The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(16)

Rather than answering me, he shook off my touch, turned around, and stalked down the hall to his room. He threw his door open and slammed it behind his back. I waited in the hallway with my arms crossed, knowing the real explosion was seconds away.

Hunter was right. He did cave to his impulses and react thoughtlessly.

“Three,” I whispered, holding three fingers in the air. “Two, one.” I curled them one by one, my eyes trained on his closed door. Every fiber in my body shook with adrenaline, fear, and amusement.

“Showtime.” I snapped my fingers.

Hunter burst from his room, his cheeks flushed, his eyes darkened. Two full moons.

“The fuuuuuuuuuck!”

He drew the letter U to oblivion and back. His hands were filled with junk: the open tin cans still leaking suspicious sauces, his dirty clothes, a pair of designer shoes, and a joystick. “You dumped all the garbage in my room. Are you crazy?”

“Nice This is Sparta moment. All of this belongs to you.” I sloped my chin up, my voice stern. “Thought you’d appreciate getting it back, since it was thrown all over our mutual space.”

He stared at me in shock, like I was a wild, battered animal he had to tame, a rodent vandalizing this expensive penthouse. “You’re insane.”

I smiled sweetly. “Been called worse.”

“Now I get it.” He dropped the garbage to the floor, pointing at me. “You’re my punishment for what I did. He chose the craziest bitch in Boston to set me straight, the old bastard.”

Maybe Hunter was right. Maybe his father had heard just how much of an unbearable, career-centered party pooper I was. Although technically, I couldn’t be called a party pooper, since I never attended any.

“Make sure you keep the place tidy, Hunter. With or without housekeepers, I don’t want to live in filth, not even for one hour. Have a good night, roomie,” I finished, walking into my room and slamming the door in his face.

1-0, away team.





The important thing to remember was, my balls weren’t going to fall off.

I’d Googled it a few times (twenty-three times, if we’re being specific here) to be on the safe side. It was confirmed: I could live for six months without having sexual intercourse and still survive. Physically. My mind was another matter. If I was going to lose it in the process, I was going to tear Sailor Brennan limb from limb, then sew her back together into a sex doll.

The spitfire, copper-haired banshee said we weren’t going to talk to each other after our six months were up, but she was wrong for assuming she could get rid of me that easily. I was already fantasizing about killing her in various positions, landscapes, and with different weapons once this was over. Cue to:

Me strangling Sailor against a Sicilian sunset.

Me slitting Sailor’s throat while we wore matching swimsuits in the Bahamas.

Me pushing Sailor off an aerial tramway on a picturesque Aspen vacation.

Sometimes in the fantasies she was asleep, but more often than not she was wide awake and fully conscious, witnessing her demise.

I’d spent the night on the couch because I didn’t want to sleep in my garbage-filled room, and there was no way I was cleaning up the mess she’d left there.

Look, maybe I wasn’t completely innocent. In the time before Sailor inhabited this place, I might have thrown myself a pity party and dirtied up my new apartment to make shit uncomfortable for her, too. But she didn’t have to make a big deal about it.

I slept in nothing but my boxer briefs. When I woke up with a hard-on like a supersized German sausage—the kind that makes you wrestle with your own dick during your morning pee—I hoped she’d caught a glimpse of it before she scurried along to her boring day of shooting objects and skipping off into the sunset, holding hands with her hymen.

That’s right, Sailor. You aren’t the only asshole under this roof with a deadly weapon.

Which brought me to my next point—who the fuck does that? Just took shots at nothing? She didn’t hunt or do anything productive with her talent, just aimed at useless targets. Why was this an Olympic sport? Archery was checkers for anal people.

“Sir, we’re here,” my driver murmured from the front seat.

My first day working for Da and Cillian. And I needed to somehow pass my college exams this year. I was going to split community college in the evenings and work during the day fifty-fifty. I wasn’t a math genius, but even I knew that left zero time for having a life. Da had really ridden my ass this time around, bided his time while I was having fun in California before he shoved a ten-inch dildo up my rectum. I was feeling sore and tender even before he got the goddamn tip in.

We were on day two of one hundred and eighty-two, but who the fuck was counting?

(Answer: me. I was counting.)

I stumbled out of the executive car and shouldered through the human traffic of downtown Boston, dragging my feet into Royal Pipeline’s crazy-tall, chrome skyscraper that ninety-five percent of Bostonians actively hated so much, there had been frequent demonstrations outside when they started building. The monster had ruined the city’s skyline, but it was who was inside it that had personally ruined my life.

The best thing about the day, other than not spending it with Sailor Goddamn Brennan, was that I got to wear a Brioni suit. Wearing suits was my favorite. I didn’t even pretend to need an occasion. I went to parties, the movies, and restaurants looking like Jay Gatsby.