Slave Hunt

by J. A. Rock

  I wasn’t sure whether the pups and Cinnamon were prey. I recalled from the emails about the hunt that hunters were allowed to use “animals” to assist with finding slaves, soooo . . . who knew?

  Standing by the sign-in table, we had GK and Kel, whom I disapproved of majorly in theory, but who’d been really sweet to me when I’d sent in my application to Riddle a couple of months ago. Like, okay, mixed feelings. On the one hand—that bullshit with letting Bill Henson back in after he’d killed someone. The bullshit where Hal had been able to die there in the first place because they hadn’t had a DM monitoring that room, or at least stopping in to check and be like, Whoa, breath-play scene? That’s something I should probably stay and keep an eye on. Then they’d gotten all whiney when half the community wanted to throat-kick them. Oh you darling dumbass little clots of bunny barf, what did you expect?

  But there was something about them that was fun and cool. And you had to figure that every human was a turd in some major ways and a beautiful butterfly in others. Like, that’s all humans are—just a bunch of turd butterflies, fluttering their shit-smeared wings against the windows of the world. Plus those two were it for Gould. I mean, I hadn’t known the boys that long, but the way Gould looked at Kel? I would have given my left tit to feel like that about someone. Plus Kel was so hot. Epic rack, smokin’ ass, voice you wanted reading you all the bedtime stories but also telling you to bend over and spread your cunt. I was like, What a shame you’re such a bitch about some really important things.

  Also, What a shame you’re taken.

  Anyway, the hunters: We had Drix. Loved that skinny ol’ shadow of the night. We had D—I didn’t get it, exactly, but I liked it. We had Ryan, who I couldn’t even— Guy oughtta have a golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. He didn’t just look like a kid; he looked like a kid whose cherubic veneer hid a personality defect that would get him shrunk and trapped inside a TV. Don’t get me wrong; he was awesome. He just resembled the spoiled, bloodlusting boy-king in some tepid historical miniseries.

  Ooh, we had Rachel, a sexy rope top. Bowser, the red-haired lumbersexual we all suspected was actually a time-traveling Viking—broad body and massive beard, long hair, and deep, booming laugh. Really, between him and Ryan, this miniseries was halfway made.

  “Did you sign in?” Miles asked me.

  I glanced at the sign-in table. “Not yet.” I turned back to them. “What are your bounties?” All slaves had to come prepared to offer a bounty to whichever hunter captured them.

  Dave slipped his hands into his pockets. “I’m offering a coupon for a haircut.”

  Miles gave a terse nod. “I’ve brought a tea and fruit basket.”

  Of course he fucking had.

  Kamen knocked his guitar case with the toe of his shoe. “I’m going to write a ballad about my captor’s heroics.” Kamen, preshie cinnamon roll, was a songwriter of dubious talent, whose songs were endearing, if not paradigms of craft.

  I glanced down at Gould, whose jeans were riding down, exposing some pretty rad Mount Rushmore boxers. His face got pink. “I prefer not to say.”

  Which probably meant Kel and GK were gonna make him do something real slavey, like giving head to whoever captured him, or serving as a human toilet for the whole camp or something.

  I put my hands on my hips. “It’s like you’re all bizarre but very predictable at the same time.”

  Dave rubbed his chin. The boy had some stubble, which was rare for him. He looked less like the Nair-burned twenty-six-year-old twink I’d met nearly two years ago, and almost like a . . . man. “What’s your bounty?” he asked me.

  “I baked muffins.”

  “That sounds dirty.”

  “I know.” I hiked up the too-tight waist of my jumpsuit, groaning. “Ohhhh God. If J-Laws is ever feeling down about all the Fatniss comments on the internet, she ought to come over and watch me try to stuff myself into this thing.” I nudged Gould with my foot. “Baby? Why are you on the ground?”

  He got redder, which was my goal. “I have to stay like this until the hunt.”

  I checked out the pups again. “Are the animals being hunted? Or are they helping hunt us?”

  “Uh,” Dave said, “the dogs are helping the hunters. And Cinnamon must be prey. I mean, how would a horse help unless you could actually ride it?”

  Miles brushed a speck of nature from his navy cardigan. “Is Fucktopus coming?”

  “Nah,” I said. “I told him he should, but he’s shy.”

  Kamen’s jaw tightened. He was all shotgun-toting dad when it came to Fucktopus and me. And the thing was, he liked Fucktopus—the tentacle furry who was my on-again, off-again play partner. He just couldn’t handle the idea of me as a sexual being, since he’d met me when I was nineteen and I didn’t even know what, like, anal hooks were.

  I loved my boys because they were such dumb assholes. I mean, really, they were awesomely stupid. The thing was, I was twenty-one. So that was my excuse for being an immature, know-it-all dipshit. But they were all in their late twenties. And they still had involved conversations about salsa and their bowel movements and terrible reality shows. I was like, Oh, you pretty little freaks. You are my home, but you are also hopeless.

  My mama always said women matured faster than men. And she was right about most things.

  “So what’s everyone’s strategy?” I asked. “Anyone looking for an alliance?” Kel and GK had said it was fine for hunters to hunt together or for slaves to work together to elude them, so I needed to find me some career tributes or something.

  Gould looked up at Dave. “I actually wouldn’t mind an alliance. What do you think?”

  Dave shook his head. “Sorry. My goal today is to outsmart D. And that’s something I gotta do alone.”

  Kamen stared at him. “So wait, are we not—”

  “Buddy, look. Did you see Coming-Inside-You’s here?” He pointed to a guy in a gray thermal shirt.

  “But—”

  Dave elbowed him, hard. “Kamen.”

  Oookay. So those two clearly had an alliance Dave wanted to keep secret. And Kamen now looked deeply wounded. I was definitely either flying solo or finding a different pack to run with, because these bros all had targets painted on their backs.

  My gaze fell on the sign-in table again. “Are there doughnuts?”

  The clouds lifted from Kamen’s eternal sun of a face, and he grinned. “Yeah. And they’ve got sprankles ’n’ shit.”

  “Sprankles? Sign me up.”

  I made for the doughnuts, hoping to score a chocolate-frosted one. I reached the table at the same time as the brown-and-white pup, who was walking on two legs, her little rubber tail wagging as she moved. She was adorable. Older than me, for sure. But with these plump lips that didn’t look, like, overtly sexual. Just cute. And greenish-brown eyes with crinkles at the corners. Freckles over the bridge of her nose, and brown hair tucked under a Spandex-y hood that had floppy ears attached. I wasn’t always sure what the rules were with pets—whether I should talk to them like humans, or whether they were in pet mode. I decided to take a chance on the former.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey.” She grabbed the last chocolate-frosted one.

  Life’s a bitch.

  I took a vanilla sprinkle and bit into it like I was Ozzy-ing a bat. “I like your ears.”

  “Thanks.” She took a bite of doughnut. Licked chocolate off her lips. Her sweet, plump-but-not-seductive lips. “I like your outfit.”

  “Thanks. I’m basically a chubby, weaponless Katniss Everdeen.”

  She laughed. “Well, you look badass.”

  She was totally checking out my rack. I pushed it out a little. “So you’re helping the hunters today?”

  She hesitated. “Yeah. I . . . My ex-owner signed us both up. Then he bailed. On the hunt, and on me.”

  Awww.

  “So Glazer’s owner—you know Glazer?”

  “The horny rottweiler?” At PetPlayFest, Glazer had h
umped everything that moved, and several things that didn’t.

  She smiled. “Yeah. His owner, Kent, is letting Glazer and me track for him.”

  “Well, you’ll probably smell me right away, because I’m already sweating balls.” If this was me trying to flirt, I needed to be yanked offstage with a cane. It had just been so frustrating, knowing I was kinky since I was six and then spending twelve years waiting to be old enough to go to events. Then another three waiting to be allowed into Riddle specifically. In my mind, Riddle was a kinky mecca, even if a few cooch blisters hung out there. Hookups with people I’d met online had been mostly meh. Even Finger Bang had barely gotten me any action. But Riddle? Based on what the boys told me, the club and all of its events were veritable fuckplosions. So now, finally, here I was: all grown-up and ready to have kinky sex with everybody.

  She laughed again. “Well, I have a cold, so you might be safe.” She took another bite.

  I wanted to cuddle the shit out of her. “Your owner bailed, huh?”

  “Yeah. We weren’t meant to be, I guess.”

  “I’m sorry, though.” I knew how crappy it felt every time Fucktopus and I broke up. Even though it was usually me breaking up with him, I still always felt lonely and sad until we hooked up again.

  “Thanks.” She finished her doughnut.

  I stared at mine, trying to think of something else to say.

  Before I could, she said, “Well, good luck today.”

  “Yeah, you too,” I replied, stealing a last look at her freckles.

  She walked away, tail wagging.

  The man in the gray thermal shirt had a piece of tape stuck to his shoe.

  It didn’t bother me at first. Wasn’t any more noteworthy than the chocolate smears on the outside of the doughnut box, the wind that riffled the too-long grass and bent the trees, or the brown-and-white pup’s lopsided ears—like one had ripped and been sewn back on crooked. But the man kept moving closer to me, and I could hear the tape crinkle as he approached.

  It was on the outer sole of his left sneaker—yellowed and folded onto itself, a small piece of birthday wrapping paper clinging to it. Teddy bears.

  “Hello.” The man had silver hair and a shaving nick on his chin. “We haven’t met.”

  “Drix.” I held out my hand.

  “Drix. I’m Peter.” He tilted his head back. “You’re very tall.”

  “So I’m told.”

  He laughed. “Are you a Riddle member?”

  I shook my head. “An occasional guest.”

  “Shame I haven’t seen you around.” Flirting? Hmm. Peter was almost certainly gay, but he had the innocuous manner of someone who’d come to chill and have fun, rather than treat the event as a singles mixer. “Have you—”

  There was a piercing screech to our right, and he turned sharply toward the sound, panic flashing across his face. Miles had started doing that, after he’d adopted Zac—anytime he heard a high-pitched cry, he whipped toward it, eyes full of terror. Even if Zac was nowhere in the vicinity. Even if—as was the case now—the cry turned out to be an adult’s whoop of laughter.

  Peter turned to me again, his relief unmistakable.

  I smiled. “You have kids?”

  “Yeah. How did y—”

  “Sorry. That must seem really random. You have a piece of birthday paper stuck to your shoe.”

  “Oh.” He reached down and removed the tape. Stuck it in his pocket. “Yeah. My granddaughter turned seven on Thursday.”

  “Happy birthday to her.”

  “Thanks.”

  I opened my mouth to say I had a seven-year-old. Hesitated. I wasn’t Zac’s legal guardian, and it always felt weird to claim Zac was mine, even though I would have done anything for that kid. Even though Miles called me part of the family.

  Peter put his hands on his hips. “I’m gonna mingle. Nice meeting you, Drix.”

  “You too.” I watched him walk away, then focused on the other hunters. D lumbered around the outer edge of the group, holding a package of his homemade deer jerky, speaking to no one and staring into the trees. Every now and then he’d tear off hunks of jerky with his teeth, blue eyes intensely focused. One side of his waterproof jacket collar was sticking up.

  You’re in your element, aren’t you? This is what you were born to do.

  D was likely going to be my main competition for the gift card. The best strategy might be to pick hunting ground far from him. Stay out of his way.

  “Hendrix Seger,” boomed a low, guttural voice.

  I winced. Unflappable, Miles called me. But I was often flapped by the sound of my full name—a curse from my otherwise lovely parents. I turned.

  Bowser stood behind me.

  I grinned. “Well, hey.” I clapped my hand into his, pulling him in for a chest bump. My height made it less of a chest bump and more of a head-chest collision.

  He stepped back. “I wasn’t sure you and Miles would be here. Doesn’t seem like Miles’s bag.” He glanced at the slave group.

  At Miles.

  “It’s not.”

  He laughed—the deep, video-game-villain laugh that had given him his nickname. He was dressed almost elegantly: uncreased leather hiking boots, ironed khakis, an emerald sweater that fit his broad body well. His red beard had been gathered in a brand-new black hair tie, and was neatly combed—though a single crumb was stuck just under the left corner of his mouth.

  “You look good,” I said. “Aren’t you worried about getting paint on those clothes?”

  He looked down and held his arms out slightly. “I never wear these. Besides, no one should be shooting at me.” He watched Miles again.

  Miles claimed he’d always liked playing with Bowser because Bowser was so chill—independent without being detached, intense without being overbearing. And I agreed. Bowser had taught me a lot of what I knew about topping, and he was incredibly easy to get along with. And I had never once, during the time he’d mentored me, felt that he was trying to encroach on my relationship with Miles.

  But I did think Miles was a bit oblivious to the special attention Bowser paid him. To the way Bowser sometimes gazed at him with resigned admiration, like he was perusing photos from a vacation he hadn’t been able to afford.

  It wasn’t that I felt jealous or threatened. It was just that when I attended events like this and saw people like Bowser—folks who knew Miles very well, who’d shared experiences with him—I found myself trying to piece together those experiences based on observation. And it hit me hard—the persistent re-realization that I could never give someone all they needed. That around every individual was a community comprised of people who influenced, and challenged, and cared for that individual. As someone who loved connectivity, kinship, I was so grateful for those communities, and all the brilliant ways they intersected. Like solar systems, or highways.

  With someone I loved as much as I loved Miles, there was such a pleasure in seeing what sort of universe he was the center of.

  But it did make me feel small, at times. Made me focus on what I lacked.

  I worked my way closer to the slave group, where Miles and his friends were talking and eating doughnuts. Kamen was trying subtly—for Kamen—to scrape something out of his nose with his thumbnail. Maya was tugging the zipper of her jumpsuit down a little, then up, then down. When she got it where she wanted it, she hiked up her breasts and frowned at her cleavage. Dave was giving Miles grief about wearing a cardigan to the hunt. I dug the sweaters, personally.

  “It is chilly,” Miles said tersely to Dave. “And so I’m wearing a sweater.”

  Dave patted his shoulder. “It’s fine. I look forward to today’s Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood/Lord of the Flies crossover event.”

  “And I look forward,” said a cold voice, “to this hunt.”

  A woman with red hair and long legs approached the group.

  The guys all fell silent. Maya rolled her eyes. “Hey, Cinnamon.”

  Cinnamon was lithe and confide
nt in her movements—good posture, an obvious awareness of the space her body occupied. But she led with her hips, almost slunk in a way that suggested insecurity. Learned mannerisms that gave the illusion of confidence or sensuality. I’d never really interacted with her, though I knew she was unpopular—not just with Miles and his friends, but in the general community.

  I kept an eye out in case things got ugly, but after a stiff exchange of greetings, Cinnamon began to hang around Kamen, chatting to him like they were old friends. Kamen half flinched away whenever she got too close.

  “Jesus,” Dave finally snapped at her. “He’s taken. Don’t you already have someone to ride you?”

  She glared over her shoulder at him. “Jealous, David?”

  “No. But are you cold?”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “What?”

  “You don’t have a jacket. You must be Friesian your ass off.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You’re reaching, hot pants.”

  “Yeah, I guess I am a bit.”

  “Dave . . .” Miles sounded tired.

  “She came into our space. She can deal with a few horse puns.”

  Cinnamon stuck her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You got any more?”

  Dave’s expression grew exaggeratedly pensive. “I hate to stall, but the answer is neigh.”

  “Okay.” Miles put a hand on Dave’s arm. “That’s definitely enough.”

  He shrugged. “When it reins, it pours.”

  I joined them, and Cinnamon turned toward me. I could feel her energy go up like a wall. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Drix. Miles’s partner.”

  She shook my hand, looking me up and down. She’d gotten a haircut recently—the bright red-gold layers had perfect edges. Her makeup was light and neat. But her nails were bitten down, the skin around them pink and ragged. And her eyes were slightly swollen. She’d swiped the back of her hand under her nose at least three times since I’d been watching. “Cinnamon.”

  Her life force was a bit dark, but not foreboding. It was like walking through a wrecked house after a party, or through a vegetable patch in winter—a sense of absence, like something in her had been wounded by carelessness or cold, and then left unattended.