake waited until she heard the front door open and close before she asked, “Is he always that pushy?”
“He likes you.” Hunter rolled his shoulder, as though trying to shake out an ache. “You gave him extra cherries and cream on his milkshake once, about a year back. Spud doesn’t forget things like that.”
Blake smiled and looked down at her coffee.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Blake touched her gaze back to him; he was watching her with those guarded eyes of his. She tucked a limp lock behind her hair, the oiliness of it slicking her finger. “Like a bag of fertiliser,” she admitted.
Hunter bowed over the bench, crossing his forearms in front of him. “You have questions, then?”
Blake spoke into her mug, “I have a splitting headache.”
He shoved himself from the bench and walked to the cabinet above the microwave. Inside was a first-aid tin, where he plucked a foil slice from.
He went back to the bench and gave it to her. “That should help,” he said.
Blake turned it over in her hands. It was paracetamol. She popped out two tablets and downed them with the help of her cereal milk.
“Questions?” He slumped back against the sink and folded his arms over his chest.
“I have a few,” she said. “I guess—Well, yesterday you said that some of the people in your village don’t want me around here. They don’t want you to help me.”
“Did I say that?” He arched his brow and scratched his chin. “I think I said that if I’d answered your questions then, you’d end up with the alligators in the swamp. Something like that, at least.”
