The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(21)

That she can kill you. And that the thought appeals to her.

“I’m being neighborly as fuck, sir. I even gave her a gift card yesterday.”

And a foot massage, before she shat all over my plan, but I deducted the touching part out of concern for my balls.

“She doesn’t need gift cards. Give her the gift of not being an idiot. Because if you hurt her, I will have to kill you. And I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. I will literally kill you.”

I stared at him, waiting for the laugh and slap on the back. It never came.

“Is he slow or shocked?” Sam asked from behind us, lighting a cigarette.

“Both,” Troy deadpanned.

“Just shocked,” I bit out. “It’s not every day people threaten to kill me.”

“That’s a surprise,” Troy noted sarcastically.

“It’s a promise if you cross the line,” Sam amended. “So, technically, not a threat per se.”

I was trying to figure out what I could say without sounding like a whiny douche. “I’m going to tell my old man.”

Damn, that wasn’t it. I sounded like a whiny douche and a sap.

“He already knows, and let’s just say he wouldn’t consider it a great loss.” Troy lifted an eyebrow.

Touché.

“I could tell the police,” I countered.

“They’re in our pocket,” Sam answered from behind my back, yawning provocatively. “Any other people you want to talk to about our conversation, or can you just grow a pair and be a decent fucking human?”

When they put it like that, I guess I really didn’t have much choice.

Also, was I being judged by a couple of murderers? I really should take a long, hard look at my life.

Troy resumed his driving, but not before some cars had driven up the curb to pass him. People yelled and flipped us the bird as they sped by. It was only when we got to the West End’s cock-shaped building where Sailor and I lived that I realized I hadn’t been breathing the entire duration of the drive.

I inhaled oxygen like I’d just come up from three minutes underwater as Troy unlocked the doors. I pushed mine open.

“Remember,” he said from the depths of his car, his face overcast with the street’s shadow. “Play nice.”

“And clean,” Sam’s voice boomed from behind.

“I’ll kill her with kindness,” I bit out grumpily.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve never met someone so eager to get punched,” Troy murmured. “Get out before I give you what you’re begging for.”

As I took the elevator up to the penthouse, I realized what the cherry on the shit cake this day had served me was: My father’s people had to have seen me getting into Troy’s car—they had eyes on me wherever I was—but they didn’t do a damn thing about it.

I really was alone in the world.





That week, my face was plastered on every bus in Boston. It was an old picture of me smiling to the camera while clutching my bow to my chest. It read: Boston’s Sailor Brennan for the Olympics!

Gerald Fitzpatrick’s doing. He was making good on his promise to grant me more exposure. He’d hired a team to maintain my neglected (read: nonexistent) social media accounts, including Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook. He’d also assigned a PR manager for me. Her name was Crystal, and she had a thick, Long Island accent that rattled like she chained-smoked five packs of cigarettes a day.

I wanted to curl in on myself until I was the size of an apple every time I saw my face grinning maniacally on a bus, but I didn’t complain.

Then there was Hunter.

He’d spent the last five days ignoring my existence. At least he was being tidy and polite while doing so.

To be fair, there wasn’t much time for socializing for either of us. I left the house at six o’clock every morning to hit the gym, then headed to the archery club until nighttime, practicing or giving lessons. Hunter worked and studied from nine to eight.

When he got home, he took two plates of whatever the cook, Nora, had left on the stovetop to his room, armed with textbooks for his college courses, and slammed the door behind him with his foot. In the mornings, I’d find the plates washed and his bedroom door slightly ajar, the sound of him snoring softly seeping into the hallway.

It worried me that he didn’t take a break. Not that it should. Hunter wasn’t my business.

…only he kind of was.

Part of my job was to make sure he was okay. I wondered if I should email Gerald about Hunter’s mood. I was supposed to give the Fitzpatrick patriarch detailed, weekly updates, but they were of a technical nature, and he hadn’t mentioned anything about Hunter’s mental health.

I hadn’t talked to my parents about Hunter. I ignored all questions regarding him and focused on telling them about Junsu and my training, which was becoming more grueling by the day. My saving grace was knowing that come Saturday, Hunter and I were attending a Royal Pipelines fundraising event together. I could check on him then.

The Fitzpatricks had thought it best if we met them somewhere neutral so we could familiarize ourselves with each other before we started coming over for dinners. Little did they know, I had no qualms about meeting them in Antarctica or a filthy alleyway as long as I could show up in ripped jeans, sneakers, and a DriFit shirt. Since that was off the table at a 5k-per-head dinner party in the glitzy Roosevelt Hotel, I had to acquire an actual dress.